“I know your life is a never ending nightmare full of horror and deceit. I know you are often at odds with yourself and this horrid thing called life. Every morning is filled with contempt as you have this endless debate on whether or not you should kill yourself in your shower or while your K-cup brews or in your car that is neither new nor old but works just fine. These things I know because I’m sitting right next to you. These things I know because I’m looking at the same things you are. These things I know because we share the same eco-friendly renewable water source in the same god damn forsaken city on the banks of some form of water. I know all these things, I think all these things because I too live a life of perfect balanced, zero struggle life know as modern society. Chances are we think the same exact way but out of pure boredom let’s say I don’t. Because we have to be different in this world. We have to be special when it comes to things like this in life. Odds are against us though. Dictated by our most basic thoughts. Experiences we believe to be different, unique in and of themselves. We went to the same school, learned from the same books, ate the same shitty food, and lived near perfect replicas of the same life. Let me guess you played doctor? Let me guess you owned a copy of GTA 3? Let me guess you couldn’t catch’em all on paper or digitized? Let me guess you thought you were special? Well you’re not, you and I are more alike than you and I might think. We are so close you and I that we could be one in the same. Chances are we are in fact the same robotic, institutionalized, modern guilt individuals walking side by side right now. We could say hello to one another but we won’t. We could relate our dream suicide scenario but we won’t. We could discuss just how much we actually hate each other but we won’t. Because what’s the point? Why tell you everything you already know? Why bother letting you in on our little secrets? We all have secrets, guilty pleasures, they are all the same but we have them. We imagine that they are the little things that make us different. That the tidbits of information we hold dear separate us from fact and fiction. When really there is no such thing separating us at all. We live a life of fact and fiction. We live a life of knowing we are the same, fact. We live a life thinking in some way we are different, fiction. We live lives that are exactly the same. We fuck women and men who are exactly the same. We blindly follow the dumbest of our kind because we know that they are the same. We read books and stories, watch movies and shows on people or about people who are exactly the same. Like you I will do nothing to change this. Like you I will be proud of what I have become. Like you I will ride this life into the ground hoping for something better but being served up the exact same thing. There is no difference between animal and man we were put here to do the exact same thing, suffer until our last dying breathe.”
“What an interesting report Timothy,” the teacher calls out from behind her desk. “Not quite “A” material but informative all the same in its own way. Go ahead and take your seat with the rest of the class.” She shuffles some papers. Disheveled herself, “Umm, if we could have Stephanie, Stephanie Keaton come up next.” Stephanie gets up from her seat and takes her place at the head of the class. “Now Stephanie why don’t you tell us something fun you’ve learned this summer.”
At least Timothy knows what the hell is going on… this twist was a last minute addition… one added without thought… the best kinds… been a while since I wrote this… but I’m sure this was meant to be some big speech… some epic quest to prove to myself… prove to everyone… the shallow pool we inhabit… I think it worked… even if Tim Tim has a long way to drag his corpse… I think there is something inherently interesting behind the idea of a child rattling off dark thoughts…
Something hidden beyond the surface of innocence… maybe because at times I feel like a child trapped in an adults body… screaming… this is fucked up… and being greeted with deaf ears… No one cares about anything until it starts happening to them… until it is too late… and then… well then it doesn’t really matter does it?… by then it has become the new normal… something to add to the shit pile… and something to embrace… to accept as part of life… well that wasn’t at all fun Stephanie…
Until we meet again… I hope all is well… Thank you to all of those that read their way through my mind… thank you for all the support… big or small… Take care of yourself… keeping working towards your dream… and I’ll see you back here once again…
It’s ten a.m. and I’m nearly a hundred percent certain that I am in the wrong class room, but I have no plans of leaving. The teacher, a young woman who is probably a few years older than me with rather large breasts, passes out the syllabus to the class. A two to three page document detailing everything we are supposed to go over in the course of the semester. Fucking gag me, the syllabus is more or less an excuse to mow down a few more acres of trees in South America. Considering our teachers will flood our emails with the same shit anyway. I’m sitting in the far corner of the room, far away from everyone else. The teacher goes into a speech about showing up late, her breasts bouncing with each word. Is she even wearing a bra? I find myself more entertained with her bust line than trying to figure out where I even am. Her words bleed together and I can’t tell if it is me or her who is not making sense of the words. It takes a moment but I finally look down at the syllabus to figure where I am. The paper says that I am in public speaking and I can start to feel the blood drain from my face. Things only get worse when I start to realize that each student is standing up and telling everyone in the class their name and a little bit about themselves and why they are in college. Most of the students here are going for degrees in criminal justice or something as stupid as that. I can feel my heart rate go up and I begin to wonder if anyone else can hear the pounding of my heart like I can. It sounds like an Edgar Allen Poe story in here. Am I fucking dying or am I losing my mind? I hate speaking in front of a single person and speaking in front of all thirty people in the class is making me feel like I am having a heart attack. I can feel the sweat bead up at the top of my head and drip down my face. I was not prepared for this nor would I ever sign up for this. I calm my shaking hand long enough to grab my backpack and slowly make my way to the exit in a near crawl. How this isn’t any worse than just standing up and saying my name is beyond me. The latest victim stops speaking as the teacher asks me where I am going. I stand up from my crouched position and give her a blank stare before running out of the room.
My heart is racing a mile a minute as I wander the halls for what seems like days. Everything feels as though it is in slow motion but I keep trekking on. Wandering the halls isn’t an unusual thing for me. I do it a lot. Despite the fact that I hate this school I just can’t seem to leave. I’m never in class, but I’m never not at the school on school days. As confusing as that sounds I think it is because I feel guilty for not attending classes and it also has to do with the fact that I can’t afford to put more gas in my car. So, I might as well stay here and make the best of it. It doesn’t hurt that my drug dealer takes a lot of classes here as well. He says it helps him expand his mind. “Always got to be smart for the streets man, always.” When really he is just going to the school to expand his business, which has worked out pretty well for him in my opinion. It is here in a class for retards that I first met him. The class in question was a basic English course that all students have to take if they didn’t score a certain amount of points on the assessment test to get into this prestigious college. It can’t be over stated that I never wanted to go here so, the idea of even trying wasn’t an option when I took the test. I just breezed through the test selecting any answer without reading the question. I was hoping that maybe they would deny me, but nope they accepted me with cash symbols in their eyes since my whole first term wasn’t worth a single credit. I decided today that I will walk around the campus. No use going through another embarrassing first day. The first day doesn’t count anyway. I stop by the bathroom on the first floor before heading outside in the cold. The ground looks much more interesting when I’m high on drugs. The school uses a special kind of salt that is blue-green in color and it does a really good job of clearing off the sidewalks. In the center of campus there is a pond that has long been frozen over. I walk across the wooden bridge that goes across the narrow part of the pond connecting one side of the campus to the other side. In the summer this is where I like to stand, but in the winter the wind comes across the pond and hits me like a cold hard slap to the face. I’m starting to really feel the trip as I walk past the library and head for the main building. I’m making my way to the cafeteria to purchase the overly priced food I really can’t afford and steal one of the overly priced energy drinks. I usually don’t steal things, but I’m not paying three fucking dollars for something I could get for a lot less someplace else. Plus, what’s the worst they could do to me? Kick me out of school?
I walk into the cafeteria from the side door of the building. This door is on the opposite side of the student union, a place I try to avoid at all costs. I can’t stand this school and I can’t stand the students that go here even more. Most of them are so pretentious it makes me sick. Half the time I get trapped in some stupid conversation with one of them, and all I want to do is scream, “Look the fuck around.” They all like to live in some fantasy world that they are learning or attending some place that is giving them a higher education and we are not. I get nauseous thinking of the conversations I could get trapped into, but it is probably only the lack of food. The cafeteria is nearly empty, there must still be classes going on. I walk up to the cooler and pretend to get a drink, but really I just slip one of the energy drinks on the lower shelf into my jacket pocket. No idea what I grabbed but it is that simple, and free and simple is the name of the game. Today’s menu is beef stroganoff prepared by the master chefs the school hires. The smell from the food is close to that of a bowel movement. I never get the prepared meal so, I decide on a cheeseburger that I am pretty sure is made of ten percent rubber. This is more of an impulse buy than a decision after the glorified lunch lady asks me if I was going to get anything or just sit there staring at the food. Don’t get me wrong I like being high but it has its negative effects too, such as time and how much of it is not perceived by my mind. After dropping three dollars and fifty cents on a cheese burger even the shittiest fast food place would sell, I head back outside and walk to the Art and Science building to eat.
Once inside I pound the energy drink down as fast as I can, hoping that the shit tasting cocktail and the drugs will keep me awake long enough to get through the next class. If I decide to even go to that one. My eyes feel like anvils as I eat the only food I will probably have today. A nasty side effect of the drugs is that I don’t eat and in the last couple of months I have lost over twenty pounds. I have always been a little bit heavy set so losing twenty or more pounds really isn’t as drastic as it sounds. Since I can’t afford new clothes no one has really noticed either way, but for once in my life I’m starting to think that I look better than ever. Maybe I will get my own commercial on TV from all the weight I’m losing like that fat fuck did from that restaurant chain or those fat bitches from the eighties. Then again I will probably die and everyone will forget about me. Good lunch, now I’m all set for more drugs. It is best to not have a full stomach or an empty one, this rule stands more tested before bed as the odds of dying in your sleep on your own vomit increase with such activity. I randomly use nearly every bathroom on campus on any given day, I even used the women’s room in the main building once because the men’s was to full. I use the bathroom on the second floor before checking to see what my next class is. Despite my best efforts I am ten minutes late for class, but it is the first day so no one notices. I take my usual place in the back of the room. The teacher, this time a man, passes out the same piece of paper I’m pretty sure I already have detailing what we will be doing in class this semester. It takes me a minute to actually realize that I have in fact seen this paper because I have already taken this class. Maybe it will be easier the second time around, who gives a fuck. I’m starting to feel even more tired now that I know it doesn’t matter.
My drug abuse doesn’t allow me to sleep as often as I would like. My depression and my drugs have very different ideas on the topic, but when I do sleep I dream of many things. I dream that I am a woman in a minivan and I’m emptying a shopping bag onto the passenger seat so, I can place it over the head of one of the crying children behind me. I scream things as I hold it there. The words don’t make sense but given the context what would it really matter any way. I dream that I am chasing a school bus in a place that I once lived. The sky is blood red and all I can hear, all I can see are the children laughing before vomiting gallons of blood out the window of the moving bus. The blood washes over me as I run with everything I have. I never reach the bus and it never stops. Wave after wave until finally I give up. I dream of her, touching her, feeling her, fucking her. I roll over after coming and fall off the bed into nothing. I can’t move as I fall and I try to reach for the bed that has long since disappeared in to the darkness. I just keep falling and falling with no end. Farther and farther, and I never stop falling, never stop feeling confused until I wake up. I dream in blood and I dream in liquids. I dream so many things that sometimes it is hard to figure out what has been a dream and what has been reality. I often wake up confused to where I am or if I am even alive anymore. I imagine myself standing in the middle of Times Square with a gun to my head screaming, begging for someone to help, but no one stops to help me. I imagine that I pull the trigger and I can feel the bullet digging into my skull in slow motion so, I can feel every bit of pain as it rips through my head and exits the other side. I snap out of my state and realize that I am now sitting in an empty class room. I wonder if I am awake or am I still dreaming. There is a note that sits in front of me. It is from my teacher, “Maybe next time you can try to make it more than ten minutes before falling asleep.”
I stop by the bathroom one more time before going outside to smoke. I decide to blow the rest of the day off and return to my tomb. I get into my car and I sit there. I can still feel the bullet hole in my head. It is twenty degrees outside, but I don’t turn on the car. I don’t do anything. I just sit there. I sit in my car until I can no longer feel my toes from the cold. I sit there and I feel nothing. I sit here and think of nothing. I take another hit and begin my trip back home.
Walking my way down memory lane… Classes Start is one of many stories found in… A Lie… A rather tame story from A Lie… but a story none the less… If you’d like to read more… It is available on Kindle and Paperback format…
A Lie is pretty different from anything that you will find on the website… Less broken then?… unsure… not sure I was ever fixed… A Lie is interesting in that it is a fiction story filled with a lot of truth… I have been thinking a lot about it as I work on my next novel… Mostly all the things that I have learned over the years… reminiscing on the struggle to get it done… to not give up… I guess things don’t ever really change… Well… I should probably just get back to it… Check out A Lie… if you want to learn more about young Ambrose…
So, as you can see I have clearly lost my mind. Oh, wait please forgive me. I forgot that I took your eyes. You can’t see anything so, allow me to describe the horrors you are about to feel and most certainly taste. Hey, have you tasted blood before? Nothing? No Answer? How rude of me you have no tongue which to speak. How silly of me to keep forgetting the things I have already done to prepare for this evening. If by now you don’t think I’m crazy you really should start. That warm iron taste, the one that reminds you of childhood, picking off old scabs, and licking away the blood is from the parts of your tongue that just won’t heal. It should taste sick at first, but by the end of all of this it will become comforting as you hold on to what memories you have left. My apologies regardless, but you have been more than difficult during all of this. I envy you none the less, you know? No one has ever treated me this way despite my demands. I’d pay good money for an experience such as this. It’s always too sick or too wrong. That’s how this all started. Worthless sex workers. I didn’t want it to go this far. Do you believe me? What difference does it matter? They set me free from all my pain. Hopefully I can do for you what others were too afraid to do for me. Excuse my laughter I was remembering the screams and inevitable reminders of past mistakes. The memories like to bounce back in place while I work. Well enough of this talking let’s begin the fun. Never. Never shake your head no at me you sniveling cunt. I’ll cut your dick off and ram it down your throat. Is that clear? Sorry, that was unfair. You didn’t deserve that outburst. It’s just. It is hard being on this side of the veil you know? We’re good right? Your hair is so soft it calms the nerves. Good take a deep breath, first things first we must maintain the sharpness of the blades.
God, isn’t that a sexy sound? I use to do this beforehand Out of sight. Out of mind kind of thing. Always be prepared, but where’s the fun in that? That’s good keep up the moaning. I like that you still try to make words. It’s a little hard to understand you without a tongue in your mouth. If only you could see how hard I am you might appreciate what’s going on. It interests me to see how the muscles get removed from bone. Have you ever watched a butcher work? It’s like magic. The skill, the craft, the determination. It’s almost as if the knife is his hand or part of him. My father use to be a butcher and I’m embarrassed to say that the papers call me the same. I am not my father. I don’t have the skill my father had. It is almost insulting you know? Being compared to a skilled profession such as that. This is more trial and error than anything else. He used to come home smelling of blood and death. Some days he would let me skip school and let me go to the shop with him. He used to say, “One day my boy you will be a butcher.” That is about all he ever said to me. That or this is for your own good before he would beat me. That’s it that simple. Life at times is only that simple. Right or wrong simple minded thought. We know different don’t we? We’ve seen more than just the butcher block. For all his skill and all his talent he was nothing more than a dumb piece of shit is what I mean. He didn’t like my reading, jealous of my education. A transition of the times from craft to thought.
Long story short he disappeared shortly after my eighteenth birthday. Mother closed the shop and I inherited the very knifes you can feel today so, in a way the papers and my father were right and believe me that makes me very unhappy. I thought about becoming a doctor once. Hey, hey you still with me? Good, but now I am only sure that I will be studied by one. Don’t know how that is going to work though as I’m fairly aware that I am what one might call crazy, but then again it’s not me they have to convince it is the twelve other people. Now for the fun part at least for me anyways. I never liked going to the dentist myself, but if I don’t at least pull out most of your teeth fucking your mouth gets a little rough after your dead. There I go laughing again. I had you going didn’t I? I mean I am going to rip out your teeth, but what kind of sick freak do you think I am? Do you honestly believe me too be that far gone? Sit still now this is going to hurt unfortunately. A byproduct of all of this but if I snap the tooth rather than pull it. Well you’ll only have to feel it happening again, but don’t worry I have needle nose pliers as well. Your choice though honestly I can go either way. Shh… Stop your shaking or you are only going to make it that much worse. I know that some of it is involuntary, but you really must try to calm yourself. Think of something peaceful. A happy moment from the past. Your childhood maybe? The laughter is involuntary as well I must say. Man the fuck up already. We’ve made it this far. What’s a little more pleasure? Wait… Did you hear that? Fuck, mother is home. I guess we will just have to finish this later. She hates it when I work in my room. Try not to die now. You promise? Promise you won’t die on me. We still have much to discover about each other.
Not too sure when I wrote this… another take on one of my favorite subjects… torture… this story is more about the little details… for me at least… I like to take similar scenes from the past… and expand on them in some way… that makes it sound like I have someone tied up in my garage… haha… I don’t… not yet at least… but it’s the other twelve people I have to convince…not you…
This as been another installment of Fun With Words or Is He Crazy?… Truth be told what’s the difference any more?… Enjoy talking to myself in the dark none the less… Until tomorrow… I hope all is well…
In some ways, it feels as if a part of me is missing and in other ways, I feel exactly the same. I hate being apart from her for whatever the reason. The long nights traveling for my job is when I feel it the most. Being on the road is like going through hell and then some. The restless nights lying in a bed of someone else’s filth. They say the beds are clean or at least the card on the pillow states, but are they ever really clean? How does one actually clean up the semen and the sweat that soaks up into the mattress? Sure your nicer establishments have some sort of protection. A mattress condom if you will but the cheaper places? The places I have to stay because my boss cares more about the bottom line than the comfort of the poor bastard who makes that line exist, those places are brimming with semen, sweat, and who knows what else. I find myself sleeping on the floor most nights on the road. Not that the floors in these skank motels are any cleaner, but I’m less likely to sleep in somebody’s fluids.
As I lie on this particular floor I wonder what she is thinking about in our nice comfortable bed. I wonder if she thinks of me or quite simply nothing at all. Another conference in the morning. Another meet and greet with unknown clients. Does well for business though I can’t say the same for my soul. I could say it would be good for me if I was the owner. If I reaped anything from any and all this stress. Anything more than a paycheck. Life seems to be only ever about such worthless things. I wonder if I leave tomorrow night or the following morning. Something I should check, but I’m too lazy to get up off the floor. Either way, it is just one more shitty flight to an even shitter place. When you are young you want to travel, to see the world, but as you get older and then a little bit more that sense of adventure seems to slip right out of your mind. Now all I want is a chance to make up for all those lost years of traveling, of being apart. Those long night without me by her side.
It pains me to think about it. It pains me every time that I see her she has changed a little bit more. Her skin and her hair seem to change each and every time I return. I wonder when the changes will stop. Will they ever? I thought I could stop them, but it turns out no one can. Nothing stays perfect forever. The longer I am gone the farther we grow apart from each other. Disconnected I miss her and I miss her more whenever we are together. Where did those years before go? Did I not live them? Or have I been living in this traveling coma for so long that I simply don’t remember the past at all? One thing I do know, will always know is that she is still waiting for me. I made sure of that at least didn’t I? Back home she waits for my arrival and I’m sure my departure. To her, I’m sure she sees this time as never going or never there. To her, I’m sure that when this trip is over it will all be too late. That is what she said to me last. The words that haunt us. The words that changed everything. She doesn’t say much anymore. Lays in silence mostly. Silently waiting for my return.
Welcome back… this story seemed fitting for the occasion… this story is actually really old… I’m talking over ten years old… I’m not sure of the year I wrote it… but I remember the time period… and even though it is super sinister it was written from a place of love… odd I know until you remember it is me we are dealing with… then it makes sense…
It has been awhile since I have returned myself… hopefully all is well… the world has been changing for a while now… I wonder how much of it is really different by now?… stay healthy… stay safe… because there is always someone waiting for your return…
Standing beside the devil at the gates of hell There’s no heaven for someone like me Laid down before Christ Kissed his feet Hoping I won’t be the only one that’s died Best one could hope for a silent death Stripping the flesh inch for inch Killing the idea of you was never meant to be easy Taking breath for breath, taking a life Welcome home tattooed across my skin In blood, in blood we learn what freedom is Never forget who you really are A devil saint masquerading as a demon One in the fucking same, no different from the next Who I am and what you’ll be What is it that the world made me A puppet, a pawn, my new plaything Smile, this is all God ever asked from you The blood only a part of the process Smile, gave you all that you needed Never good enough, no one ever will be Need more to understand What I’ve become Same as you only worse Never give anything You aren’t willing to lose
Testing Out The Thoughts In My Head
Dragging the blade against the skin What was it that you once said No one could ever be a beautiful as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly you changed Now who is the one begging I was dead Dragging the blade against the skin Tearing out all the dirty thoughts Where do I begin, trapped within No one could ever be as clean as you Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly I changed Now who is the one suggesting medicine Dragging the blade against the skin Carving out all the pieces I adore Being so selective never felt so good What was it you once said No one could be as perfect as you I beg to differ on the subject Testing the theory that it was all in my head How quickly your pleas turn into threats Now who is the one begging I quit Dragging the blade against the skin I wish I could live in Worship me as I have always you Be mine so we can end these stupid games Promise me you’ll always be as beautiful As I make you Obsession leads to creativity Testing out all the thoughts in my head
Got pretty dark in here… That first one started off as a Broken Thought… then it kept going… had to change the whole theme of my post… was originally going to talk about the sun and how life is so beautiful… really just the beauty of life… the normal things I like to talk about really… but then this dark cloud came out of nowhere… sometimes life is about riding the wave of emotions… maybe next time on Cuddling with Glass…. (That still sounds pretty painful… There’s nothing soft, warm, or fuzzy about glass… other options… Gluing with Glass… Blowing with Glass… if you came up with anything post it in the comments…)
“We’ve all gathered her once again. What is the purpose?
What is the point of all of this my people?” The man asks the small coven before
him. “To praise him,” they chant back. “To love him. To Honor him,” They continue.
“Because?” The man asks enthusiastically. “Jesus is lord,” They answer. The
woman at the man’s feet whimpers as she struggles with her restraints. Gagged
she can’t say a thing, but she tries none the less. “That is right my children.
That is so very right. We don’t do this for ourselves, but for him. We don’t
hurt people we free them in the name of our lord. That is why we are here this
evening,” the man kneels down towards the woman. Rubbing the back of his
fingers across her face, “This woman, if you could call her that, needs our
help this evening my children.” She flails her head as she tries to scream, “Hush
my child. We are only trying to save you, help you. We mean you no harm.” The
man stands back up and takes his place behind the podium. The air around him
thick with silent anticipation. “See my children? See why we must help her? She
doesn’t even know that she is lost. She doesn’t even know the devil has taken a
hold of her,” He presents to them. “Free her. Give her back to Jesus,” they all
responded back. “Oh, we shall. Strip her,” he orders to the two men beside the
stage. The two men do as they are told ripping the woman’s clothes off of her.
Her mesh shirt shredded instantly. She kicks and screams as her pale skin is
exposed to the crowd. “Stand her up for my children to see,” the man orders. “Look
my children. Look what the devil as done to this poor woman,” he walks from
behind the podium and stands next to her. “These marks of sin all throughout
her body. Tattoos not only where we can freely see, but even where only her
husband could,” he runs his finger down her pelvis following the outline of the
tattoos as he speaks. “And these,” he shouts to dramatic effect as he flicks
her nipple rings. She struggles against the two men. “What on God’s green earth
could these be used for if not for sin. What is the purposes of such atrocities?
Don’t even get me started on her horns,” he chuckles to himself. “Set her free.
Give her back to Jesus,” the angry crowd shouts unprovoked. “Oh, we shall my
children, we shall. Kneel before Christ,” he shouts at her. The two men kick
her legs out from under her and help her to her knees. Naked kneels before him
as he steps up to her with a cup in his hands. He pulls out her gag with his
free hand releasing a siren of screams into the room. “Hush now child,” he says
loud enough for everyone to hear. Moving closer to her face he speaks in
whispers, “You had to know the day would come where you’d have to face your
sins. Some one of your nature couldn’t be so naive. Here are your choices young
lady. You drink this here cup of the lord.” Her face tenses up, “I’m not
drinking shit.” He lets off a small amused smile, “I think you will because if
you don’t you are going to know pain beyond anything even you could know. Drink
the cup and accept Jesus into your body. You do that and we will let you go.
Simple really. If you don’t. Well we will have to find another way to let Jesus
in and the demons out.” Tears fall from her face, “I ain’t drinking shit.” He
shakes his head, “Please, we don’t want to hurt you. We just want to save you.
Save your soul from damnation. Drink the blood of Christ accept him into your
heart and you are free do go.” He holds the cup within inches of her lips. “Okay,
I’ll drink it,” she agrees. “She says she will accept Christ,” he shouts for
all to hear. She continues to cry as the room cheers. He hold the cup up to her
lips and she slowly drinks it, Take all of Jesus Christ into you.” She nods as
she drinks from the cup. Drinks every last drop. “Let her go,” he orders to the
two men. Scarred and panic she rises naked to her feet. She tries to cover what
she can of herself as she runs down the aisle. “Let Christ consume your evil my
child. Let the lord set you free,” he shouts from behind her. A smile stretched
across his face. The sedative takes effect before she even makes it to the
doors of the church. “How could I be so,” she falls to the floor. “Bring her to
me my children. We have much to do before it is too late,” he orders.
“Is she ready?” The reverend asks. “She has been drained of all her blood,” one of his followers answers. “Good, take her down and lets proceed to the chosen sight,” the reverend orders. “What of the others?” The follower asks. “In time my child. In time they will all receive their penance,” he answers. Bodies of men and women hang from meat hooks bound by the wrist. The truck bed shifts a bit. “Will someone tell the driver to be a little more careful? We have precious cargo with us. Can’t afford to get caught now. Not this soon. So much work left to do,” The reverend says with a smile. The follower disappears to the front of the trailer to talk to the driver. The reverend touches her face with the back of his hand, “Could have truly been so much more in this world.” A female follower standing next to him speaks up, “She will be more than she could have ever been in this life time. Praise him.” He turns to her, “How right you are my child. How right you are.” He takes the followers face into his hands, “Praise him. Praise him we shall.” The refrigerated truck drives for a few more hours until it reaches a stretch of road in some unknown town. “We have arrived my children,” He announces. The followers that he has brought come from under their warm blankets. Steam releasing from their bodies as they rush to get the others awake and ready. “The sun will be up soon and we have even less time than that. Put the gloves on and take her to the tree. No one without gloves is allowed to touch anything,” the reverend commands. Slipping on his own gloves he takes three large industrial size nails and the hammer from the end of the truck. They slip out of the truck and rapid fashion. Silent as the night as they carry her dead corpse with them. Sitting her down in the grass they untie her hands and place her in a cross formation. They stand waiting around the body in a circle as the reverend makes his way to them. He places the nails next to her body before taking one. Placing it in the palm of her cold dead hand he hammers it in. “For the Lord,” he says before taking another nail. Palm to ankles he hammers the nails into the body. “For the Lord. Praise him,” his followers chant. They all go silent as he hammers in the final nail firmly through her ankles. Pinned against the grass they all stare at her lifeless corpse. “The sinner and the whore has been redeemed for your blessing. We give you back your lost child. We give, we do all that you have asked of us. For we are the children of the one true God. We are the warriors upon which you seek. Praise the Lord. Honor the Lord. Children of Christ. Amen.” The followers raise their arms to the sky as it begins to rise. The shadows of evil slowly receding at the dawn of day. “Praise him. Praise the Lord,” the followers say in unison one last time. Into the early light they disappear back to the truck. They leave no traces of ever being there and the insects begin to feed. Because even in the south the dead don’t rest in peace.
“Some nights I awake to this feeling that something is wrong. I wake up in the middle of the night most days and maybe you wake up in the day only to feel the same way. Scratching at the walls of your coffin. I’m unsure how that really works. Some nights the sky somehow seems darker than the one before it. A darkness so dark that it is as though light cannot penetrate. This isn’t a metaphor, but a fact. It makes everything, it puts me on edge for the rest of the day. Every turn of every corner leaves me waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something to go wrong or fall apart. These are metaphors though and irrational thoughts because nothing ever seems to happen. Maybe because I am aware? Because I am on the lookout for this doom that never comes? Were you aware? I think about that sometimes. I think about a lot of things with my time. I use to think I knew what life meant. What life had in store for me, but the longer I am alive the more I realize I don’t know anything.”
“Our time spent is a waste, our time not spent is a waste. Every day can feel exactly the same and yet this feeling grows. Ideas are spent trying to figure out what we are, but little to none is spent on who we are day to day at least. It gets lost, my thoughts, as I try to say or even think them rather. What I’m trying to say, what I want to say is that this longing for something greater only leave us at one conclusion. What is greater? Is breathing not great enough? The ability to think, create, or move not great enough? What is it that I want out of life besides living it? There always seems to be this bar just out of my reach, but I know that if I reach it there will only be one higher above it. Still I struggle to find the strength to do what I know needs to be done. A list of tasks, a stack of papers, a head full of ideas, and I have no idea what to do. Where to go next? Wasting time in the dark. Living a life I once thought was living. I know there is something greater out there. I also know there is nothing out there. Stuck somewhere in between or living how it was always intended to be?”
“This endless cycle is pointless in thought, but in theory it seems to be what is needed to get through these days. These dark days. These days that seem like everything is going to collapse upon itself at any moment. I still have more time on this planet than I would like to admit and I don’t know what to do with it. An endless amount of time trying or fighting will only lead me back to where I am today. I use to think that I knew what life meant, but every day it seems to rewrite itself. Everyday life seems to be changing and going nowhere all at the same time. Life is always changing, but I keep staying the same. Locked inside my head. Rambling to the dead.” She lingers at the grave stone long after the words have left her mouth. Reading the words, tracing the lines carved in stone with her eyes.
Layne Ambrose Father, Son, Husband “Never Could Get Anything Done But At Least You Tried.”
This one so far has changed more than any other story this cycle… Was unsure what to do with it really… Rewrote it several times… re read it just as many… hopefully it all flows… this isn’t an excuse for laziness… though it will sound like one… but sometimes after reading something over and over it bleeds together… love the website… love posting… but there is no time to linger in this format… to obsess over every word and sentence… which is a blessing and a curse… because I will hold onto ideas for years because it isn’t “100%”…. fun fact… no story is ever at a hundred percent…
I have been done with A Lie for years… and every now and then I catch myself starting another chapter for a story that is “done”… ride out the thought and then toss it in the trash file… I’m done with that story… but sometimes the mind lingers… we change… we want to go back and change things… I’m a better writer now than I was then… but no matter how much better I get… I will never be back in that time… that point in my life… I will never see the world the same again…
That was what this one was about for me… which to me is a good idea… but not enough… so I fucked with it… and fucked with it… until I just ran out of time… happy accidents happen when we least expect them… It wasn’t until right now as I was setting up this post that I didn’t feel like I was cheating myself in some way… settling on an idea that I thought was a waste of time… not good enough… to be fair I think this about all of my ideas… but in this case as I was setting up the post… an idea came to me…
What if it wasn’t about me… what if it was about someone else close to me?… Ideas are infectious… we are only copies of those before us… our families… our parents… with add ons… this is a very basic concept of the human brain and please don’t take offense… My dad was an asshole too… but I’m still into shit that was introduced to me before he left… another time… point is… as much as we as parents don’t want to pass on our negative attributes to our children we enviably do… it is unavoidable to a certain degree… the hope is that they will be better than we were and over come the things we couldn’t… I know it always seems like our parents or our parent want us to do so many things with our lives… but that is all they really want… that is what each generation is… a do over on the last one… change is slow though… and the world is fast… and only getting faster… another time on this idea as well…
The woman or girl… at the end is my daughter… and I failed to do what I meant to do as a parent… to not pass on all the negative shit I’m not going to list here… that concept got me excited about this story… my hope is that at a deeper level that was apparent… but it isn’t vital to the story… it is only vital to me and my enjoyment of the story… that is a little insight on how these stories shift through my brain to the “page”… hope all is well…
“So here we are once again. You with the gun and me with the
hostage. Who do you think is going to win this time? Me or you?” The
madman with the barrel pressed against the victim’s head ponders out loud.
“Things may seem like you’ve got the upper hand, but I’ve got something
you don’t,” the half-naked, half blown up, and one hundred percent out of
patience hero says. “Oh and what’s that?” The villain pulls the
hammer back on the gun. “A chance.”
“Can you shut that shit off already?” She moans. “How can
you even watch this crap?” She asks letting me know she isn’t going to
stop without an answer. “Why do you do that? Why do you have to interrupt
all of the best parts?” I ask. The sound of me hitting the space bar fills
the room. “The best parts? What could have possibly been the best part of
a movie that failed to get one star?” She badgers. “I don’t know
maybe when he pulls a gun out of nowhere and shots him off the building like in
Harder To Die, Than To Live,” I answer. “Wait so you’re telling me
the best part of a film is a copycat scene from a film you’ve already
seen?” She mocks me. “Well madam it’s not a complete copy since that
would be illegal. It will be different to a point though overall the same scene
in a sense. Plus this one didn’t go to theaters and is unrated. Which basically
means there will be more blood and the fact that the hostage is a woman means
there is a good chance of a topless scene. All of this could add up to a better
or worse ending than the “same scene” in another movie,” I
explain. “You’ve got to be kidding me right?” She looks more annoyed
than confused. “I didn’t invent the male brain. I was just born with
one,” I smile.
She sighs in disgust. “What would you rather watch another movie
about two people falling in love after overcoming some stupid obstacle?” I
ask her. “Of course at least they are original,” she says.
“Original? Right let’s see the last one we watched was about some couple
who fell in love, but then the lady had a dog which just so happens the man is
afraid of so, they spend the next hour getting over that. The one before that
was about two people too afraid to leave their house though they fall in love
over the internet so, they spend the next hour and half getting over that. An
hour and a half wondering if they will ever be able to be together through this
dire situation that is somehow too impossible to get over. How are either one
of those movies not the same?” I question. “That last one won an
Oscar by the way so, what do you know?” She says defensively. “How
can a movie about nothing get any sort of reward?” I mock. “It got
six, but that is beside the point,” she tries to play off. “Nothing
happens for almost two hours,” I won’t let the point die. “You try
making the hottest actress in Hollywood look ugly and then you tell me you
didn’t take a chance,” she rolls her eyes as though I am the ignorant one
in this situation. “They put a bump on her nose and she was still hot.
They could have lit her head on fire and put her in a full body cast, and she
still be hot. Changing one thing about someone is not taking a chance,” I
protest. “Neither is watching a movie because there might be a topless
scene or more blood,” she protests back. The screen goes black.
“How can you watch this shit?” An angel with giant white wings asks. “What are you talking about? There is so much passion over nothing. How could I the Lord not watch?” A figure of immense light and a voice that could crack the sky asks right back. “I don’t know maybe because there are about seven billion and growing other issues you could address. I mean it is all the same thing. Over and over about nothing at all. Couldn’t there be anything else you could do today? I just don’t get it,” the angel tries to reason. “What’s the point of being a God if you can’t enjoy your own creations?” The question hangs in the air.
Pretty basic and short story… I’m sure when I wrote it the first time I had so much more to say about this story… finding it years later… I decided to put a little twist on it… a twist of an idea that I think about a lot… I’m sure we all do… if someone was watching us?… Why?… this story to me was more of a way to present the question to others… rather than answer it myself… nothing flashy just a thought in my head…
“Meghan is that you?” She turns as though my voice is
familiar and yet somehow distant. We
lock eyes, “No one’s pronounced my names right in years.” She stands in front
of me after all these years later. “I’m sure they haven’t. I’m sure you made
sure they got it right in the end though,” I say to her. She gives off a fake
friendly laugh. A chuckle really if you should be so lame. She follows it up
with a smile, “You’d be right, but then you always were won’t you?” I don’t
smile because it wouldn’t be who I am in the face of the past. “I missed you
too,” I lie because that is who I am. It’s been so many years by choice and
vast amounts of distance. Why she is even here in front of me is puzzling on
its own, but here she stands none the less. Though in a way this all is just
petty. Her need for childish attention drove us apart. Made us two very
different people and in the end made us nothing more than friends of the past.
How we related in the first place is beyond me. Even now after all these years
I still don’t really miss her. I still don’t really care, but being human of
course I do in some sense.
“How have you been? How was California?” I ask her. She
thinks I care. I can tell by her surprised look that she thinks that I have
been keep tabs on her. “California was good. A long time ago, but it was good.
Super expensive in the end so I had to get out of there,” she keeps her answers
vague and short. It seems so out of place for her to be here. I can’t tell if
she’s sure she wants to see me or why she would want to. I’m past history. A
foot note in her life as she is in mine. The last time we spoke we didn’t
because I walked out. Walked out of her life as if she didn’t matter and in a
way she didn’t. I didn’t feel guilty then because I thought I never see her again.
Yet as she stands before me I can’t say the same thing. Guilty feelings about
how things ended so many years ago in Washington. “It is crazy to see you here
of all places,” she finally breaks the silence growing between us. “Never
thought you would move to Texas,” she adds. “Never in my wildest dreams would I
have thought I’d live here either. Haven’t been here too long though. Did a
spell in New York for a while and then ended up here,” I answer. “New York is
where your mother is from right?” She remembers and I node my head. “Yeah, my
wife’s family is from here,” I tell her like I tell everyone. A constant denial
that I would move here by any other choice. “So you live here?” She asks me
like a detective trying to get the facts straight. “Yep,” I say confused to
this line of questioning.
“A bit of a cliché don’t you think? Ever think of someplace
to go without training wheels?” Lighter, can of gasoline, and check mate. Her
true colors begin to shine in the mid afternoon sun. No one likes to think they
can’t do it on their own. No one likes to feel as though they need mommy and
daddy to support them. No one likes this idea especially not her. “My wife’s
idea,” I say as though I had no say in the matter. A half-truth repeated so
many times in my head, but really what was I to do? “I’m sure it was. She still
leading you around like you are an alpha male, but really you are nothing more
than a puppy on a very short leash?” She always knew the best ways to make it
hurt. Her words could be like poison or a bed of nails. A talent really that
few of us can pull off as well as her. A talent only possessed by demons and
devils, but a talent none the less. “I am my own man,” I say even if it comes
out hollow. I stand by the words in my head. “She doesn’t influence me to do
anything I don’t already want to do.” She smiles as my statement, “Spoken like
a true married man. A little bit Stockholm syndrome rehearsed, but I’m sure
they are all your own words in the end.” She thinks she has me against some
sort of theoretical ropes. This is always how she, how we talked to each other.
A match of wits always trying to out maneuver each other. “You never did
approve of relationships much,” I say bouncing off the ropes. “You got me
there,” she puts her guard up. Ready for anything I take my swing. “Is that
because you are a lesbian or because of something else?”
“This many years and now you want to get personal?” She asks
me deflecting my question. She is right though it has been many years. Many
years of a lot of things being left unsaid, unanswered, or unspoken that drove
a wedge between us so long ago. “I was only asking considering,” I begin to
say. “Considering what?” She questions in an almost hostile tone. Maybe my
verbal punch did more damage than I thought? “Considering you are always on the
move. Never staying anywhere long enough to be a part of anything,” I say to
her. Giving away the fact that I have been keeping tabs on her. From a distance
and never reaching out, but paying attention none the less. She looks solemn to
my response, “Long enough to know anybody. What about you? Always moving
yourself.” She turns around on me. “Time and money are two very different
things. Yet they go together as if they are meant to be,” I respond. “Deep, you
been working on that for a while now?” She asks me. For the first time I smile,
“No, I’m a writer now. It comes naturally.” She lets off another hollowed
laugh, “Any self-obsessed asshole can be a writer so, I’m not surprised.” A
talent or a curse I can’t decide anymore. A talent or a curse. “Well it’s my
dream so thanks,” I respond slightly wounded. “Are you really hurt or are you
just playing the part?” She asks with venom dripping from her teeth.
“The part I guess,” we lock eyes and neither of us have much
left to say. There should be a million things to keep us talking for hours, but
in the end none of them really matter. Too many empty silences in this broken
down conversation. Too many I could give a damn ideas and thoughts. If I cared
enough. If she cared enough. We could let them all go and be civil. I don’t
care to bring up the past, but here it stands before me. Right in front of me
as though a distant memory of the past and the present have collided. The
silence between us is deafening and yet neither of us can walk away. Drawn
together by some cosmic need to stand in this very place. Locking eyes and
staring into each other’s soul looking for anything that could resemble what we
are looking for in this situation. I find nothing, but there is something that
tells me she hasn’t reached the same conclusion. “I have AIDS,” she says with
actual sincerity. “That’s why I have been moving so much. Not getting to know
anyone. I want to protect myself from letting anyone new in. While taking in
everything that I can before it is all said and done with. Making the rounds so
to speak. Making my way around this world to figure out my place all along,”
she lays out all of her cards before me.
“But you are a lesbian, statistically this isn’t even
possible. Well it is but more unlikely,” I try to rationalize out loud. “Just
because I’m gay,” she breaks down. Her tears trickle out one by one before
becoming streams on her face. “No one wants to be gay. We lie and say we do
with our parades and our words, but in reality we just want to be normal,” she
cries. “Being gay is normal,” I say as I extend my hand to her shoulder. She
pushes my hand away, “No, no it is not. Being gay is not normal. We make it
seem that way because we want it to be normal. I only wanted to be normal. Be
seen as normal by everyone. So I gave it a shot. Found a man at a bar and
played the part of the normal woman. Guess what I didn’t think to ask? Guess
what didn’t cross my mind as I laid there trying to be who I was supposed to
be?” I don’t answer her questions. I only listen. “I lost, I lost it all, and
now. Now I’m just trying to do it all before I’m all gone,” she chokes out. Too
much emotion. I’m not good with all of this. Being silent is what I am good at.
Distant and far is the only approach I know. “Sorry,” I say as though the word
could ever wash away all of her troubles. That the word could solve anything at
“I don’t need your sympathy,” she spits back into my face.
“I was only trying.” But she cuts me off. “Only trying to what? Care? I know
that you don’t care or give a damn about anyone or anything. You like to be
distant. You like to be away from people. It lets you think that you are better
than everyone else,” her voice echoes in a loop. “This is different,” I want to
say but she’s not listening. “I should have never told you and you wouldn’t
have never known. It was great to see you again,” she says before storming away
from me. There I stood not knowing what to do. There I stood in my past as the
present spun me up in a giant web. I never saw her again. Only in my dreams of
our last conversation. So many things I should have done differently, but in
the end all I will have are these memories, this horrid dream of her.
I walk down from the podium and make my way down the aisle until I find my seat. The long hard benches that make up the church. Solemn and crying as my words still dance in front of me. The mask is off the monster and I don’t like what I see. What I’ve always seen. The reasons I am the way I am. “Would anyone else like to say a few words about the departed?” echoing through the hollowness of my soul.
This is actually a story from my forth coming novel… I would have put up an image of the book cover… but I am still trying to figure that out… I have a title… but I am not really ready to reveal that at the moment either… Unless I already did… haha… I have been busy working on that… and other things…
So… why am I posting this story if I am not ready to share anything surrounding it?… I actually found this story in my random files to save… it was originally going to be just for the website… but it fit in nicely with my ideas for my next novel… though I have no idea where yet… I write very much backwards and forwards… I also over write… I’m sure a lot of us do… whether it makes it in the book or not is a question for the future…
So this story… what is real… and what is fiction… I’d say 50/50… but it doesn’t matter because in the end… after it is all said and done… it could be 100% false or 100% true… and still work… sounds easy enough… nothing easy ever really is though… I actually based this on a few people I know… a few things I went through… a few conversations I actually had…
I like this story because as we transition into a better society… there will still be a lot of questions about what is right… what is normal… that was the part of the story that stood out to me… that I liked… Meghan had doubts that she was normal… and she was… perfectly normal for who she was… but sometimes society and those close to us have a way of making us feel like we aren’t… even the strongest person can succumb to the pressure being exerted all them… I’m not going to sit here and preach… not my place in this world… I’m not even going to say you have to “love” everyone just because… but you don’t have to hate them either… something to think about if you haven’t already…