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About this blog

Here I post frequently but inconsistently, both stories and vocabulary. Expect nothing, get anything.

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Lacquered wood and cold steel were the only things he could feel over the din of his sorrow. A harsh gust echoed across his mindscape, his gut rising and falling with every melancholy breath. The skylights refracted the darkness of the stormy night sky, twisting it, coiling it around his heart. A ragged breath escaped his trembling lips, a drop of sweat rolled through his stubble and onto the carpet. Then, a gunshot shook the room with a resounding crack. Then there was silence. And a shrill scream. A familiar woman came crashing through the doorway moments later, and knelt beside him on blood splattered carpet.
"What did you do? What did you do? Oh god please no."
"You'll be okay, just give me a minute," she sputtered, feebly stroking through her late husband's hair.
"I'll fix it, just hold on please," she pleaded, as tears clouded her vision. She spent the next few minutes sobbing into his chest, her face and hair becoming bloodied. Hysterical crying and the scent of copper permeated the room, and before long sirens were distracting her from the darkness. She stood, sniveling, and lethargically walked to the front door. The knock came right as she touched the doorknob, and it revealed a pair of uniformed officers. The first of the two, the elder and higher in rank, opened his mouth to say something but was taken immediately back by her appearance in the doorway. Light pooling from the kitchen framed her sullen, bloody silhouette.
"Can you tell me what happened here?" His voice was gruff and apathetic. His partner, by contrast a pretty woman in her early thirties, nudged him aside gently and introduced herself.
"My name is Kelly, we're here to help. We have a few questions as well..." she trailed off as the shadow in the doorway gestured inside and turned around. She didn't look back as she led them to the carpeted sunroom where her husband lay cooling in a small puddle of blood.
Her naturally tan face made a pale contrast to the pale moonlit room. Kelly steered her by the shoulder to the corner, and blocked her view of the corpse with her body. Soothingly she asked "Is there anyone I can call for you?"
A subtle lateral shake of the head was her response.
"Can you tell me your name?"
"Eliza... his name was Douglas," she choked out, before a new series of sobs silenced her. Behind them, the veteran officer made a call on his radio.
"Requesting coroner, do not send EMS. Looks like a suicide." He droned on a bit longer, but no further attention was paid to him.
Eliza made her best effort to collect herself. She was surprised but secretly thankful that her daughter had not awoken from the commotion. She had always slept like a rock, much to Eliza's precious chagrin and current relief.
"Kelly, I need to go tell my daughter." Kelly's face sank. To witness the death of anyone was hard enough on the psyche, both on her and those of the family. To see a child involved, that was heartbreaking. Perhaps in time, Kelly would gain the battle hardened callousness that her partner exuded on a daily basis, but she hadn't yet suffered through enough of this hell to lose her compassion.
"I can come with you if you need-"
"No thank you," she mumbled, "cops scare her." With that, she gently brushed past the woman and made her way down the hallway. She couldn't get her mind off of the loss of her husband, but she was grateful for the two solid oak doors and thick walls separating the rooms of this suburban house. She paused at the door, fighting back a new wave of tears. She wanted to present an aura of strength to her daughter. She would attempt to tell her the usual lies that parents tell their children about death, but knew her daughter to be old enough to see past the euphemisms. She turned the handle.


The room was darker than night. Eliza pulled out her phone to use as a makeshift flashlight to avoid waking her precious child into what would be a night she remembered forever. Monique was snoring loudly with a pillow over her head as she entered the room, and Eliza couldn't help but smile at her beauty. She looked angelic with her short blonde hair covering up part of her face. A forced smile was etched onto Monique's face from the way her head lay on the pillow. Eliza knelt on the dark hardwood floor beside the bed and rested an arm on the nightstand and the other on her daughter's exposed cheek. In moments, her life would be never be the same again. Could she bring herself to break this news? Yes. Better her than a cop. She began stroking her cheek gently while saying her name, to no avail. She knew it would take more than that to rouse her daughter, she was just being a coward.
"Monique, it's time to get up," she said loudly, pulling the pillow off her head and shaking a shoulder. This method proved more effective than the last, and two miniature oceans fluttered open.
"Mommy? W-what is all over your face?" Eliza let her jaw run slack in horror as she realized she was partially covered in blood. She tried to say something but words escaped her. Perhaps she would need help after all.
"I'll be right back, just stay there sweetheart." She stepped away quickly, hiding her face. The bathroom was only a few feet from the doorway of the small bedroom. She stepped inside and locked the door with shaking hands. Her eyes stung from the harsh incandescent light of the ceiling fixture. When she was able to open them again, the person staring back at her from the mirror was not the person she knew. This person - stranger - was bloody and forlorn. She couldn't make sense of reality, and for a moment she questioned her existence and that this night was even happening.
"Come on Liz, hold it together. For her, not for you. For her." She worked desperately to regain enough sense to tell her child the truth.


It only took a few minutes for her to clear the blood off her face, but they did not go uninterrupted.
"Mommy? What happened? Why are there people in the house?" Monique asked, pounding lightly on the door.
"I'll be out in a second and I'll explain..." She offered, drying her hands, with a hand towel. She inhaled deeply and exited the bathroom. Monique was waiting at the door, with a curious look on her face.
"There are people in there," she said, pointing toward the scene. Eliza whispered a silent thank you that her daughter hadn't gone to investigate, and led her to her bedroom where they sat down together on the edge of her bed.
"Monique, daddy has gone to a better place." She lied, the words feeling like venom as they poured out of her mouth.
"We won't see him anymore, but he will always be with us in our hearts." Trying to embellish the truth had made little difference, Monique understood the implication and reacted with shock.
"Is he really gone? Daddy could never die, he's too strong for that." Her face contorted in fear.
"Is that why those people are here? Did they hurt him?"
"No, they are here to help." Eliza embraced her in a firm hug.
"Everything will be okay, I promise." The two of them sat there for some time.


A knock on the open doorway roused them from their thoughts.
"I found this paper on the desk in there, it is addressed to you." She accepted the paper without a word. Monique tried to read over her shoulder but Eliza hid it from her. She could never know how this truly happened until she was older.


Dear Liz
If you are reading this, I've done a terrible thing to you and Monique. I'm sorry, truly I am. I've been struggling for a long time and I can no longer find a reason to live. You have been the most wonderful wife that a man could ever have, and Monique is the child any father would have wanted. I love you both very much, please forgive me for what I've done.
There is money in the safe for Monique to go to college, and I left everything in your name. Take care of her for me, I'll be looking out for you from above, if above exists. I love you very much.


Love, Doug


By the time she had finished reading the letter for the fifth time, it was mottled by tears. The ink ran in little rivers that obscured the page. It fell to the floor.




Lacquered wood and cold steel were the only things he could feel over the din of his sorrow. A harsh gust echoed across his mindscape, his gut rising and falling with every melancholy breath. The skylights refracted the darkness of the stormy night sky, twisting it, coiling it around his heart. A ragged breath escaped his trembling lips, a drop of sweat rolled through his stubble and onto the carpet. He pulled the revolver away from his head. He fingered the cylinder release, and it popped open. Six unspent shells clattered to the floor. A cold shudder ran up his spine. He glanced off toward the nightstand as he stood, and at the sheaf of paper lying on it. He took the paper outside, and lit it on fire. The flames licked it delicately, the clean lettering nothing more than ash in the wind. He dropped it as the flames reached his hand, and it burned completely before it hit the ground.


Birth from fire, he thought. Like a Phoenix.



This semester in college, I decided to proactively solve my communication difficulties with my peers, with a little bit of social experimentation mixed in. I am pretending to be mute, and I've written "I can't talk" on my right hand, and I flash it at anyone who attempts to talk to me. I told my teachers this beforehand because I realized they might try to get me switched into a special needs class otherwise, so they know not to try to talk to me. They think I'm a psych major doing early research for his eventual dissertation on the necessity of speech versus body language in communication. To be honest,I've never felt so free around people in my life. I laugh, but I don't use my vocal cords to project it, just the contraction of my diaphragm and an expulsion of air. Though the other students think there is something very wrong with me, its been a fun experience so far and I'm only two days in. I suspect I'll grow bored of it and regret my decision soon, because I can never reveal my secret to them now. A couple of times I almost spoke but had to bite my tongue. It bothers me a lot when I have something great to say and I can't. If there are any new interesting developments I'll post them here.


Vocabulary with Angel Part Four

Maudlin: Excessively sentimental, often tearfully so


Lachrymose: Tearful, sad


apotheosis: the highest point in something, divine ascension


chauvinistic: overly patriotic or supportive of one's own cause, group, or sex, etc.


verboten: forbidden, especially by authority.


vicissitude: sharp change in fortune or circumstance.


Vocabulary with Angel - Part Three

Reticent- Not revealing ones thoughts or feelings readily



Ruminate: Sort of like pensive, deep thought.


Tumult: Anger


Riotous: Loud



nebulous: hazy, not well formed.



beholden: owing thanks, having a duty to carry out something.


The place

A visceral wind tore through the night. It's presence was not overlooked by the trees, whose branches and leaves rustled at its delicate touch, tendrils in the night sorting the wind like it were a substance. In the darkness beyond the swaying trees, behind the falling leaves, behind the rustling grass, lie an unmarked building sepulchered in lichen and moss, its death signified by its burial in new life. A sharp howl could be heard, a din in the darkness, borne of the wind and trees. A bear tore away at an alcove with stark virility for an animal preparing to hibernate. A light layer of snow continued to fall, the same as winters past, a cold welcoming party thrown ironically by its subject and without ostentatious celebration. An unwitting colony of ants marched in and out of the old building, adorning the land in a perfect fashion, as if the land would not have been complete without the colony. It inspired a feeling of completion to look upon it, mother nature's job done well, a perfect ecosystem centered about the simple progression of time, everything having its place among giants and equal in every metaphysical way. Even the arid night sky that smiled without countenance upon the land had its place in the perfection, every bit as important as the bear or the ants. The sharp cry of the wind was as comforting and in place as a rustic air conditioner, a room silent without one being out of place and inordinary. Even deep below the ground hummed silently the molten rock of the earth, like a machine running, waiting its turn to be devoured by time and turned to waste just like the building. The building devoured by time and yet still a part of it. The stars shone needlessly on, their light not making any difference in the existence of the place but still adding something to it that without it would be wrong, somehow. Whiteness continued to cover the ground, and after time, all that was left of the place was the whiteness, its perfection masked but ever present in the world.


Vocabulary with Angel - Part one

Adroit- skillful both physically or mentally


tacit- implied. Such as "Though the boy did not thank his grandmother for the gift, she paid no mind, as his wide grin and enthusiasm were tacit gratitude."


portend- to signal the beginning of something, particularly a calamity or disaster.


obsequious- obedient or attentive to an excessive degree


servile- having or showing strong willingness to serve and please others; of a slave.









This is my new type of blog, where I will post words that I am learning both for your benefit and mine, as I need to write them somewhere so I can try to remember them. In the spirit of learning them, I am paraphrasing and writing out their definitions myself.


The keyhole

Through the keyhole the boy stared, the circular point with a wedge stuck on its bottom. Through it was a white light, it revealed the contents of the next room. The boy stepped back to turn the knob, and when his hand touched the knob it was met with a sickening cold, and then a nonfeeling. He tried to step back, but the feeling traveled up his arm. An irresistible urge led him to look back through the knob. Through it he saw a coffin, and realized his fate. The cold chill reached his heart, and the skin on the tips of his fingers on the hand that first touched the knob began to degrade, decay, slough off. It never reached the ground, it disintegrated and joined the air as it fell off.

"I am the key, the skeleton key!" He realized, and he jammed his face into the knob. Surprisingly his head was met with little resistance, a bony clank against the edges of the outside of the lock. A click was heard as his head slipped into place, his nose tickling the tumblers. Arms splayed inside, he turned himself, the locking mechanism no match for his perfect combination. He remained staring forward, still turning the lock as he watched the room outside the keyhole turn on its side, his own reality upended. The clicking around him stopped, and he felt a massive resistance. He finally met the end of the mechanism. He forced himself harder and harder to the side, and slowly the springs gave way and the knob turned. From the outside, there was no longer a boy, just a knob turning on its own. There was no going back now, the boy was forfeit to the knob and whatever lay in the great beyond. With one final push he opened the door. It swung outward, into the room he had lost his humanity in. He dropped back out of the lock, and collapsed into a pile.

"No! I can't die, not like this!" The boy had forgotten that he was made purely of bones, just a skeleton, and he no longer had the muscles to walk around the opened door. Had he chosen to shimmy out the other side, he would have landed in the coffin and found eternal rest. He lay there, his consciousness dimming, dimming, never dying, for eternity.


A lone rocket

A corrugated hose snapped into place on the female port on the side of the rocket's disposable thrusters, in preparation for launch. At the flip of a lever, the mechanism locked and the liquid fuel flowed into the compartment. Thousands of gallons would be needed to fill the cavernous tank. A few vehicles made their slow escape from the launch pad, one remaining to ferry the fueling vehicle back to the hangar. After a few minutes, the fueling was complete, and the rocket was turned on. Its computers and global positioning system kicked in, and it was spotted on the radar right on the launch pad. Its altitude meter read 50, it was suspended fifty feet above the ground as it sat above its support thrusters. The scientists gathered around, the warm glow of the computer screen illuminating their faces, the launch pad in its sight.

"Ready?" Said the one in charge. Unanimously they shook their heads in affirmation, and he pressed a button. The rocket released it's fuel into the cone shaped thrust directors and a spark lit the fuel. A bright light could be seen from the launch pad, and the tower holding the rocket in place fell away, landing opposite and perpendicular to the rocket's motion, it rose slowly off the launch pad. It pushed hard, thousands of pounds of thrust just barely enough to cancel out gravity. One could suppose such a phenomenon was like a balloon, as all a balloon does is overcome gravity with upward force. A balloon, however, rises faster through the air at the start and remains the same speed throughout its flight until it reaches the stratosphere, where it loses enough pressure that it expands and pops, and plummets back to the ground like the Challenger. Instead, this rocket rose further into the air, accelerating as it went, the cool winter air brushing against its nose as it speared through the air. It reached a height in the atmosphere at which ice crystals formed on it's nose cone, the rocket would have iced out if it were not running liquid fuel like it was, and in such large volume. As enough ice gathered on the nose cone, it would break off in chunks like a sheet of ice from the roof of a house. It was traveling at excessive speeds at this point, and the atmosphere simply fell away after a while. The fuel ran out, but that was of no consequence, because the rocket was traveling fast enough to escape gravity. The liquid fuel boosters fell away from the rocket unceremoniously, they would fall back into the atmosphere eventually and burn up before they hit the ground. The rocket's remaining parts were crucial. They had a different type of rocket, and they could function in space. The rockets engaged, and it turned sideways, preparing to intercept gently the orbit of the International Space Station. It reached speeds near the space station just an hour later, and another hour after that, the space station caught up. It rendezvoused with the space station, their locking parts meeting in a sensual motion more delicate than a mid air refueling. At such high speeds, a bump could tear one of these machines apart. The air lock engaged, and pressurized, oxygenated air brought up by the rocket filled the air lock. The cargo was removed from the rocket, and the rocket was released. it detatched softly, and it's thrusters pushed it slowly back into earth's orbit. It disintegrated in the atmosphere as it fell, and it did not reach the ground.


Self incrimination

He slammed his broad blade into the doorjamb, splintering it's edge and knocking a piece of wood out. Another slam brought the widening hole in the door to a point at which he could manually deactivate the deadbolt. With it out of the way, he quietly slid the door open, laughing to himself at his caution after having bludgeoned the door open. He walked inside the house, the soft dusk light filtering through the fancy blinds, oblivious to the carnage the door had borne witness to. He slammed the hilt of his blade into the tall glass cabinet near the door, picking out a few expensive looking trinkets and shoving them deep in his pockets, and walked into the kitchen and stole a loaf of bread. He exited the Langley residence, the bread in one hand and the blade in the other. He sat down on the front stoop, the destroyed door dangling from it's hinges still left open behind him. Eventually, the Langleys came home. He stood to greet them.
"I've broken into your home, I stole some of your bread, and your most precious heirlooms. Deliver me to your king." He demanded, and when Sir Langley realized the door had been hacked open, the man attacked him. He didn't resist, and he was knocked unconscious.


He awoke in a dungeon in the kings castle. He recognized the pungent stench of the inside of the dungeon. A stinging, prurulent wound throbbed on the back of his head. The guard at the end of the hallway noticed his lethargic awakening and alerted another at the top of a stairwell. A few minutes later, he was dragged out of the dungeon and into a square. He recognized the faces of the Langleys in the crowd, along with a group of expectant onlookers.
"You have been charged with the violation of the sanctity of the home of the Langleys, the theft of their valuables, and bread. You have been sentenced to death. Have you any last words, prisoner?" He took a deep breath and smiled before saying
"With open arms I awaited thee, my demise ironically the drive for my actions, I stand here before you and ask you to show me no mercy."


The executioner raised his rifle, putting the butt into the curve of his shoulder in an easy and practiced motion of a professional marksman. He pulled the trigger, a loud crack was heard as a small round piece of lead was discharged from the end of the gun. It slammed through his heart, and he fell backward. He fell into death's sweet embrace in seconds, and never lived to regret it.


My thoughts on emotion.

I've often wondered what that feeling is that you have normally, the feeling that isn't really a feeling but a numbness, a lack of feeling, when you're in no particular mood (like I am now) and simply existing, your emotions in complete control and lax. That simple numbness that perhaps should not be described as numbness, for it is not apathy but simple ceasing of the emotional turbulence that is normally associated with being, and instead a smooth coast along the emotional timeline, coasting toward death easily and steadily. And what is the best emotion, perhaps? I would say euphoria, but I'm not talking about a simple euphoria, but a deeper and much quicker version, like that of an extremely pleasant surprise. That disbelief awoken by winning the lottery, those few precious seconds where people jump up and down and scream and cry and yell, the emotions they're feeling at that exact moment have to be the most wonderful emotions one can feel. Or maybe it's the dull, wonderful feeling of companionship, or the feeling of being loved, the moment after a kiss, the taste of victory, though if you break them down, all of those stimuli lead to the same thing at core: Gaining something that was not there before. And ironic as it is, the worst emotions, they have to be the ones when something is lost. I suppose it can be said that emotions are really just about gaining things and losing things. Almost certainly the worst emotion has to be the deep sadness engendered by loss, rejection, or failure. Unlike with happiness, I think the ephemeral shock and terror at bad news isn't as bad as the prolonged agony that follows, the period of time in which the object of sadness can not leave the mind, pervasive, it stops you from sleeping, your every thought invaded, a parasite. It is not as acute as the shock, but the shock that is felt when something terrible happens is too filled with denial to be the worst. One could think about the five stages of grief, as outlined by psychology. In order: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. I don't really agree with this outline, it's a little too rigid to account for different people. I for one would feel denial first, of course, but then would come sadness, then anger, then the rest. The period of pain I am referring to is something that lie between denial and anger, on that scale. I also think that at some point, a person loses the ability to be sad. If your parents die, and your house burns down, and your favorite belongings are all burned up in a fire, I don't think you can get any more sad. Unless of course some of your limbs are amputated, but those are my worst fears, so I suppose that would influence my thought on that. Interesting how human emotions are really centered around the two most basic concepts of human nature, giving and taking. At our cores, altruism drives us. It is evolutionarily advantageous to share, because then someone else will share with you when you're down, and that instinct helps prevent unnecessary death. It's slowly being bred out of us, as the most successful people are the most selfish, in a society not about reciprocation but about simply gathering. I suppose that concludes this blog entry, have a nice day.


Credit to Fenrir for having a deep conversation about emotions with me and sparking my interest in writing this blog entry.


A sunken ship

A futuristic fishing trawler sailed through the water in the antarctic. This ship was part of an elite fleet that ran on a uranium reactor, and it's greatest feature was it's hull heating system, which allowed it to break through the ice like butter, as the ice wouldn't stick to the side of the hull if the hull was warm. The heated water used to cool the reactor ran through leaden pipes along the sides of the hull at exactly the level that the ship sat comfortably at in the water. As such, the reactor cooled it's superheated core, and the ship punched through the ice like nothing. Off in the distance, to starboard, a predatory polychaete worm prepared for it's attack. The ship had already punched through half of it's native ice sheet, and the coordinated worms intended to stop it before it could reach the other side and separate it from it's family. With a series of inaudible clicks, it communicated the plan to the members of it's unidentified species on the other side of the ship. They struck at once, slamming into the sides of the hull, splitting the hull and the leaden pipes inside with their gargantuan bodies. The scalding water poured out onto them all, and they were incinerated. What remained of the family of worms was a sad third degree burned cluster of corpses, nearly unidentifiable. A third degree burn usually means there is charring of the skin, but all it really implies is that the underlying muscle in the burned thing has been burned as well. Their muscles were certainly burned, their setae scorched off, their tentacles thoroughly heated. They collapsed from the onrush of water, and massive amounts of steam began to pour out of the pipes, the pressure keeping the water liquid leaving them. The steam was the captain's first clue to his ship's plight, his second was the alarm bells that the reactor was beginning to overheat, no more than a minute later. He scrambled onto the deck and looked portside. The steam flung itself out of the holes in the hull like people from a burning building, outward but upward. He ordered everyone off the ship, and began to fling the life preservers and other paraphernalia off the side of the ship. He flung the freeze dried food, and the MRE's with them, to his comrades. He ordered them away. One concerned passenger asked him what he intended to do.

"A captain always goes down with his ship." He went inside the cabin one last time, and looked at the temperature gauge reading over one thousand degrees Fahrenheit in the reactor room. At some point, it stopped functioning, though the captain could never figure out whether it had been the heat or the radiation that had killed the temperature gauge. He looked forlornly out the window at his crew receding into the distance, and began to feel the room warming. He was only twenty feet above the reactor, after all. Half a minute, maybe five minutes passed, time became immemorial to the captain. The heat drove him to the corner of the cabin. He looked up at the table next to the wheel, for the last time admiring the smooth unmarred surface of the acrylic dome atop his marine compass. He noticed it flying in all directions, and realized that if he were to escape this alive, the radiation poison would kill him anyway. He then realized that must mean that the leaden case around the reactor had melted. He had not much longer before he sank. The only reason he hadn't sank yet was that all water that entered the leaden pipes was evaporating instantly, and forcing it's way back out, choking off the holes left by the worms. The lead only melted because it had a lower melting point than steel. The captain supposed the bottom of the hull would hold for a while, because it was atop cool water. The lacquer on the wood in the center of the room over the reactor began to bubble, and some time later exploded into flames. The spot where the the floor began to burn burned all the way through, revealing a melted steel roof to the room below. He became vaguely aware of the fact that the wood below his bottom became so warm it burned him. he stood, his well insulated boots doing their job as best they could. The water in his blood and cells had already been irreversibly turned into freeradicals, the DNA in his cells irreparably damaged. They ravaged his living cells, binding with anything they could, destroying his DNA further. To make his suffering end quicker, the captain ran and jumped into the hole. The moment his face reached the edge of the hole, and the red hot reactor was visible, his hair caught fire, his face began to melt. He fell in, not being able to jump before the agonizing pain ended his effort. He nearly completely evaporated before he touched the reactor. A few minutes later, the reactor finally heated the water under the boat enough to allow the hull to melt. The reactor, weighing no more than a car motor, slipped through the hole it melted, and the boat filled with water almost immediately. The water finally rushed into the lead pipes along the sides of the vessel, the reactor cavity filling with water. The reactor slammed into the seafloor, fish evaporated in it's wake. The ship eventually collapsed on top of it, less than a minute later. The reactor cooled, and the ocean became an area of adaptation and mutation. The end.


The year was 2005.

5/5/2005. I was eight years old, almost nine. It was a cool winter's day in south florida, at a village methodist. A black boy's teeth chattered, lightly but audibly, a few feet away. He was clad in a green striped windbreaker. Across the large property, a slide could be seen. In front of the slide was the sandpit, where I and friends on occasion could be found digging up the hardened sandstone and bringing it out of the ground carefully to slide down this slide. There were occasions we would manage to gain access to the refridgerator, so we would put compacted sand balls in the freezer to harden, and throw them at each other when hard. A long fence surrounded the perimeter, a fence I had somewhat infrequently climbed to recover assorted objects that had flown over them in recent years. To the right was a basketball court and a seesaw that I in my early childhood learned to practice trick shots on. A boy stood in the middle of the property, his short but floppy hair flapping in the cool wind, his skin unaffected by the flowing cool air. Upon closer inspection, the boy could be seen to have no eyes, but when he gazed upon you, you felt as if you were being watched from behind, not by him but by the thing he was staring at past you that was watching you. One then felt an unsettling feeling when looking behind oneself to appease the feeling, because then the feeling was amplified from behind, as if leaving the strange being behind you unwatched was dangerous. So one would focus upon it, the mere act of lifting the eyes off it difficult but not through a macabre fascination but an unintelligible self preservation. One would approach the figure, it's cool skin flapping in the cool breeze, and ask it why it was here. It would invariably respond the same way every time.

"I took a walk because the snow is beautiful in the moonlight." One may try to challenge any of the falsehoods in that statement, for example the fact that there was no snow, and that it was not nighttime, and that standing still could not be constituted as walking, but any challenge toward the being was met with a steely answer. This specific human challenged the being's statement that it was night. The being replied,

"It is night." And it became night. The next steps were always the same.

"There is no snow."

"There is snow." And there was snow.

"You're not walking." To this, the being would never reply. Instead, the observer would, over the course of the next few hours, come to realize that they had been talking to themselves, and that they were the being. And they had no eyes. Their skin flapped in the wind. A person observing from the outside would have an intense need to look away, and when they looked back there would only be one being, but this would not be alarming at all because it seems so right, for there to only be one, even when two were present before. And a human approached you, and you looked past him, through him. The human looked behind himself, and then back at you, with the same undeterred stare of prey to the predator they don't know has seen them and intend to avoid contact with. And the human would ask,

"What are you doing?" To which you would respond

"I took a walk because the snow is beautiful in the moonlight."


A description

The bright light of the laptop uses his body as the filling for a mold, casting his shape across the wall in absence and not light. In such, it lacks any defining color at all. A shadow can be both very descriptive of an object, and yet not be projecting that object itself but rather the absence of that object. I think that's pretty cool. The shadow cast by the light of the laptop is narrow because it's source is much larger than the object blocking it, and around the neck there is a lighter area of shadows that makes it appear that the head is floating. A tattered piece of paper hangs from tape in front of a bright light, blocking it's light from directly hitting the boy's eyes, but still illuminating the keyboard and the area the computer is at. There is a small syringe filled with dirty water in which a culture is growing, as a failed experiment the boy conducted. Across the room in a shiny lucid plastic container is an apple pie, resting in a bed of aluminum. Behind the laptop screen, hidden, is a bowl with what is left of a serving of ice cream, waiting to be taken to the sink when the boy next gets up. To the far left of his vision rests his router, it's five lights flickering occasionally, the connection severed seldom and ephemerally. A beautiful Himalayan cat sits on the counter, eyes drooping, lulled by the dull somnolent glow of the light in the range over the oven. Inside an electrical socket just under him on the side of the counter flows one hundred twenty volts of electricity, at 20 amps. Sixty times a second the electricity bounces between the source and that outlet, which is uncluttered and not preoccupied by a plug. Perhaps if he were a robot, he would extend his near invisible cords from his anus or mouth, or another orifice they could fit inside, to recharge before the night is out, so he does not run low and risk being stranded without electricity, "dead" as the humans call it. It happens to all old cats, as their batteries die, they can't sneak over to the outlets often enough, and life becomes all about the electricity, and then they die. Is that how the world works? Behind the elegant and gracefully curved faucet apparatus is another countertop with a window. An assortment of pictures lay upon that windowsill. A chronology of the boy's life, whenever possible. A cleaning sponge and hand sanitizer lay discarded there. The lower window pane and sill are dotted and striped with cat hairs. If there were a mirror on the floor, the ceiling would be an interesting sight. Small projections dot the area around the range, producing light. What a world it would be, the floor being completely flat and not marred by anything but occasional fans and lights, and walls, and the floor being the cluttered area. A young boy's dream, both figuratively and literally. A microwave, oven, and clock in the room all display a time, all of which are wrong by a measurable degree. The only object in the room displaying the correct time is the laptop the boy sits at in his contemplation. The graceful arch of the microwave handle connects both the top and bottom half of the door. It is not a model that features a button to pop open the microwave door, instead it has a handle, and the bottom right corner is not occupied by a camouflaged button that is meant to resemble the rest of the microwave. The boy looks back to the computer, amazed at how much he was able to type without ever looking but ever so often to make sure there were no pervasive typos. He brings his mouse ever closer to the Publish Now button, and without a final thought, clicks it.


The infection

The boy's mother walked around the house, in a cleaning ritual that marked the beginning of the weekend. The smell of fruit and paraffin intertwined in the air, the boy thought offhandedly that it must be canning season. His mother looked at him, and gave him an odd look, her eyes growing round and large on her face, not figuratively but anatomically.

"The door." she said, staring unseeingly. She repeated the phrase multiple times, and though the word she used was door, he knew she wasn't talking about a door.

Hello? Door. The cans, the cans," she began, pausing for no apparent reason. "Berries, berries." She went to lay down on her bed. That was the last time he saw her alive. Days later, in school, he waited as the teacher droned on about anecdotes and transitions. He studied the swirling grains of the wood in the desk, contemplated how they were all large ovals on its brown surface. The teacher stopped suddenly. He didn't look up.

"Markers... The desk, the desk." He whipped his head around at these words, and looked at his teacher. Her eyes were round and staring into the distance, unseeingly. He recoiled in horror, wanting to get out of his desk, but at his angle it would put him closer to her. He got up anyway, walking along the wall until he was as far away from her as he could be.

"The desk, look at what time it is. Markers, markers..." She walked to her chair, and sat down in it, placing her head down on her desk, making no more noise. He looked around at the students in the room, and realized with dawning horror that their eyes were becoming round and shiny as well, unseeing. He looked at his nearest classmate, and the other boy stared ahead.

"Garlic, my backpack, my backpack." Said a student across the room. He sank into the corner, the warm insulating stucco paint gently massaging the skin of his back through his shirt in his slide.

"The countertop. Toasters-"

"Watermelon, watermelon. My eyes!" His attention was called to the person who had said that, his initial thoughts being that they actually realized what was happening to them and were aware enough to remark about their eyes, but it appeared to be a coincidence.

"This pencil, my sharpie, sharpie."

"Paper tow-"

"Let be be the finale of seem."

"The refrigerator, diet, diet." The noise quieted down after time, and slowly the students of class began to lay their heads down on their desks. He felt an immense fear unlike any other before as he felt his eyes grow on his face. Immediately, he grasped a few words, and all at once understood why others were doing it. They were the final hold on memory and mind anyone had, vocalizing them the only way to grip reality. His eyes circles like dinner plates on his face, shiny and tear filled, he began.

"The microwave, the microwave... Water cooler, water cooler. Soap, don't leave me.

"Soap, water. The microwave." He felt his gaze drift to something in the distance, through the wall yet not visible. He continued to hold on to his words.

"Cooler. Water, water." He placed his head on his chest, and his mind was taken over.





Inspired by a dream I can only partially remember. Enjoy


Such is the nature of the world

Ever from shapeless molds we cleave

All of our grandest deceptions

Frantically we search for much needed reprieve

Ironically necessitated by their inceptions

In them we our darkest secrets hide

In an effort to maintain our pride

Effortlessly given and not left contrite

Flightless birds given new height

Dishonestly contrived,

In politics thrived,

An intricate trap laid for the listener

Is often the penance of the sinner

This is the nature of a dishonest world

Such that Atlas his weight hurled.

Senseless acts of violence and hatred fraught

The ageless perpetrators confident and haught

War waged for race and color,

Face and pallor,

Machiavellian ideals need not apply,

In coordinated destruction its leader lie

A mass extinction wrought, a murderous great flood

An infernal infantry, weapons lacquered in blood

Victims, in the absence of crime penitent

A conquered city without a living tenant

Orders from hell carried out verbatim

"Leave not a living victim."

This is the nature of a hateful world

Such that Atlas his weight hurled.


A memoir

Light the candle, I'll show you the way

Into the darkness, into the decay

Bring a sword, we may enter a fray

But don't pack heavy, not long will we stay

Don't wander off, danger leads you astray

And fear not, all of your fears I will allay.


Don't worry about your body, it will mend

To our precious cargo you must tend

The things here will leave you sickened

Don't look into their eyes, to their will you will bend

Claws, teeth, dripping with a deadly cocktail blend

Don't let yourself forget, in me you have a friend.


The sound of the sword through the air

Dicing our enemies with incredible flair

With a long slash, hear their flesh tear

A treasure we escape with, so rare

Few more stand in our way, beware

In a flurry we escape the lair.



I just wrote this for fun, I hope you enjoyed it. I told a story here, if you didn't understand, I guess I can explain it. Basically, they entered a lair, took a great treasure, and fought their way out.


Potato Chip Nonsense

This bag of chips, it sits across the path from me. Not a path, but the gap between one side of the counter and the fridge, which separates it from me by about four feet of air, and some counter. It is definitely out of reach, not that I'm interested in grabbing it, just staring at it. I opened it earlier, and when I pulled at the opposing sides in the center like is traditionally done, it opened and ripped down the side. Not all the way to the bottom, but to about an inch before the chips actually began in the bag. When I tried to wrap it up, it was difficult to make sure the rip wasn't gaping open, and at the same time I tried not to rip it further.

I felt a small feeling of betrayal, maybe disdain, when the bag ripped just this way, because I knew I would have to be careful from then on with that bag of chips. What a travesty. I see only the bottom of the bag from where I sit. I cannot see the label, only the crimped and heat sealed seam of the bag's bottom, and the colored dots that are lined up on the bottom of the bag, since it lays face down I can also see some of the bars of the serial code. I may not be able to see it's label, but I know them to be Cape Cod Kettle Cooked chips, from both the frequency at which they occupy that counter and the fact that the bag is white and I was in them earlier. If I had not seen it until just now, I would still have known them to be what they are.

When I set them back down on the counter after the incident with the rip on the side, I tried to set it against the breakfast bar's outcrop, standing on it's opening to prevent it from unfurling, but this did not work. It immediately fell over, and the bag opened somewhat. I suppose there was no keeping ants out, not even in the absence of the rip in the bag and a good wrap up. This is why I allowed it to sit that way, not fixing it. The chips that line and fill the bag are made from potatoes grown without fertilizer, and if you were to chew one, you would find it to be very very crunchy, to the point that your first time biting into one would bring you dissatisfaction. However, they are delicious chips.





This concludes a weird blog entry.


There once was a fish

It purported to produce progeny

And upon its untimely wish

It was overwhelmed, too many

The gaping hole of it's stomach opened

Out poured thousands of new kin

Taken aback by the copious flow

One must wonder how it's so

Fish spawn oh so many

And in the end remain few

Some slaughtered, served as soup,

Others swim away, merely on a whim

Fish are such a mystery

A food source throughout history

Some extinct and on the bottom of the ocean

Their remaining layers reside

All are cannibals, such sin

Some traveling like lions in a pride

Others in their lonesome,

Washing ashore with the changing tide

At the surface and at the bottom

Fish permeate the water

So the next time you're in the water deep

Let the fish your company keep.







Yes, a poem about fish. I was bored, okay?


The cat that took a piss

The cat meandered along, staring at the ground intently. It was down on it's luck, it's owner having pampered it by feeding it wet food daily, and taking good care of it's coat. Indignant and frustrated, it pranced back and forth across the house. A short trip to the water bowl quenched none of it's innate frustration, so it leapt to the counter. It landed softly and without making a noise. Glancing up at the clock with it's eyes, it would have known the time to be past midnight if it could read the intelligible symbols. Striding along the short strip of counter beside the sink, it found it's one of it's archenemy's prized possessions.

It knew instantly what to do. Murder on it's mind, it jumped off the counter and ran to the water bowl, gulping down as much water as it could hold. The completion of this action left it full and tired, and it went to sleep for the night. Time passed, the enemy woke up and prepared for school. It's tiny feline brain was capable of nothing but unspeakable evil and spite, its only coherent thoughts were vindictive, the only sounds it's mouth could muster were vitriolic. It mulled over the plan in it's head, rehearsing every step as it watched it's sworn enemy, caretaker, and owner with a loathing only matched by the attitude of a victim's family toward the victim's murderer.

How dare that human feed me, give me a comfortable home, pet me when I come near him, love me, and take care of my feline needs? The human walked out the door, his father in tow, and it was then time to retire for the night, energy and metabolic functions needed for the actions to take place later that night. It curled up in a ball on the kitty bed placed in its favorite spot, and slept. It heard the door open and close, signaling its liege's return, and it feigned sleep until he had passed by it. It ran into the bedroom to hide under the bed, to make sure human intervention could not put a stop to its nefarious plans.

Its perfidy was matched only by Lucifer's to God. Hours passed as it stewed in its thoughts. Another feline resident of the household visited it in its sanctuary under the bed, and they purred together for some time. Further hours passed, and it was time. It opened it's eyes, and the dark milieu closed in upon it. It felt it's way slowly out from under the bed, and made it's way back to the kitchen. All was silent, all parties having taken to sleep. It was time. It jumped onto the granite countertop, the smooth cool rock beneath its feet sturdy and hard. It waltzed over to the target, and crouched over the top left side. It had gone too far to turn back. The warm, acerbic urine flowed from her bladder. The relief was intense, the pressure had almost been too much to contain.

The urine flowed into the crevices, the parts there which had already been soaked before got a final dosage. The toxicity had approached L.D. 100 for the computer's remaining functional parts, and they failed. The cat jumped down and took it's place in it's bed for the night. The boy awoke late on the following Saturday morning, refreshed and prepared for an exciting day. The computer turned on, though it left a sticky feeling on his index finger. The cat must have peed on it again. Luckily it turned on. He navigated to the backpack.tf forums, and before he could do anything, the computer shut off with a sound of winding down iconic to modern computers. And it never turned on again.






I wrote this because I was bored, the cat in question has been given to a shelter, she has a serious problem with this, and we can't take it any more. Clothes, computers, counters, she urinates anywhere. It was time to go.


Her name was Dior. I broke up the paragraphs for you guys because I know you cant read blocks of text for some reason. Enjoy.


The dream of sorrow

It was a bright snowy day in a quaint modern town in Pennsylvania. A boy approached his school building with the practiced ease of child who’d finally resigned to his imprisonment there. He shrugged off his coat and placed it in his backpack, entering a computer lab for his first class. He sat down at a computer and inserted a flash drive, booting it. It was some time later that he realized his classmates were all dead and that there was a new man in the room. He looked out the window, and noticed that the overcast, snowy day had become bright and sunny, and the grass was green and clear of snow. He reached out and touched the window, flinching at it’s cool knowing touch. The windows provide clarity, he thought. He greeted the man in the room. The murderer-man wanted something.

“Copy your school’s hard drive onto this flash drive.†he said to the boy, giving it to him. He complied, and when the transfer completed, he handed it back to the man, though he would not take it back.

“Move it to a separate folder in the school hard drive.†The boy complied again, moving the newly downloaded files to a new folder, and at the man’s demands moving it back onto the flash drive again.

“May I ask what the purpose of moving it back onto the computer was?â€

“To consolidate the files, they were brought together when copied, but now they’ve been transferred as one, so they are one. We are one.†A teacher entered the room, the boy flagged him down. The teacher, a plump asian man in corduroy pants and a burgundy shirt, stopped in front of him. There was a loud crash as the murderer-man broke the glass partition between the two halves of the room.

“Excuse me sir, this man has obtained the school files, and I have a copy of them here.†the boy said, pointing to his flash drive. He had stealthily moved a copy of the altered school hard drive onto his own flash drive in a moment of profound foresight. A door that had not previously been along the far wall opened, and the murderer-man walked through it. When it shut, it became a part of the wall again, seamlessly.

“Hand me the flash drive, young man.†He looked up at the asian man once more, making a decision. He stood, pushing his chair back in one motion. He walked over to the wall the man had gone through, feeling it for a keyhole, a doorknob, any protrusion at all.

“Please hand me the flash drive, young man.†He turned back to the man, who he viewed now with scorn. The windows provide clarity. He walked back to the broken glass partition, grabbing a particularly large shard, holding it up in front of his face, facing the asian man. Through the glass he could see that the asian man was the murderer-man. He took a pitchers stance, hurling the glass along it’s long axis at the asian man. He dispersed, and the glass continued to travel, hitting a corner on the opposite side of the room and shattering once more. He picked up another piece of glass, and, in the absence of the asian man, went back over to the area of the wall the man had entered, holding the glass in front of him. This time, he could see the doorknob. It had a keyhole whose shape he recognized immediately. He placed the stub of his flash drive in the keyhole, turned it, and opened the door. It creeped open slowly, revealing a long dark passageway. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He could see nothing, nor detect any walls, yet he knew it was a hallway because he could hear the reverberations of the murderer-man’s footsteps. He began to walk after the man, continuing to hold the shard of glass. It suddenly occurred to him to hold the glass in front of his face again, and he did. The glass revealed helpful lighting. A string of incandescent bulbs with no covers lined the ceiling, and they gave off a medieval torch-lined hall feeling. He felt like he was heading toward a royal feast. After a few minutes he zoned out, continuing to hold the glass in front of him for light. He looked back, noting that the glass did not cause the hallway behind him to light up, it was not producing any light. It provided only clarity. At the end of the hallway, another door could be seen. He had to use the glass to open this one as well, but there was no lock, only a hidden doorknob. He for a moment wondered if the reflection of a glass mirror would provide similar results. The door opened into a room exactly the same as his room in his school, but this one had a large garage sized door at the side that the entrance from the outside would have been. The area outside the door was completely white, and reflexively he rose the glass to his face, and only then noticed a black rectangular opening on the roof of the room. Satisfied, he decided to rid himself of the glass. He nearly let it fall to the ground, then thought better of it and placed it gently on the floor, in case he needed it later. His classmates who had previously been dead were alive and hiding in a corner of the room that bordered the short hallway the opening was in, blocking them from the murderer-man’s view. The murderer-man stood next to the door opening, hand poised over a red button that would presumably shut the door. The button was the type that when pushed in would stay in, and would have to be pulled outward to be switched off. He walked forward toward the door, and when he got too close, the man pushed the red button to close the door. The door shut instantly, there was no motion, the door appeared. He backed away from the door, and the man reopened it. He now spied another boy in aqua running shoes outside the door, bouncing fast on the balls of his feet. He appeared to be preparing to make a break for the inside, as if he would need speed to get back in. The running boy took a run at the door, and the man shut it in his face when he got close, so he veered off to the right, and circled back to his starting position.

“Come inside, kid.†the man taunted. The boy himself took a run at the door, which surprised the man, but he still shut the door in time. The boy could not figure out what the man was trying to do here, but he had an idea. He walked back to the entrance, where there was no apparent wall. He picked up the shard of glass, and walked back over to the corner where the other boys hid.

“The next time the running boy tries to come inside, we charge outside.†They all nodded at him. He peered around the corner at the running boy, and watched him closely. Eventually, he began to run. The boy threw the shard of glass at the murderer-man, and shouted. The glass glanced off the man’s skin, landing outside, breaking apart somewhat, with one large piece left.

“Go, now!†He sprinted for the exit while the dazed man tried to recover from the shallow cut the glass left in his skin. The running boy, startled by the onslaught of other children running at him, stopped in his tracks. With all of his hostages escaped, the man came outside too, guarding the door carefully. The room they were in now was not so much a room as it was a long hallway, but perpendicular to the opening. It was about a city street’s width, with a deep bright white fog at both ends, and unblemished gray walls. The walls were so perfectly flat, it would have seemed flat even at a molecular level. There were two dark openings at the far end of the alley to the left of the opening, the closer of the two on the left, another of the same size on the right, farther away. The fog barrier seemed to drift lazily toward them. There were black openings in the air too. The boy picked up the piece of glass. The man stared after him, with an inscrutable countenance. The room was no more than a hundred feet long, roofed only by the same fog that encroached from the sides. The boy held the glass tightly as he walked toward the far end of the room, and upon reaching the first dark square opening, he crouched, and scooted inside, appearing out the other black hole closer to the fog on the other side. He was not surprised by this development. He walked toward the fog, and into it. It felt like nothing in particular, and he found himself walking out the other side of the room, which was consequentially closer to the door, as that was where the door was when the room opened. He could see that he was on the other side of the room through the fog, and to the ones observing him, it appeared that he had just vanished into the fog. Carefully, he backed up the way he came, and came out the fog far from the door again. He stood near the fog’s edge, and began to shout.

“Hey, murderer! You can’t catch me. I’m right here if you want me!†Nothing happened. The man wouldn’t abandon his post by the door. Unless…

“Everyone, come over here!†He continued to shout to his living classmates, to come to him. After a minute, all of the stragglers had come over. He spoke in quiet tones to them.

“When I begin to run, run after me and stay close. And be very, very quiet.†The murderer-man came closer, increasing the gap between him and the door. He stared after the man, who continued to walk slowly up to them, and when he felt they had enough distance, he began to run. Obediently, his classmates followed him, into the fog. As quiet as they were, the man never realized they had appeared behind him. The boy got inside the doorway, and ushered everyone past the door.

“Have fun, murderer,†he said snarkily, before slamming the button. Only then did the murderer-man turn around to see he’d been locked out. For the first time, the man’s rage surged to the surface, like a shark jumping out of the water. The change was immediate, a screaming and angry man appeared at the door moments later, shouting and pounding on the door. The catharsis seemed to calm him, and he resumed his chillingly stoic facade moments later. He brandished a pistol, pointing it at the glass. Through the glass of the door, he could see through the man. The windows provide clarity. The man had no soul. He pulled the trigger, and no bullet came out. instead, he rocketed back, accelerating as he went, until he landed against the wall opposite the door. The gun, it seemed, could affect gravity here. The boy came closer to the door to garner a better angle on the spectacle at hand. It was only then that the boy noticed the black rectangular opening high on the wall that the man was now standing on. The man, who was looking up at the boy, read the look on his face and traced his eyes back to the hole. He began to run for it. The boy stared after him no longer, instead running for the bathroom that he knew was connected to the room. Inside, he found a mirror that hung on the wall. He pulled it off, fraying the twine cord that supported it’s weight. He peered into it, and he saw his face, rimmed in blackness. He stuck his arm out at it, and when his arm reached the mirror, it reflected his fingers, they came out inverted and reflected. He carried the mirror out of the room, holding it at his side, just as the murderer-man dropped into the room from outside, landing in a roll, tucking his shoulder under himself. He sprang up.

“You’ll die for that, kid.†He looked around, and when he saw the boy, he rose the gun. The boy watched carefully. When he began to pull the trigger, he rose the mirror quickly. The bullet flew into the mirror, and right back out, slamming the murderer man in the chest. He stumbled backward, caught off guard by the sudden penetration. He took another shot at the boy, and that one too hit the mirror, slamming into the wall behind him. A puff of drywall flew from the bullet’s impact, and the man finally went down. He set the mirror down, smashing it’s frame apart. He flipped it over and began to scrape the aluminum off the back of the glass with the sharp metal edges of the man’s pistol. In only a few broad strokes, and some picking with his nails, the mirror became a pane of glass. He used this glass to gain access to the hallway again, and beckoned for the other boys to follow. When they finally got back to their original classroom, they resumed their work.





This story may seem odd to you, what it was really meant to be was something to open your eyes, to blow away your presumptions, because it was very blank and abstract, the story wasn't something you were meant to truly understand but to simply follow along, and for this reason I hope you were able to enjoy it. I don't have infinite time to write pieces like this, because this was a pretty thought out story, but it was not nonsense. If you didn't quite follow, read it again, I promise it makes sense if you focus. The main theme is not a plot even, but escaping evil.



Hope you enjoyed, angelmander.