Are we lost.

new nonsense. no promises.

Hetho? Hetho? Where art thou?

only when his voice was soft.

Hetho!

hetho didn’t like loud noises. they always frightened him.

Hethooo!

he yelled anyway. he didn’t understand. through thick foliage the sun peeked through and brought his light.
Her light? mother called the sun she and father called the sun he...

Hethooo!

Did it matter? hetho was still hiding. Hetho always hid. He didn’t trust him. Even when he was nice and brought him apples, he didn’t trust him.

Heth-

To his left. The snap of a fallen twig. Hetho. No. It could’ve  been a rabbit. Could’ve been anything. Hetho wouldn’t make that mistake. He was too smart.
He had to check it out. No stone unturned.
The trees were thicker this way. Quiet. He couldn’t hear the cicadas anymore. Couldn’t hear anything. The sound of dead leaves crumbling under his feet seemed muffled. Those footsteps slowed, slowed till he was inching. Inching towards something. Something. What?

H-H-Hetho?

Why was he there?
It was time to go home. He wrapped his arms around himself, shuddered breaths misting before his eyes. It was the middle of summer.
And when he turned he saw what he turned away from. He turned. Turned. Turned. Why was everything the same? He came from the left.Not that left. The left...his head pounded. Lost. They told him. Told him before he went to bed. Little boys who wandered off into the forest were lost forever. Boys who made their mother mad and ran away would be swallowed up by the trees. Turned into ugly goblins. No one loved goblins.
Everyone would forget about him. Hetho wouldn’t save him.

The prayer.

Didn’t think further. Dropped to his knees, bowed his head. Had to prostrate before god. ANd he spoke softly.
“Please help me. Please.”
Couldn’t remember the actual prayer. but god heard all things. every scream and whimper. surely he would show mercy. He knelt there, forehead pressed into the ground, whimpering, waiting. All he had to do was clean his room.
He heard something move in front of him.
Looked up into eyes black as obsidian.
“He...Hetho?”
Hetho stared his head cocked to the side. Look confused.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m...I’m scared.”
“This is no place for little boys.”
“Hetho....”
He wondered if this was his world. The black forest, devoid of warmth and light.
“Can you take me away from here?” He asked him.
“...I can’t. I can’t save little boys who have been bad.”
“...please help me...”
“you were bad to your momma. and now she is sad. she’ll be sad for a long time.”
“Why? Just take me out of this part of the forest! Please, Hetho!”
“No. No no no. I’m going to eat you.”
Seemed like moments ago he was under the aegis of his home. smelled the slow baking chocolate cake as it rounded into completion and smiled. Everything was perfect. Almost perfect. Now he stared into the maw of a beast. Its mouth opened along his stomach. Teemed with teeth long like his mother’s carving knife, turned brown from age. And saliva ran through the gaps of his teeth, over the flap of skin that mimicked the bottom lip. Hissed and steamed as it hit the forest floor.
“Hetho..”
And where was god?
“Begone, demon.”
The voice of a woman, songlike in her diction.
Hetho turned from him, and he turned from Hetho. Burried his head in the ground again. Too much to bear. Just let it pass. Death or salvation, let it pass.
Then he felt heat rush by him, a roar of flame, a scream garbled by pain. The fire was eating him. Reducing him to nothing.
The heat subsided all at once, and the forest was silent again.
“Hetho...”
“Raise your head.
Slowly he did as she commanded. His sight trailed up the hem of her white robe, up till he me  her green eyes.
“Why are you shaking?”
His mouth wouldn’t move.
“Oh..are you afraid of me?”
Even Hetho was a monster. Who was she?
“I suppose that makes sense. Do you think I want to eat you too?”
“...maybe.”
“Oooh..”
She knelt in front of him, held her hand out to him. He drew away, scurried backwards like a small animal.
“Don’t worry, little one. You’re far too skinny to be my dinner. Besides, I really don’t like the taste of men, anyway.”
“...you’ve eaten people before?”
She only smiled in response. That smile was guarding something.
“I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
“..o...”
Who else was there to trust?
“..ok. But..what are you?”
“I’m a witch.”

Who even knows though.

(untitled)

A poor man is an imaginary figment desperate to be seen.
Yet on one fated morning he rises from unsteady slumber with a new found hunger.
There are those who stand before us discontent and full of hatred.
We represent the growth.
Before us there were beggars and thieves subjected to the vile whimsy of the rich.
The beggars children are now knocking on the golden gates with gold to spare.
Our pockets runneth over.
There was a man who asked if we were proud of ourselves.
The old traditions were torn asunder, decrepit stone monuments knocked to the earth
On impact they turned to rubble, pebbles and stone.
The old saw themselves in the rubble.
Broken.
Left undone.
The beggars are now the leaders and they own the rich.
The world has shifted and the ignorant veil has been lifted.
We are all enlightened.
Pity those who fear the progression of man.
Pray for those who wish to divide us, set us against each other, turn brothers into enemies, soldiers in apposing armies.
Exalt those who take the forefront and shield us from the stones as they lead us on to glory.
We are beggars no more.

writing exercise

blhablah blah

who was that

someone knocked three times. someone knocked

again


ah they came in threes. the hooded men. face obscured by shadow. but eyes pierced through dark, red. blood red. red as his blood, splattered on the kitchen floor. the gash on his shoulder was deep. why was his breathing strained? he tried to concentrate on them, push the pain to the back of his head. how did they get inside? he glanced at her, sitting at the kitchen table. Filing her pink lacquered nails. Casual. this was not what it appeared. he was not wounded. they were not there. it was another day. she waited patiently as he finished cooking their meal. yet blood still poured, his right sleeve still wet as it flowed. and they stoof there with their devil eyes trained upon him. he could almost feel them smiling. she did nothing.

“Delila!”

She did nothing. she moved from her ring finger to her index.

“Delila! Call the cops!”

then she sighed.

“Pay what you owe.”

“What?”

“Pay. What you owe. Fool.”

Pay what he owed. he owed no one anything. he made no deals with the devil.

“What do I owe? I don’t understand!”

“Give them your heart.”

“My....my heart.”

“Mhm. Pay up, now.”

“But....why....why?”

She turned to him. Her pupils glowed red. Lips parted into a smile, teeth were pointed and jagged.

“You promised your heart to me. Now. Give it up.”

love was cruel.

concepts and practice

because i am alive and i have things to share, things you probably don't want but will take anyway. because i have willed it so.

willed it


now, here's a new thing. while i work on cohesive bodies of work i sometimes drift into unrelated spaces for the purposes of alleviating boredom, and/or cycling out old water of the mind to keep the thought pools from getting stagnant. these spaces are generally transient. they are not attatched to anything. There is no real context from which they spring. They create their own context as they are written.

 So, in essence, these concepts and practices are bits that have written their own mythos. i am just a vessel.


so dramatic.




so please keep in mind that pieces tagged with concepts and practices are pieces that will probably never be elaborated on. don't get attached. if you, for whatever reason do get attached, feel free to use the piece for your own writing.

so yes.


oh, as always, constructive criticism is welcomed. i guess. you can be a dickhead if you must.

p.s i dont know how to get that weird text background color thing to leave please help its killing meeeeeeee
support group



“Let go.”
“No.”
The flicker of the lampost made for an interesting backdrop. Stuck in a forgetten alley. Nearly choking from the stench of months old food and possibly the rotting corpse of a stray animal. His grip on the arm of her jacket refused to loosen. 
“I don’t...I don’t get it. Why leave now? After all this...progress...we went so far together...the entire group. We’re all depending on each other. Now you want to just...to just disappear?”
She shifted her gaze to the two liter soda bottle that laid by her right foot. 
“I was never a part of any of it. I was there because I had no choice. Now that I have a choice, I’m returning to where I belong.”
“Where you belong? What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”
“None of your business.”
He trembled. He felt his stomach tighten, turn, palpiations of his heart steadily increasing. 
“Why are you doing this?”
“Stop crying.”
“It’s like you’re..shitting on everything. Why? Just give a reason. That’s all I’m asking you!”
The tremor in his voice was bringing something out of her. 
“Just let me go.”
“Please...”
“You’re not some spoiled brat. You’re a grown man. Start acting like one and let me-”
“Just give me a fucking reason!”
Pity. She could draw no other emotion. 
“...let me go.” she whispered. 
He hesitated. Tension left his grip slowly, and she turned away from his as his arm swung to his side. 
“For your own sake.” she spoke as the sky loosed foreboading droplets. “Wipe my existence from your memory. Please.”
The clicking of her heels overwhelmed the crash of thunder over head, became progressingly louder the farther the sound traveled to his ears. It was trapped there, in his head. The sound of her leaving. 
And he felt numb. Numb to the rain. The world outside. The world inside felt on the verge of meltdown. Everything was ending. His world was ending. 

holy wow i posted something new on the internet

Mother’s words were daggers and they were aimed with precision at all her vital points. those little insecurities that made her ball up and cry when she was alone. made her wish it would all just end. mother didn’t care. that bitch. she just spoke, vomited words with calculated grace.she couldn’t stand it. There was that awful red vase sitting on the little table she stood next to. Replica of a vase she broke as a child. A vase so precious to mother she beat her with the hard bottom shoes her father wore while he worked the yard. there would be no greater pleasure then taking that vase and breaking it again. Using her mother’s head as a point of impact. She knew it wasn’t healthy, obsessing over injuring someone, but the thought was so soothing. The world wouldn’t miss mother, in anycase. there were enough money grubbing, cold, shallow, egotistical old hags who’s faces were shot up with toxins and hacked up to resemble plastic play dolls. no one would miss her.

i was going to post about the new series im gonna start posting weekly in feburary but by the time i finished typing "i" i lost all motivation and will to actually do so. also its sort of late and blah. lord willing i will type up a synopsis and so on tommorrow. lord willing.

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING

this blog is dusty like the cooter of a 53 year old cat lady. unlike that cooter it needs to be dusted off and used. vigorously. or should it be abused?

yes

ABUSED. blog abuse. call the police.

im sorry i have nothing better to do.

its three o'clock in the morning and its almost bedtime. im supposed to be transcribing the writing for the series that will be starting VERY SOON(i need to make a post about that actually) and i haven't because it's a laborious process.

well not really, its actually really simple. though that seems to be just as big an issue as its barely keeping my attention. this is starting to sound overwhelmingly dramatic so ill drop it.

in any case blogging is back, random thoughts are back, random acts of violence are back. basically everything you salvitate over is back. gird your loins.