Short Story 8

The man’s chin seemed to disappear when he looked anywhere but up.  He chewed with his mouth open ebbing anyone that watched him devour his food.  How anyone would make eating a salad such a spectacle was at one pint beyond me.  Not anymore, not after this debauchery . It made him sick, damn glutton.  The juice from a cherry tomato spilled from his mouth as he chomped and spoke at the same time.  “It could be anyone, anyone of us.  Look around you Simon.” He surveyed the outside patio of the “Speak Easy” restaurant making a grandiose gesture waving his arm in a 180 degree angel as he pointed everyone out.  “We can’t trust the government to do what is right here.  Hell we can’t trust each other.  Would you turn one of your family in if you found him to be turning pink?”  The question was obviously rhetorical but he desperately wanted the pigly man to shut up.  Maybe then he would wipe his mouth.  He opened his mouth to speak and was cut off during the middle of a “I…” “No, no don’t answer that I don’t want to know.”  Simion left his mouth open as he watched the pig man eat and go on saying the same thing a thousand different ways.   His mouth was mesmerizing on every (?).  It was the same hold the mystical archeus sirens held driving sailors to their doom.  So too was the pig man’s hole of filth.  He would have kept looking at the black hole if not for the commotion a few feet to his left.  A waiter was quickly trying to dab a fellow patron’s shirt attempting to mop up the glass of water just spilt.  “I am so sorry.  God I am so sorry,” the waiter repeated himself over and over, his face red with either quilt or embarrassment.  Probably the later.  The patron was unsuccessful trying to (?) the waiter and simultaneously stop him from touching him.  “Really it is ok.  No, you don’t have to do that.  Seriously I can manage.” The patron seemed anything but ok.  In fact he was becoming rather frantic.  When the waiter made one more attempt this time to wipe the liquid from the man’s face, he saw why. 

                The white linen clothe the gentle waiter used was splotched with some tan substance.  It was only by chance he saw it.  He realized without any alarm it was make up.  He momentarily flashed back in time to what seemed like now another reality, a dream world.  He could see his wife’s sensuous bare back and he could still remember how soft and smooth it was to touch.  She was smiling at him in the mirror, watching him watch her in the mirror.  She had a towlette in her hand she used to gently wipe the makeup he swore truthfully she did not need from her face.  It looked just like that.  Shouts broke him from his nostalgic trance. The man in questions face went from frantic to outright terror.  “Please!  No, it’s not my fault.”  The man fell from his chair his supplicate hands stretched outward.  He shifted on his knees to and fro begging them all.  He did not notice the pig man draw his gun. The pig man barely winked out of existence until the first shots rang out.  The kneeling man’s eyes clenched shut and the thud the bullet made was somehow louder to him than the gun shot.  The pink splotch where the makeup rubbed off seemed to stand out like some lecherous sore.  Tears sprang freely from the pink men’s eyes and there was something else on his face.  Relief?  The pig man proceeded to empty his weapon of bullets into the man’s body.  He was not a great shot, but he did not miss either.  Looking up at the (?) pigman he was struck by the man’s profile.  The wind seemed to have begun to howl as soon as the gun appeared.  His jacket full of wind much like a sail, everything fell victim to the wind.  As cups, plates, napkins and tablecloths were blown up and away at the winds convenience.  Even the pig man swayed with the wind.  The pig man turned to glare at him, his hair perfect. 

Within what seemed minutes, seconds, momenta a clean-up crew had appeared.  The vehicle appeared seemingly out of nowhere looking very much like an ambulance.  Flashing lights and all, but the color was all wrong.  It was sharp metallic silver. So sharp in fact, so overpowering.  He had seen this all before.  This was not his first cleansing as they called it.  Yet, this one was … different.  It was, wrong.  Like the taste you get after brushing your teeth every night for years until that one day you don’t.  That taste, so wrong, so there.  You cannot do anything else until you brush until you get rid of that taste.  Such was the feeling.  Watching everyone else go back to eating.  Back to their meaningless discussions.  As if nothing happened, and verily to them nothing happened.    Like the trash can that was full when you left for work only to return to find it empty.  You did not question why or where.  You knew or at one point you did.  Once you knew it became unimportant.  So he sat and somewhere distantly he was aware of the sordid pig man with his impermeable hair talking to him. 

 

The words being said were important and more than likely (?).  Words being said to fill up the silence.  Silence was outlawed, not truly, nothing was spoken out loud.  It was outlawed all he same.  Silence gave room for though and thought in society of sheep would be quite dangerous. Yet Simion was breaking tradition and allowing his silence to lead to just that.  He was at present in a state of metamorphosis.  His mind was a giant puzzle; each thought a piece that fit perfectly.  With each piece he wanted to cry.  How had he missed it all along?  It was all broken, so utterly devoid of any substance. 

Short Story 7

He woke silently with a startled jump and moved quickly to turn off the alarm clock.  The obnoxious buzzing screeched loudly until he found the right button.  With it turned off he reached up high clasped his hands and roared deeply as he stretched.  The room was dark with only a few rays of luminescent light from the street lamp posts piercing through the window blinds.  Everything regardless was a big blur.  As if he was looking through goggles filled with water.  He began to slowly yet methodically walk to the bathroom.  He might have been momentarily blind but this was his house and he knew every niche and cranny.  He breathed in sharply and let out a slow hiss as he processed the sharp pain penetrating through his big toe.  He isolated the pain in his mind and pushed it deep into a dark recess of his mind.  That was neither the first nor the last time he hit the chair as he made his religious walk to this bathroom in the early morning.  Like every other morning he made a mental note to move the chair.  His mental notebook if he actually had one would be just about full with the exact same note lettering every line.  The door was ajar and when pushed it open was not with resistance halfway. 

Undeterred he easily made his way through the opening.  There was a stool in the way that he did not remember putting there.  The light switch was on the wall above the stool that once again blocked his way.  Blocked his legs but it was within reachable distance.  "Strange"  he thought.  "The stool looks pink.." He did not own a pink stool.  Come to think about it, he did not own a stool. "Very curious", he quickly flipped the switch and neither slowly nor quickly turned around.  He was instantly taken aback at the pink and purple that greeted him.  He also noticed simultaneously the flowery aroma in the air.  He was understandably blank, reviled and profoundly confused.  Now, he desperately needed his contacts. He needed all of his sense.  He took a deep breath to collect himself and opened the medicine cabinet.  0He let out a loud whooshing sigh of relief as he spotted the contact case where he left it.  He did not bother to look at any of the other miscellaneous items in his medicine cabinet.  Even without contacts he could tell they were not his.  He only hoped that the contacts were his.  Several moments later he was looking almost as if through different eyes.  He stared at himself in the mirror for a second.  He noted the small gaunch that never seemed to want to leave, no matter how many sit ups he endued it with.  The thick coat of hair reaching from navel up to what have been his Adam's apple if not for the razor.  Taking a slow deep breath he began to think. 

It was weird, yes, strange that a pink stool he had never seen had appeared by seemingly magic overnight.  N, over a few hours sleep had not come until almost four.  Glancing down at his wrist watch he confirmed that it was 7:09.  Reaching out he again opened the medicine cabinet.  AS he feared he was greeted by a litany of unfamiliar products.  All obviously female, half of which he honestly did not know what they were for.  They were definitely a-femanet, of this he was sure.  Shaking his head he closed the mirror door.  He was not quite shell-shocked though he was a close to the line as you could get.  The hot pink stool drew his attention again and a sudden loony though hit him.  He briskly walked to the door, opened it, the stool was still blocking the door.  He angrily reached down and yanked the chair up and tossed it backwards.  Not caring if he broke some crazy kitchen chair.  It was her fault for breaking in, moving in and quietly moving in all of her own effects.  With the stool moved he walked over the fuzzy pink mat at the door.  Still shaking his head, he would an atrocious bathroom mat like that.  Crazy bitch had to be crazy.  Where was all his stuff?  He was still not quite upset yet.  No, at the moment he was more than a little bewildered and a tad bit curious.  This had to be some huge elaborate joke, but who?  He just moved to Dothan  a few weeks ago and knew only a few people.  No one well enough for them to do something this elaborate.  The sun was beginning to rise and there was a large amount of natural light peeking through.  So he trudged down the hall  that was so short that calling it a hall was a bit of a stretch.  He entered an open door frame to his left maybe 3 paces away from  his (this was his right?  He was beginning  to have his doubts) bathroom.  The light switch was o his immediate left above his old raggedly but his own coach.  He grasped and felt nothing.  He moved his hand over the wall, feeling it out without looking.  After several seconds he found the switch and turned the light on.  Then proceeded to open his mouth and let his jay hang to his throat. 

His room , no this could not be his home despite the fact the lay-out was the same.  Nor the fact that this is where he woke up to the same buzz from the same alarm clock that woke him up every morning for God knows how many years. now.  His gaze rolled over the crime scene as he attempted to take it all in.  The prior night granted the place was a mess, but it was his mess.  Moving boxes galore, regardless of the fact he had moved in 3 months ago.  The old mushy couch that anyone would have resented having in their living room. But not him, no he picked it out himself from a nearby thrift store.  It was his because he earned it.  In its place was a sleek white leather couch with a matching love seat facing a gorgeous (he had to admit) at least 47" inch flat screen perched on a black generic t.v. stand. The 100's of movies placed on the side of the entertainment system was anything but generic.  Each one would have cost at least 20 dollars and at a pawn shop would have fetched 4 to 5 dollars.  It did not stop with his new expensive toys.  No, it did not and everything was pink.  No, that was a hot like it or fucking get used to it pink.  Charles was not prone to headaches.  Not for a long time anyways, but he felt the workings of one now.  And something else was beating around in his gut.  Fear rolled with anger.  Not only did he have to be at work in 2 hours, but because of this clustermug he would be unable to do his morning run.  The day had no chance of being all it could be without his morning jog.  He sat down on his, no, some sinister being, entity, bitching couch.  The lovely pink leather crunched as he sat.  He propped his elbows on his knees and placed his head in his hands, muttering about nothing and sometimes everything.  Opening his eyes he noticed the lan of his finger the thick fluffy hot pink carpet and began to laugh. 

He had to laugh and not  to keep from crying.  To keep from breaking the t.v. that would cost him one months pay.  There had to be a logical explanation to this,  this travesty.  If this was a cartoon there would be a luminous light bulb over his head because he was in that moment thunderstruck by an idea.  He ran into the kitchen and came to an almost stop.Despite all that he just saw the power of suprisement still stopped him in his tracks.  The tile in the tiny kitchen was pink. The fridge, cabinets, the table and two more stools all of them "God bless his heart" were pink.  He walked purposely to the drawer next to the fridge where he kept all his loose mail.  All the while pondering how such a monstrous job could have been completed in the short time that had elapsed during his slumber.  The tile was not painted pink, it was no coat of paint.  They looked as if they were infused with pink. Infused as if it came from the ground pink.  As if it was a pink seedling planted in Gods good earth.  Born to the brilliant warmth of our own perfect star pink.  (?Wayward and bruised) through virtuous storm and wind.  Lucky enough or fated to survive these of 4 legs and to grow into a beautiful bushy pink tree.  Of which many; tile born and breed pink bloomed forth for the sole purpose of annoying the very haven from Charles head.  He begun to rummage through the traditional unorganized old mail drawer.  (some things had not changed and no the mail was not pink.  And in a room of pure pink white mail was a surprise and a comfort)  The rummaging became more desperate, more violent.  his idea was collapsing on itself.  What he wanted, no, expected to find and what he was finding were two horrendous different things.  It was all his, every peace of mail was stamped with his name.  Bringing it to his face he burrowed it under his nose crumpling it in desperate hope.  "Oh, God it even smells like me," he shouted jumping backwards while dropping the letter. 

He had made the classic mistake of assuming.  He assumed that someone else letter would be in there.  Then he could find this someone else name and began the  process of finding her.  Finding her and shaking some answers out of her.  So he sat down not (?)  his full with his haunch he plopped heavily on his pink floor.  He was beginning to suspect horrible things.  Horrible things.  He crossed both his arms pulling his knees in close.  He did not so much rest his head a bury his face in his forearms.  He was attempting to block it all out.  Block out everything that was happening as if hiding his face would remove it all from existence.  He could block the physical sight but he could not cease the psychological groaning thoughts.  This of course would and could be explained logically.  This could not logically of occurred in a 3 hour time span.  This raised many questions, presented many problems. 

There were two options as he saw it.  He raised his head slightly his forehead no longer resting on his forearms, his eyes aimed diagonally from the floor.  He slowly opened his eyes.  His right blinking open, his left squeezed shut.  Gazing intently at the tile he considered the first option, the option that rested easy with his soul. Option one.  The answer is illogical, he slipped into some girlish pink dimension.  Where everything was a pink inclination.  Ever as he mouthed it began to poke holes in his hypothesis.  Such as the white leather couches, the big black flat screen.  No, like many other ideas, this one felt and sounded horribly flawed when thought out.  Charles once again burrowed his face in his arms and began to do something he assumed he outgrew.  He began to sob.  The next more viable option would not really be much of a surprise.  It would verily explain a lot and was something of a suspicion he always had.  This would only strongly suggest the merit in it.  No, no he could not, would not believe it.

Short Story 6

The sun beat down upon his brow with an ungodly brightness.  He held his hand in salute just above his eyes to acclimate.   The sun did more then just blind, it oppressed the whole of his body.  Walking outside was like stepping into a broiling oven.  The humidity so heavy he could of sworn he would slice through it with his hand.  His gaze surveyed the ever-constant surrounding's of his grandparents backyard.  With only a few slight changes he was looking at the same view for the past 20 years give or take (he was nearly 24, but he could not remember his first years and therefore did not count them).  He walked without hurry to the metal patio set that sat in the shadow of a half broke half (?) blue and white umbrella.  Charlie was not sure how the umbrella was broken, but he assumed at the hands of either himself or his brother.  It was a safe assumption and he was not wrong.  He did not sit in the chair so much as plop with a long Neanderthal like groan, his own private protest against the debilitating heat.  His brother followed quietly and minus the groan surmised his actions with his slow laborious walk and his own plopping, though he plopped for a different  reasons entirely. 

They both pulled a cigarette from their own boxes.  Each with a different brand that to Charlie seemed to epitomize the ever growing division in who they were and what they were becoming.  He imagined years ago, many years ago it seemed now, when Forbes considered it a heinous sacrilege to touch or use anything not the exact same as his older brothers.  Charlie mulled this over in his head and was not surprised to find himself very depressed by the thought.  He had done this, he had dug it with his own hands.  "Can I get a light, I left mine in the car."  His brother pulled a yellow bic lighter from his pocket, lit his cigarette and without saying a word handed him the lighter.  Placing the cigarette in his mouth he gently lifted the lighter and commenced to light his cigarette tossing the lighter on the patio table. 

Why was this so tense, so forced?  he wondered.  Feeling rather uncomfortable he turned and gazed out at the yard.  The grass was a hollow all be it sickly green.  Choked by the weeds and crab grass that was growing in patches sporadically through out the yard.  This seemed comical to him, given his Grandfathers profession killing weeds professionally for all the farmers in the area.  He could imagine his Grandfather walking out in the cool, crisp mornings with a cup of coffee in his hand.  The look of annoyance as he shook his head at the vinelicture weeds.  Did he feels as if the weeds were attacking him personally?  Or did he think it was just one of those things that happened and you either dealt with them or you didn't.  A slow deep grin plastered his face and for a second their was nothing but the crab grass and his Grandfather's perturbed angry grimace. For a second he was no longer aware of his problem, the world's problems. For the his problems were the world's problems, surely?  They were gone then his brother spoke and broke the spell.

Or he didn't speak as so much as grunt. At what or who he dared not guess.  No, his brother would not speak.  It was up to him to start the conversation, if there was to be a conversation at all. And so he spoke, saying the first thing that came to mind.  He would speak and Forbes would listen.  Then Forbes would speak and Charlie would listen.  They both talked and talked but really said nothing. It was empty, like a greeting from someone at church holding the door open as you walked in.  You said something because you were suppose to.  It meant nothing because it was nothing.  But this wasn't nothing .  The whole conversation Charlie was painfully aware what this was.  It was a formality funeral, they were burying whatever bond they once had.  He would open his mouth, throwing a shovel of gravel on the casket, a sort of sad resigned look on his face. His brother would respond incessably shoveling dirt, rock and (?) cement in a grave already half-way full.  Did Forbes know what they were doing? No, he thought suddenly.  Forbes was not slow on the uptake.  No, it was he who had been slow.  This was not just occurring as they spoke.  This was a conclusion to a process that began years ago.  Had his brother stood here watching me toss dirt nonchalantly on to everything they were.  Thinking all the while "Doesn't he care? Doesn't he know what is going on?"  Did Forbes ever shed a tear as he watched his older brother shovel so maliciously, not a care in the world, so oblivious to it all.  What a fool he was, what a fucking bastard he was. But, did he know what he had been doing? 

All these things Charlie imagine Forbes thinking.  After a while he must of become numb to it.  After all it was obvious his older brother did not care, so then why should he.  But he did care,  he was just...Oblivious to it all.  He was not consciously aware of the damage he was doing.  So now here they sit.  His own brother his once constant companion, now all but in sum a stranger. This was a horrid situation to find himself in.  Because he honestly did not know what to do or even how to begin to do this thing which he did not know what to do.  So he did what he did know how to do.  He bullshitted.  "So, Troy, huh?"  "Yeah, man it's pretty cool.  Dude let me see your phone."  Forbes motioned for the phone with his hand, the burning cigarette in between his middle and forefinger.  Charlie made no move to grab his phone.  He had no interest in seeing his brothers snake.  But he also did not want to shove any distaste at anything his brother had to offer.  In times past he was always forthright in his inner feeling with his brother.  No, they were not always pretty, but they were honest.  Now he felt forced to share whatever interests held his brothers fancy.   So for the sake of their non-incessant  camaraderie  he reached into his front pocket of his khaki shorts.  Pulling out the phone, he handed him the phone trying to look happy or at least half way pleased to do so.  He turned the phone on and quickly commenced with the password.  Charlie had always used the same password and Forbes typed it in without blinking an eye.

Charles looked once more at his environment, masking his discontent at the way things were playing out.  Things were not progressing badly, yet the problem was they were not progressing at all. But was there a scripted agenda to how this was to play out?  Truthfully he had nearly stumbled upon this sordid event.  He had hoped very empathetically that his brother would be otherwise occupied for his brief visit at his Grandmothers.  As a matter of fact, he expected it.  Though he was not upset with the sudden change of characters he was presented with upon walking through the doors.  He was not truly aware of the gravity of the situations prior to his sudden epiphany moments ago.  He breathed in deeply and sighed in annoyance.  Forbes looked up briefly at the sound, assumed him impatient and hurriedly began (?) pushing buttons rapidly.  "I think Mother already showed me the pictures of your snake."  "Did you see him eat?" Forbes replied eagerly without looking up.  It was his eagerness that suddenly pressed his interest at the uninteresting snake.  His brother was not so much trying to fill an empty silence with a well known stranger as share a passion with a distant friend.  "Perhaps, not all is lost."  The thought resonating in a million different directions as he pondered all the implications while no longer forcing a smile as he took the phone from his brother's hand to study Forbes beloved snake.  It was a still picture from what was obviously a phone camera of just the head.  Not too terribly big with lifeless eyes.  Charles had no desire to hold a snake and he thought this as he turned the phone off and placed it in his pocket.  His blue jean pants were tight against his thigh so he stretched out his leg to loosen the pocket up, allowing him to put the device in.  He wondered if Forbes felt the same way he did about snakes. You would think the possession of the snake would point otherwise.  But the obvious was hardly ever true.  No, he assumed Forbes was mainly using the snake to please or possible connect with his friends. Life himself Forbes felt less than and was always making up for it by conceding his needs/wants for others. 

He could not say much definitively when it came to his brother and perhaps even now he was wrong.  Though in this case he would be surprised if he was.  They had in the past briefly touched on the subject before.  His mind suddenly took off like a dog after a tennis ball.  he abjectly began to recall the conversation.  Their Father was in town and had graced them with his benevolent presence.  God knows what was going through his mind for the visit.  Where they were concerned he was sure it was not pleasant.  Not anything malicious though perhaps.  More along the lines of "Oh God look at them.  I hope they are on drugs. Because I would of never contributed my DNA to such fucking losers.  No, it is the drugs that had done this to them.  The drugs and me."  That last sentence he threw in and heavily doubted his Father ever thought such a thing.  It made sense to him though and it did make him feel better.  Well the fight did not start until after his Father left.  Funny how the walls always came down after an emotional battle.  As all this was going through his head, as he pictured his brothers heavy almost pleading look of scorn that seemed to scream save me and simultaneously yell even louder "I am beyond redemption."  All of this created an enormous amount of self-loathing and fear.  Fear that his brother would never know how sorry he was or how much he meant to him.

Short Story 5

The man sat rocking slowly, methodically on his Grandmother's wooden rocking chair.  Eyes gazing intently at the tree line.  H looked yet he saw nothing and he was no better for it.  A strong breeze penetrated the woods blowing pine needles with a weak grasp to the forest floor.  The branches give the illusion of a mystical coordinated dance.  Swaying as the wind blows only to sweep back to original form when it ceased.  But our man sees none of this.  He only looked because that is where his gaze rested.  No, our man who we will call Charlie sat rocking silently while cursing loudly in his mind.  Charlie had broke an oath beholden only to himself.  Something he swore to do, usually right after doing it.  It hardly bothered him as a child or teenager.  His nascent conscious was the reason for his strife for these last 6 years.  It all started when Charlie was a boy.  How it came to be, well is an even longer story for a time long from now.  Suffice to say Charlie had an affinity for fire, especially large out of control, chaotic fires.
It was the forbiddingness of it, knowing it was wrong, destructive and disgusting.  Obviously to him these were the views of the world and ironically he happened to share these views. Maybe that was what drove his great incredulous desire.  The process of perverting his own soul, a self perpetrating meeting of the mind and body.  These feelings of wrongness did not come until after the fact.  Oh he was quite giddy after committing himself to his next sacrifice.  And it was a sacrifice, like the Viking kings of old, his fires consumed and imprinted an unmarked sense of immorality that was for his and his alone. His altar was everywhere and in a world made of wood he decided what was and what once was.  Once he finished his sordid duties not even God could (or perhaps would) bring it back.  God...Charlie broke free of whatever dream that left him physically invalid, he stood up so abruptly his feet almost leaving the ground, only to begin his normal pace of the mentally obsessed or tortured.  His rough leather like hands clasped behind his back as he walked 6 paces pulled a immediate 360 degrees turn and begun the whole process again. 
The door creaked or screamed like a dying rabbit as it opened.  A woman many years Charlies elder walked slowly through the door frame.  She seemed to hunch slightly over her grey hair curled just so.  The deep wrinkles on her precious face were a (?modal) both to her age and wisdom.  Wearing her usual Sunday best consisting of Khaki pants and a button down shirt covered in purple and red flowers. Charlie never stopped passing or raised his eyes to notice or acknowledge his visitor. "Charlie come on in and get you some lunch."  Charlie walked his 6 paces and stopped his back to the voice he had just heard.  He did not speak for a time but by his body movement the lady knew he heard her.  After several moments just when she was about to repeat the question he replied, "Nanna, I am such a bad person, if you only knew the things I have done.  I wonder would you still love me? Could you still love me,""Honey there is nothing you could do to make me ever"spittle misted visibly when she emphasized the "ever make me stop loving you. You..." Cutting her off as if he didn't even hear her speak he said without turning around, "I mean if you told me Something truly horrible you had done it wouldn't matter to me.  But is that because I have done horrible things and know what it is like to harbor a horrible secret? Or is it because I love you. Because I have known you all of my days, Nanna."
He half way turned around and looking over his right shoulder stab a glance at her. But as quickly as he looked he stole away.  Running down the stairs into the wet dewy grass. His bare feet breaking  (?) and sharp rocks bruising his feet, yet he noticed the pain not at all.  He was very afraid and his fear numbed all other sensation.  His family knew nothing about the dark secrets he harbored. Or so he thought, they did have their suspicions.  But they chose to ignore their gut all together.  If he dared to look or investigate this inclination then they would be forced to acknowledge them.  This was simply not done in the Shackleford family, no not at all. Charlie had no idea of their suspicions and so when he wore his pains, his secrets like a scarlet letter he dare not even let them look upon his face.  Less they pierce his veiled shame with a glance and then they too would hate him as much as he hated himself. That frightened him more so then the inevitability of his losing control.  And he was only just now understanding the inevitability of his dark hunger as he ran deep into his family's woods.  To find his matches and the gas he swore never to use again but proudly never threw away because ha! He had decided never to do it again, because gas was so damn expensive and you never know when you might need matches.

Short Story 4

He lay quietly on the tough (?) brown carpet.  The bed towered over him obstructing his view of the uniquely painted wall.  He was proud of his wall, he would not think of a single soul with a wall like his.  His Mother painted it to look like bricks, muddy red with dirty white almost silver granite lining.  On top of this his Mother had spray painted several differenet words.  Nothing ugly, a few "War Eagles", a "Go Braves", some different band names.  He still did not understand the "War Eagle".  Knowing it was the war cry of his fathers alma mater and comprehending the meaning of the "War Eagle" were two different things.  He did not have the guts to ask his Father the meaning.  It was not that his Father would neccessarily berate him, but he did not want to look stupid.  Better to pretend to know, perhaps infer as well.
 It was not that he did was not that the bed was not comfy, it was.  In fact at that pint in our boys life he did not knowbeds could be anything less than toasty and majestically comfy.  The floor suited him fine though.  He lay in the prone his head rested on his hands, his hands propped up  by his elbows.  He was consumed by his novel and had not a care in the world.  Why would he?
The lights were still on.  Like a deer that sensed danger approaching, Chris jumped up and rested on his butt looking with grim dread in the direction of the stairs.  The look was (?) completely forgotten as he watched and listened.  He could hear the lonesome yawn of the door as it opened and could tell it was his Mother descending the stairs by her lite rapid steps down the stairs.  When the Mother reached the bottom of the stairs she had already mentally braced herself for the fight that was sure to come.  What she was not prepared for was the sick anquished look on her small boys face.  His eyes wide, his hands clenched together, his breathing short and deep.  He would never say what scared him so much.  In fact he always denied he was scared.  He shrugged off all of the careful poking and prodding .  His answer was a variation of "I can't sleep with the lights off".  "Oh Brett needed his big brother to sleep with him for his protection."  "Protection from what,"she once asked.  He had smiled up at her sweetly and not without some false bravado replieing "From everything Mommy."  She was his Mother and when he hurt she hurt.  He thought them all oblivious but she knew he was agonizingly terrified.

Poetry 20

A stillness fills me
Shivering breezes blowing
Dear sweetest Nanna

Poetry 19

They ask with burning  eyes
to keep very still.
Listen very closely, drugs and alcohol kills
But this dogma keep my eyes trained on the horizon
Damn it all to hell if this is not trying.
Because it is all I can do
to sit half pretending to listen
its hard to care when you cannot afford your nutrition

Writings 1

This is a portion of a message Joshua sent to a friends brother.  Both Joshua and Taylor battled addictions and were great friends from high school.  Joshua always attempted to contact Taylor or his family to check on him.  He loved Taylor and prayed often for him.


Josh Davis- 10-9-2012
"I wish I could explain your brother's irrational behavior to you Russell. We share a bond, him and I. A taint on our souls that will not wash clean; this taint I have scrubbed at until my fingers bled and my tears dried up. It is as if the devil himself marked us at birth for forlorn melancholy and despondent despair.
It is not fair that you should be made to suffer, that your Mother should be made to suffer. I saw the haunted dejection in your Mother's face every time my own Mother peered into my blood shot eyes. I have learned to count my age not by the days I have lived, but by the bouts of sobriety I earn. I do not understand the person I was two years ago, but I force myself to know him. To know him truly is to destroy him utterly. But know this Russell, it is never to late, verily, for we lost souls.
Taylor was one of the best friends I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Condemn his actions Russell and forsake his foolish endeavors, but find a hidden place in your heart to hide your hope. Hide it so that you may never lose it. Neither he nor I deserved the benevolent families God gave us. But such is life, both unmistakeably cruel and superlatively sweet. "

Poetry 18

Pass the basket, chaulk it full
Throw in your best or look the fool
Christ came in a man's flesh
Suckling as a babe on a women's breast.
Like you, like I , he
for a time came as we
shall die.
though he (?) to died, watching
both Mary's they cried
In vain though they could
not know, he would return
and men would forever more yearn
For what he is a God
a vessel to the holy Father
if and when he should be saught

Poetry 17

A mural staining the wall
Dare walk past, feel its call
it seeps as it drips through your pores,
boring down, down into the soul
Such power rippling, visably vibrating.
turning Gods blessed gift into your own worst curse.
You wisper to the death
"Give me to my casket"
but he giggles and blankens your soul but a little
leaving you soiled.
Such toils, misery wrapped in brilliant blue wrapping paper
as confusing as aromatic deadly vapor.