Pitiful and Despicable People

The scene is tense. The air thick, heavy. Eyes flooded with terror blink rapidly, uncontrollably, dart around the room. Their breathing is accelerated, hearts flutter in closed chests. Fear pours from their tear glands in shining crystalline streaks. Frantic. Their thoughts pulse through hysterical minds.
In his hand, the metal is icy, unfamiliar. He feels the power, holds it in his outstretched fingertips. This power, potential wells in his silent trigger finger. The man shakes violently in his grasp. Fully-grown adult becomes a child in a split moment. Pistol to his brow and he feels it, knows what it could do. He feels the power. Smells it, hears it ringing in his eardrums. Tastes its tangy essence on the tip of his tongue. Collapses under the enormous weight of fear, he becomes a child again. Lips tremor, eyes swim in a fresh overflow leaking down his cheeks.
These people disgust him. They cower in the corners, rats hiding in shadow. He looks at them and sees weak children in the shells of adults. He feels strong standing tall, pointing the piece to the man’s forehead. Beads of shining perspiration trickle off the man’s nose. Drip to the tile floor. Silent. Terror holds their tongues, slips down their throats.
Greg had been having a casual day. Work at the bank had been average. Everything had been smooth, normal, typical. Not to the point of being enjoyable, just routine. As the double front doors to Bank of America had parted, revealing a dimming, evening stretch of sky, Greg’s cell phone had vibrated. This whisper, murmur, buzz. He stepped out of work. He answered the phone.
Her voice had been shrill, choking, as if about to shatter. He would never forget the sound, the tone. No matter how fiercely he would attempt to push from his aching memory, it would remember and haunt. She had said it with a quiver in her speech, yet deliberately. “Leaving. I’m leaving you Greg. I won’t be there when you get home tonight. Please don’t try to find me. Please don’t call. It’s over. It’s done. We’re done. Bye Greg.” The phone had clicked slightly as she ended the call. He could picture her now, riding away. It was over. She was leaving him, ending them. It was a natural response as fifteen minutes later; Greg was roaming the isles of the grungy liquor store around the corner.
He had snatches them up before reading labels, identifying; some he even opens before reaching the register. He doesn’t care what was going down, as long as it’s going down. Fill me. Fill me. Drown me. Thoughts tumble, trip, fall over one another within his brain. Over. It’s over. It’s over. Done. Replaying those words again and again. They ricocheted and rebounded off the walls of his tortured, suffering mind. His chest is hollow. He can feel the absence quite distinctly. Greg sees nothing because everything has fallen away about him. His lonesomeness, emptiness is all that remains.
A man bursts through the door, curls his arm around Greg’s neck, gun to his temple. Yelling, shrieking voices suddenly penetrate the absence of sound that Greg has been lost within. In a sort, he awakes. His state of mind is, within seconds, entirely altered. Fear now; it consumes his body. The sudden tightness that engulfs his esophagus is staggering. His temple aches from the pressure. He glances around with frightened eyes to take in the scene.
The store was designed much like any other liquor shop. It’s not a very commodious space, but the people like it because the people love their alcohol. The back wall of the outlet is a refrigerator with foggy glass doors. Bottles varying in size, shape, color, quality, and price fill the fridges; their contents are chilled and deadly. Shelves line the remaining walls, and several isles run down the center of the store. The register is set up on a large desk to the right of the door when you enter. The amount that will be consumed from this shop alone is astounding. People will die by the hand of these creatures.
On this particular date, a twenty four year old is running the cashier. His mother named him Joshua when he was born, after her father (whose full name was Fredrick Joshua Cook). He had died under a month before she gave birth to Josh. It’s nearly Joshua’s second week at the shop. He’s still getting used to things, yet trusted enough to work single-handedly. He graduated college with a degree in fine arts. Josh dreams of becoming a famous painter. Unfortunately for him, painting isn’t going as well as he’d hoped, money is chokingly tight, and jobs are difficult to find. This is how he landed himself in a liquor store.
He continues to press the weapon into the skin a little above Greg’s ear. He can feel him shaking in his firm, restricting, squeezing grip. A grimy, grubby woman cringes in the far right corner. Her hair is oily, thick, disheveled. She wears loose jeans, too big that are ripped. A dirt covered, grey shirt sticks to her upper body. She clutches two cases of beer to her chest. Her eyes are wide and scared; her lips are pressed tightly together. He looks down on her. She is pathetic, vulnerable, and weak. She is the dirt beneath his feet.
Next to her, slightly spaced apart, sit two other men. He grins at them, loving their fear. He lavishes in the terror that chokes their eyes, plugging their pupils.
Fingers stumble as they scramble to pack wads of bills into a black trash bag. Trepidity makes his hands tremble, his thoughts reel into disarray. His fingers keep slipping, dropping.
“Faster, go faster. Do you want this man to die? It would be your fault.” His voice is deep, menacing, and strong; the gun stands behind it. His breathing speeds into violent hyperventilation. Sweat trickles down his cheeks, chin and then down his neck. “You are pathetic. You are weak.” It takes two fingers to pull the trigger. Two fingers, Greg is dead.
Bang. They jump, gasp, and gently caress their sore ears. The shock then horror that illuminate their faces is the reward. Greg slides from his grasp to the floor, quickly darkening in color to a murky red. His life is done, over. It will take time, but the world will forget him eventually. The shot echoes in their minds; they sit paralyzed as the course of events has stupefied them.
The man rips the back from Joshua’s loose grip. He bolts into the outside, struck by the idea that he has killed. Back inside, blood slithers in bright scarlet streams along the floor. Joshua Cook stares into nothingness, unable to move. His mind cannot accept what has occurred. Tears flow vigorously down his face.
What have I done? Guilt, shame, self-hatred, crushing depression burn through his veins, he has been poisoned. Joshua heaps blame upon himself to an overwhelming extent. It amounts to a pressure exceedingly too great for any one soul.
Two weeks pass. One dark, Saturday night Josh wraps a rope around his throat. An early morning jogger discovers him the following day dangling from a sturdy tree. Joshua’s mother is heartbroken.
The man with the gun indulges in his money. Gradually, time takes his mind. It is eleven years before he is caught for a crime. Until then, he lives a wild life of peril, wrongdoing, and insanity. Greg is but the first of his victims. Jail kills the man quickly and he never pays for his harm. The calamity comes to a close.

remember?

remember when she left us?

how my lips were the only ones

that smiled when they looked upon your pitiful face.

how my shoulder was your only brace

next to the bottle and

beside the blade

do you remember how you fed me lies?

they have carved deeper wounds in me than

those which scar your arms today.

remember how your temper skyrocketed?

we learned silence

we learned obedience.

and finally,

do you remember when you “recovered”?

and I suddenly meant no more to you than

the carpeted floors under your feet?

because I do.

I remember every second

every lie

every pain.

I remember.

written sometime in May

This is what we should all turn to.

the sound of
wind breathing into flushed ears
crackling from forgotten leaves underfoot
soft, melodious twittering composed by beaks at the height of branches
these are my motivators.

the aroma of
sprinklers just stuttering into to life, bring brisk, morning showers
flowers unfolding delicate, prismatic petals and blinking with sleep ridden eyes
luscious trees standing tall; they are awakening from lengthy slumbers at last
this persuades my lungs.

To keep our minds rolling, hearts pumping, blood flowing.

abnormal

i
need something.
because isn't this what we all
turn
to?
the bottle
blunt
betting.
shooting up
slicing skin
starving.
psychologists and experts
call us the
"abnormal ones"
those which require
a vice
to complete our happiness.
a crutch
so we can crawl to tomorrow.
we are the ones
look for us
behind bars
inside the caution taped murder scene
on the grimy floors of crippled crack houses
or sealed within the casket,
being lowered into the dank earth below.
we are
the sickening reality of this world.
the scum around the edges
of the pond of society
imperfections.
careful,
you don't want to end up
like us.

written may 6, 2009

the reality of spring

blossoming, blooming face to the sky
a new little flower peeks from one eye
dew rests on spider webs strung tree to tree
the birds and the squirrels start a spring jamboree
dancing and chirping and hopping about
young forest creatures poke tiny heads out
the season is fresh having hardly begun
the plants start to wake, to soak up the sun
life in such wood lands has never been better
the animals come out due to warming of weather
the rabbit is quick to gobble the flower
the fox is much quicker, the bunny's devoured
paws pad the ground as he's walking away
chewing contently on freshly killed prey
though one rabbit short, the scene is still lively
frolicking, playing animals praise the day highly
smiles are wide, loud is the laughter
deer play with beaver and mice shortly after
wolves, cats, and foxes have a separate fling
barking and meowing with the new tones of spring
then a shot rings out true, loud and clear
and old Mr. Fox has a hole ear to ear
although once the predator, fox is now dinner
the hungry, armed hunter becomes the winner
he stomps away smug with his furry dead prize
the surviving critters watch with horrified eyes

written sometime near the end of April 2009

We Are Your Future

sunshine.
brilliant, glistening
through the window
stained from phantom rains
it illuminates youthful, blemished
faces.
they bathe in glimmering golden
light.
remember?
look back on all these years
nevermore.
those days will be seldom seen again
but for in the reflection of our childrens' eyes
but for in the silvery mirror of memory.
watch
as the potential swirls into blooming plumes of smoke
drifts away.
take a minute to notice
the expanse of spiderwebbed
scars
slithering up our arms
fingertips to shoulders.
this wonderful, dysfunctional
generation of
wierdos.

written approximately April 8, 2009

Rebecca

It’s the type of deep night that feels powerful. The streets and sidewalks are deserted but for a chilled, biting wind. This arctic draft, bites, pries, wriggles its way between layers of clothing, and numbs the things it can catch hold of. Every breath becomes a swirling gust of fog before you. Streetlamps illuminate cone shaped halos of cold darkness in a hazy yellow glow.
Everything is coated in a thick silence. It is as if silence floated from the sky in heavy snow and gently rests on the surface of the city. The murmur of a footstep echoes in obvious contrast to this snowy soundlessness, appearing to be amplified. Every time he brings his shoe in contact to with the grimy, ice, speckled pavement he feels as if he is disturbing an overall, understood quietness, a soundless peace. As if he is intruding by making even the feeblest of noise.
He moves deliberately down the stretch of sidewalk, every step is placed cautiously, to make as little a sound as humanly possible. In between streetlights he quickens the pace, fearing the unknown which rests notoriously in shadow. It is safer under the blossom of luminosity, which splays under each lamp. Shadows dance on the corner of his vision, teasing, daring.
He is Theo. A fragile, quiet man who keeps to himself. Theo’s family has all either passed away or left him. He has never had a lover. His best and only friend is a dainty black cat called Anthonette. Theo is alone, and has always been such. This does not mean he doesn’t long for company, for that is not the case. Theo is simply used to being detached. As a living he writes books that no one will ever read. It is rare to find a person that would recognize his name or face. Theo is misunderstood and overlooked. He is nobody, one of six billion. Someone who will pass away and disappear, from history, from memory. Born as an accident, born to fill space, consume, and die.
His apartment is small, but suits him well. It has a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room. The living room is Theo’s favorite place. Decorated solely by a lengthy fainting couch, which sits comfortably under a window, he spends the majority of his time there. Theo watches people in the street below and lets words slip from the aging, silver fountain pen, which is the only utensil he feels comfortable brandishing. He prefers not to leave the apartment when the sun is out, disliking mingling with groups of people, or really any people at all. Instead he moves about the world at night. It was on such a night as this, where Theo was strolling through a puzzle of roadways and avenues, when he saw her.
She had been running from him. Hands curled into fists, pumping forcefully at her sides, gulping at the frigid air. Her lungs sting, complain, burn, eyes brim with tears. Fear threaded hysteric energy into her weakened legs, demanding her forward. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Keep going. Faster. Faster. Her thoughts were frantic. She ran for her life, the will for survival driving her forward, commanding her limbs to reach miraculous feats. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.
They had been happy once, although it was a very long time previous. Paul and Rebecca, the perfect couple. In those early days he really had cared for and loved her. He used to stare into her eyes for minutes at a time without speaking, as if gazing through her and reading her thoughts. Then he would pull her close and whisper sweet, soft things into her ear. Stroke her hair with gentle fingers. They had rushed to marriage, foolishly, blinded by the thick emotion that clotted their brains. Rebecca had overlooked the flaws in him, eager to settle and live the dream life.
It had taken only months for him to change. Like a mask gradually being torn from his face, bit by bit. First was his serious alcoholism. Paul turned out to be quite different from the sweet man she had seen before. She stayed with him in the hopes of saving him and bringing the old Paul back to the surface. In the desperate hope that their love would sustain. This choice had cost her everything. He stopped holding her, stroking her hair, whispering. Paul turned bitter, often snapping at Rebecca and ordering her around. However, this was but the mere tip of an iceberg protruding from murky waters.
She remembered distinctly the first day he ever struck her, the memory branded into her head like a hot metal to open flesh. It was a Friday night. Paul had been disappearing a lot lately, without a clue to where he was going. Rebecca was not permitted to leave the apartment or to use the telephone. She had been gazing absently into the screen of a fuzzy t.v. She heard the whispery scratch of a key rubbing on the doorknob. Seconds later, Paul staggered across the threshold patently drunk, intimidating. It was late, or rather very early in the morning, some time near three. Rebecca stands, looking for the courage to face her husband and finding little.
“Where have you been Paul?” her words are firm but behind them lurks apprehension.
“Go to the bedroom. I’ll meet you there in a minute.” His speech is slightly slurred, yet final. His eyes skip around, never focusing on one thing for that long.
“Paul, you don’t control me. You can’t just order me to do whatever you want. I’m not a slave!” she gasps, Rebecca knows better then to stand up to this man, especially after a few drinks. She watches his cheeks flush in anger.
“You never talk back to me. I think if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be moving your ass into the bedroom right now.” His eyes bulge with fury. She staggers back a bit, recognizing the crazed look in his eye. Her bottom lips tremors with a hint of trepidation. She doesn’t move. She can’t move. By the time she realizes he’s stepping forward, the handprint on the side of her face is already beginning to blossom a bright scarlet. The sting of his fingers remains long after. Outliving the mark of his hand on her cheek by a long shot.
Convinced that his love for her was genuine, she lived with him for months after the first night. She became accustomed to his violet and aggressive behavior. Rebecca learned how to live in it, to simmer down his astounding acerbity. Despite it all she remained faithful.
Slowly but steadily she diminished into a withered shred of the woman she once was. Every action was made to prevent one of Paul’s breakouts. Every word was spoken with obedient caution. As time progressed she became of littler and littler interest to him. Rebecca evolved into the rug underneath his boots, the bed from which he could return to at his leisure, the lamp in the corner of the living room. She was nothing of value to him any longer. Paul used Rebecca, beat her, broke her. Months passed. Then one day.
She had long blonde hair that fell to her shoulders in perfect coils. Her eyes were soft green, her lips a flawless shade of coral pink. Her figure was faultless, the proportioning just right. She had smooth pale skin that was entirely blemish and scar free. One night he brought her home. Her name was Julie and she was his paradisiacal girl.
Suddenly, Rebecca was the maid. It was apparent that compared to Julie, she was a peasant. Therefore, she was used for everything that needed tending to, everything that needed to be done. Rebecca took her new role like a slave. Her only objection was the tears that trickled from her eyes without end.
“Take out the trash Rebecca! I can smell it from the bedroom.” Julie’s shrill call plagues her tender ears. She says nothing, instead moving methodically into the kitchen and lifting the overflowing trash bad from the bin. She steps down the stairs and outside to the trashcans without thinking. Disposing of the garbage is a regular routine for her. She pauses for a moment, staring up into the vast night sky above in awe. She envies the endless freedom of night. The stars twinkle down on her.
Rebecca looks down again. Her mind is blank, thoughtless, hollow. Her eyes wander down the road ahead. The darkness welcomes her. With one single motion she begins. Her feet finding the road below, her legs moving with rhythm. And so Rebecca runs. Without destination, without purpose. She runs from him, them, she runs from the life, which has killed her. Each step brings a wave of emotion. Fear mainly, but also a strange satisfaction. She is escaping.
The hole would appear obvious in sunlight, easy to avoid, nothing unusual. About half a foot deep, it’s not very wide or long. However, the blackness of sundown obscures it. Her foot falls easily into the depression, catching her ankle. She looses her balance, body twists, ankle cracks. Pain shoots up her leg. She lets out a faint cry. Tumbling downwards, the ground becomes so large. Rebecca flaps her arms desperately, she squints her eyes shut.
If Rebecca had happened to fall to the right, she would have survived with a broken ankle and possibly a sprained wrist. Unfortunately for Rebecca, her body had twisted left. The side of her head came in hard contact with the corner of the pavement. Blood exploded from her temple her skull fractured. The pain was absolute for a split second before she was thrown into an unconscious state. Blood flows inside her skull. Pressure builds within her head.
It is approximately one in the morning. By one forty five Rebecca is dead, her body limp, lifeless, and blood coated. She lays in wait of discovery, the night rests still.
He advances toward her, and after he becomes close enough, kneels down beside Rebecca’s corpse. The cold has kept the smell of death partially at bay, but he can smell her blood, metallic and bitter. The left side of her face is soaking in a puddle of crimson wetness. Her eyes are rolled back within her head; her hair is thick and matted, sodden with the sticky substance. Theo observes that her ankle is severely crooked and her skull is enflamed and red. A lone tear slips down his cheek for her.
“Hello.” He whispers warmly. “I’m Theo. Everything’s going to be all right. I’m here now.” Blood trickles from her ears, mouth and nose. He wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket as best he can. Theo smiles down at her. Taking in her sunken cheeks and fragile anatomy. “Come with me.” His words are sincere and kind.
He stretches out his arms and begins to wrap them about her. One hand lifts under her knees, the other under her neck. Her sticky blood absorbs into his jacket, thick and clotted. He murmurs affectionate consolations to her. Blood leaks from her as they move, creating a thin trail behind them. Together they walk down the barren street, under the smatter of sparkling stars.
Theo has difficulty balancing her and opening the door to his apartment simultaneously, but he manages to step inside with her still in his arms. Moonlight glimmers through the little window above the pale feinting couch. He lays her down upon his favorite piece of furniture. Her body slumps, unable to support itself, but he lays several pillows under her figure to keep her upright. Theo directs her head to the side so that she can stare out the window. “Beautiful isn’t it?” His voice does not ask for an answer. “It’s going to be okay now. I promise. Your safe with me.” Anthonette appears from under the sofa and begins to lick up the droplets of scarlet from the polished wooden floor. Her tail flicks back and forth.
“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” He stares at her soft face. “Such a long time.”

speak.
but your words must immerge through a veil
as thin murmmers
as cautious whispers
they must tread lightly, gently
leaving only hints of footsteps in their wake


move.
but your motions must be fluid
have a purpose, destination, plan
be soundless
be casual
flow like water
carve simple paths, travel silently
create things they will notice, appreciate
behind you leave grand canyons and beautious landscaping

dont leave scars or nightmares as you pass
only memories and art


written december 12 2008

dont cry
or the world will overcome you
seeping in through open tear ducts
dont cry

dont laugh
or your happiness will run away
escaping from between your lips
dont laugh

dont smile
or they will enter your head
sift through your thoughts, tamper with emotions
dont smile

keep silent
and things will stay
nothing in or out.
you will be safe, guarded, whole
stay silent
you wont be hurt



written december 12 2008

the snow has melted
day has claimed it thrown through the frost
the leaves stir in a frigid winter breeze
morning grew to midday, Autumn is lost
gangly, crooked sticks remain of the trees
the beauty of snow has arrived with a cost
flowers lay dead under skeleton leaves
change comes even to things we value most
the snow has melted
a day to remember



written december 14 2008

morning sun
sky is a pastel painting
cold accumulates abroad my body
it feels as if my ears are wilting
birds cry out in fresh melody
the world is hidden in dew
sidewalk untouched, bare
a day just starting, the world anew
the scent of smoke thickens frigid air
the sun has yet to appear
through a veil of coloured sky
and what a fretful fear
that the sun may never rise
morning run
morning sun
night fades slowly until its demise