Inside Killing Air

The dogs didn't care for the fresh meat behind the window, despite being able to smell it. They have no concept of self, but they know when something is inaccessible, and pointless in venturing to, unless they had thumbs for throwing bricks, but they didn't.

They're interest trecked towards the twenty minute old dead man at the curb's edge. He had been the last to fall after the grayest clouds of the coolest nights passed over the city's seemingly endless stretch. The lights in the buildings stayed on, while those that had closed their doors hours earlier remained silent, nearly deaf, and completely devoid of life. The breeze swam through the vents, tagging the unknown killer with it, spreading throughout the buildings, and around the corners of the city blocks. Parents awaited their children to come home, loved ones waited for their spouses, and these dogs were waiting for their owners, but since they never showed, they figured the first meal they found, was the one that wasn't moving, and smelled like what they ususally found in their bowl.

There was no undead magic working that night. No corpses to be reanimated, no biblical spell realing in the atmosphere. It was an unlikely phenomena rearing its ugly head, and taking up nature's course for ensuring the Earth's survival as a planet, and as a cargo holder for whatever species are strong enough to live on it.

No one ever expected survival to be so painful, really. Their nerves seized on the spot, every muscle feeling like a conductor for acid and electricity that had nowhere to discharge. It just stayed, causing their eardrums to explode, blood pouring down their lobes, their eyes swelling, some bursting out of frustration, even fear.

The worst part, no one screamed. No one cried. No one heeded warning. They couldn't. Their voice boxes had melted, sinking down their throats, everyone choking, drowning in the remains of their own insides.

Pretend I'm Dead

My meaty carcass has rarely left my bed all day, save for nature's tendencies.

I finally caught up with Greg Rucka's Queen and Country series, at least the ones I have, I'm still missing one collection, then I can begin Gentleman's Game. I'm now working on Kazuo Koike's Path of the Assasin. I'm really enjoying it, more than Lady Snowblood, not as much as Lone Wolf and Cub. It will take something monumental to top Lone Wolf and Cub, for me.

Back to bliss, and my attempt to will myself into a coma. Nods to you, Gilbert Hernandez. To others, read Sloth if you get a chance.

Where's This Going?

Could a person relax, and still sweat, ache, and be bruised, thus being their own personal form of relaxation. By standard definition, it's not even close, or is it? Relaxing is to be at ease, to me, to be calm, secure, and transplacent oveer any situations that may come.

It can be more than a hammock strung between two trees, more than a soft bed, with warm sheets on in a cold December. Personally, I find myself relaxed when I am stressed from working on a passage, wondering how a particular character will succeed their dilemma, and in that mode, I am ready to tear down the world with the rage that's boiling within.

It is that anger which fuels me, and reminds me of the blood circling in my veins, and the air transforming the oxygen as it enters my body into the carbon dioxide as it exits, which, if enough of it is subjected to an individual, could kill them. So, if I collected a jar of my own carbon dioxide, breathing into an airt tight jar every time I exhaled, could I create a poison-gas bomb?

Now let's see who's going to be snooping around the site after those three words were typed together.

Such a sensitive time now. A land of pussies, really. Uneducated, ignorant, selfish pussies.

The Sun Never Touched Here

It was cold, but when was it not? No one in Killyn had seen the sun in twenty years. The beams of the golden myth echoed through the clouds, but never did the solar source touch the town's earth. The landscape was desolate, with the only green eminating from the painted buildings, or the rotten water.

Himnia perched herself on the well's edge. She scoped her little town, encompassing all of its dreariness, and the depression that kept the day to day chores from being so boring. If there was no action to be done, what was there to live for. She would never see the sun, she thought, she would never touch grass blades, and her skin would forever be pale, allowing her to hide in the snow, and maybe, just maybe she wouldn't tell anyone where she was, and would wait until the sun finally decided to show itself before ever telling anyone where she hid her soul.

Chomping at the Bit

What's the point of playing with an orchestra if the band already has a keyboardist? I can see where different twists could be applied, but as I'm watching Dream Theater'sconcert dvd, and they are accompanied by an orchestra, all they're doing is accentuating the keyboards. I'm not rhyming, so don't expect a reason out of me.

These past few days have felt like tornadoes, spewing urine out of their rotating vortexes, stemming from a puddle of bile found at the center of the earth, which its splattering over everything on the earth, person, car,...everything.

Even the food's bad these days. I'm so sick of eating. Every two to three hours, eat something, eat something. Damn my lifestyle choice. Why couldn't I have worked with plants, or learned how to weld? Instead, my dumb ass had to be a bodybuilder, and a writer. The bodybuilding is going great, the writing, while I'm enjoying what I'm producing, no one else is able to sample the greatness and controversy that could be my mind-children. But, we persist, persue, and decaptitate any editor that comes withing five sentences of my work.

To all you editor's, don't make me too angry, I won't have to urinate down your neck stumps.

Got A Letter Today

There you were, sitting in the shadow of nature, with the children of your resting place in your hands as your eyes scanned the planted ink, folding and flipping the pages.

Did it make sense to see the clouds, travel through the air, wish for the ocean to be as blue as you'd imagined, only to have it fizzle out, becoming steep canyons, or snow topped mountains?

You know it did, and you know the sacrifice is worth everything, and more, so much more. Don't look back, just look up.

Duplicate Envy

I envied the copier machine mechanic. For all that is in line with everything else in the universe, and to those who have seen it, heard it, or if there is just something off about you...Where the hell was I?

I envied the copier machine fix-it-guy. I stood there, standing in line, a bunch of nicotine craving hags in front of me, wanting that next cup of coffee to be running through their veins already. Staring around, looking like lost children, because there was only one copy machine working. We had four, but only one graced us with its actual capabilities.

In my arms was on piece of paper, and I needed to make one-hundred and eighteen twin syblings for this thing. And we only had one copy machine working. An occupation funded by the city, by taxes, by the government, by this world, and we only had one copy machine working.

The copy machine's first aid had arrived, the med-tech, the lifesaver, the techno-molder. There he was, working with his toy, one which he's become to know very well. One he's nurtured, looked after, and knows it by name. "Damn this piece of crap," he slurs to it, but smiles after.

He fixed things. He made things work again. He was able to work with his hands, and get things done. It never ended, always travelling, and new rooms, but the same toys. Maybe a few twists in the gadget myth, but exact enough. He travels, and he fixes things.

And then I made my copies.

Bellyache Inferno

No one seems keen on me lately, but that is so fine, so perfect, I love the emptiness, keeping it clean, and ready for positioning. So close, very close, but things must go beyond close very soon.

It's another day, and it's hazy, I wasn't sure what was normal, or routine, or even familiar because the schedule was still in effect, but never mentioned, wanted, or allowed to remember.

Here we are, dumping again, and watching our dead swirl into the streets, link with the pipes, and we truly become one with the city as we are transported all along, out more, touching others, all mixing, something new will be happening.

Revolution In a Diner

Four roads, and I'm walking again, and another four roads will send me to the bend, the one that turns, spins, and doesn't stop until the gravity dies.

Received some information the other night, but always feeling like a fax machine can wear somebody down. Sorry to stomp on your scrotum on the way out. I was aiming for the crack.

Just Because (I think I've used this title already)

They were not there in the morning, when she kissed Vell a good day. It wasn’t there before the meeting, when her department was scrutinized for the Hall Pass add they had decided to run during the Rose Bowl. But, there they stood, tall, elegant, green and other colors on top of her desk when she had returned from her secret cigarette break. If Vell knew she had been smoking, he’d rescind her second credit card, and that was a backup plan she needed in concrete.

Layla had seen the tips of the petals far away, as she exited the conference room, but paid no mind. No recognition, no notoriety, keep it quiet, she thought. After a few congratulations and pats on the back for not losing her cool, and telling Humphery it was not her department’s fault, rather the idiots over in time management, that secret society Humphery believed he was so brilliant for creating, Layla streamlined for her desk.

“Damn you,” she cursed Vell later that evening.

“What?” Vell acted delinquently.

“They were beautiful,” she admitted.

“Half as you,” Vell confided.

“Why?”

“What did the card say?” Vell asked, sipping tea.

“Just because,” she smiled. It was that smile, the one Vell strided for every day for the time they loved one another. Every day for the time he loved her, which that love had begun six years ago.

“Just because,” he reassured her. “And from now until the end, never mind all holidays and anniversaries,” of which there were more than a stars count of, “It is always just because. Just because you are the most wonderful person, the most precious being, and the most glorified leech I have ever had the pleasure of giving flowers to.”

“GLORIFIED LEECH?” she exclaimed.

“Those flowers aren’t free, you know.”