It is the underside of a raindrop—
the sensation of shrinking
while rushing closer and closer
to the inevitable.
It could be the force
of the blackhole keeping
the entirety of our galaxy
together. Yet, it ends in a blip.
A hand brushes the drop
from a forehead as eyes
gaze to the cloudless sky.
It must be rain—
the clear liquid on your finger
could be nothing else.
But doubt still furrows—
shimmering wrinkles briefly capture
the sun. It is not captive long.
You walk on. A solitary drop
of rain doesn’t matter to meetings.
But it will stay with you—
a tiny splash of presence
as you stare through plate glass
to the cloudless,
The moon is full
A haze that pales its color—
a muted pink behind sheer fabric.
It peeks behind the mountains
like her nipple as she dips—
a warm, golden blush
that is just the reflection
of light sent cascading
across the star-filled asphalt
singing beneath my tires.
Her soft touch still lingers
as I drive.
The clouds rise like the ocean—
an impending wall of rain and cold
To crash against me,
over and over as we both shiver—
the blistering warmth that chills
as we race through each other.
I will write this down for posterity—
to the long distant generations that have yet to be born,
that have yet to feel the overwhelming despair
and hatred of existing.
We live in a dichotomy—
a polarization of suffering and spite
that belongs to us all.
No one is innocent. No one can claim
to be better, to be worse—
We are all the cesspool of humanity.
Is it so different to despise one another
simply because one of us is the other?
Political affiliations and ideologies
have obliterated and impersonated personality.
We are defined by our vote—
by the color next to the party and by the words
of those that don’t actually speak for us.
But they speak through us.
And through speaking they control us.
I don’t hate you for the color of your skin
unless you hate me for the color of my sin.
And we leave and breathe and are defined
by our hatred for each other.
I will judge you until you open your mouth,
and I will judge you after you open your mouth—
until your tongue twists in the manner I prefer.
You will treat me in kind—
with the same daggers, half unsheathed,
ready to riposte my own.
You are other.
And I am other.
And together we are so convinced
that our own words don’t poison just the same.
Xanthiilus stood on the ledge of the warehouse, cigarette hanging from his lips with the smoke curling around his head. The morning sun was fighting valiantly to burn through the mist that had gradually taken over the city, but there were only patches the light managed to shine radiantly through. Saleena stepped up next to him, slipping an arm around him. Xan puffed on his cigarette and pulled her closer, leaning his head against hers.
“We need to find a way to locate the demons, so we can hunt them.” Xanthiilus flicked the cigarette out into the empty air.
“Or at least set a trap.”
“A trap, huh? How do you propose that?”
“Not really sure, but it’d have to be in a park.” Saleena slipped her hand into Xan’s cloak and pulled out a cigarette.
“Do we try to get them all, or just a few at a time?”
“Now,” Saleena took a single drag and gave the cigarette to Xan, “that is the tricky part.” She blew out the smoke and it spiraled through the air.
“Where are they entering our world from?” Sympheros’ voice was unexpected.
Xan and Sal turned around and found Sympheros eating an omelet.
“Where’d you get the omelet?”
Continue reading “Rise, Rise – Chapter Twelve”
Life has gotten busy. I have not had a chance to write anymore of “The Fall of New Brooklyn” this week. We’ll see if my schedule allows me to get back into a good rhythm, but I might be scaling back how frequently I post new chapters of this story.
They cling to the walls, tiny
demons scratching. In a blink,
they are gone, fluttering away,
startled, the cat
not far behind them. Floating
around my living room
like ghosts, I try to catch them.
Isolated. Alone. Yet standing among others. They raise their arms around me. So, I raise my arms to join them. Like feathers along the wing of a bird, green leaves cling to the parchment like bark that covers my body. Isolated. But not truly alone. My fingers entwine with those around me, and together we cast the earth below in green sunlight. Light that gives us life, bathes us in warmth, and wraps us in a glowing cocoon of comfort. Knowledge that we are alive. I am alive. Isolated. On the inside, I am alone. Outside, surrounded by others just like me. Arms raised to the sky, holding hands, we blanket the heavens to catch the rain that revitalizes us. Deep in the earth, my roots hold fast, despite the winds that rip away my leaves, and cause my trunk to creak with the strain of standing. But I stand. And I don’t stand alone. I stand with the aid of the earth and the others holding onto my branches. Powerful. I can withstand the elements. Wind blows, but I stand. Water fades, but I have saved enough. Fire burns, but my bark protects me. And through the earth and the sun, I can grow again. Isolated, but not truly any longer. I am my own inside, and outside others love and care for me. And forces greater than I truly understand keep me standing, my roots seated securely in the earth, and now I raise my arms in praise of being alive, basking my leaves in the glory of the sun. And I live. Powerful. Secure. Myself.
Dog hair to me
is like the crumbs of cereal
and toy cars left on stairs.
The sheets cling to her curves, like
a toddler clinging to her mother,
afraid of leaving the comfort of stuffed animals
and cartoons for the terror of making
real friends, and learning what happens
when she has two apples and Johnny snatches
one. Makes her cry for mommy. The fabric
pulls taut against her, showing pale peach beneath
its white, where her skin threatens to fade
through and escape. Her breathing is captured,
breasts rising and falling like rolling
waves lapping at my feet. I can imagine
the sand feels pleasant spilling between
my toes, like she spills from the sheets.
Her legs escape, snaking over the bed
and sinking feet into the plush, white carpet.
For a moment, the sun presses through
the window, and she is golden
in the space between the sheets struggling
to contain her.
Xanthiilus woke up abruptly. The forest was dark, and he could barely make out the sleeping forms of Maryanne and Sympheros a little distance away. Saleena was asleep next to him, her hair spread out like a blanket over the foliage and her chest rising and falling peacefully. Xanthiilus looked around the forest, trying to find something that could have caused him to wake up so suddenly. He stood up silently, not wanting to wake the others. Why was the forest dark? When they had arrived last night, it had been glowing green. Would the new wards have changed that? Or had something come here.
Xan looked up at the broken skylight. The voice was incredibly quiet. He wasn’t sure he had heard it, but a star suddenly blinked out of existence as a dark form moved in front of it. In a blink, Xanthiilus was standing on the roof, naked blade in his hand. His eyes roved across the roof, looking for the dark form.
The voice screamed right in his ear, and Xan dropped to the side, lunging out with his sword. It met resistance with an earsplitting clang. Xan looked up. His sword was resting against a curved and wicked looking blade. It was red, with scratches carved throughout the entire surface. Xan quickly stood up, jumping back to give himself some distance.
The figure in front of him was the size of a human, and it wore a black cloak with the hood drawn low. The entire being seemed to exude darkness. There was only a dark form beneath the cloak; Xan couldn’t make out any discernible features, and he could not see through the darkness of the creature’s hood.
Continue reading “Rise, Rise – Chapter Eleven”