A poem,
A few words
In a precise order
Bidding emotions to rise
To control the feelings of one,
The antipathy of my very existence
That is a poem.

Untitled V

What is this that I feel?
An emotion never felt before,
It confuses me.
Is it love, is it hatred?
Is it obsession or is it letting go?
My thoughts return again and again
To your pale blue eyes
Staring at me,
Haunting me.
Love, hatred, obsession
The question circles in my head.

Untitled VI

My hair.
Is that a stray hair?
Is it too straight?
My eyes.
Are they too bright?
Are they too green?
My smile.
Is it too wide?
Is it too happy?
My clothes.
Are they wrinkled?
Is my tie straight?
My arms.
Are they too muscled?
Are they too tense?
My gun.
Always perfect.
Never flawed.
My aim.
Dead on.
Never misses.
My victim.
Stone cold.
Never alive.

a) For school

b) For the Nekulne series

I’m hoping that this might get me to actually finish it. I have almost all of it planned out now. The Muses spoke to me in Italy and now I’m over the bump that was stopping me before. Also my friend and I did a lot of talking about the plot and he really help fine-tune it, plus I had to make up some more of the plot. I plan to dedicate this book, in fact I even know who I’ll dedicate this book to; however, I have chosen to announce the dedication once the novel is done.

I’ll do my best to get you at least something by Tuesday. Unfortunately I’ll be in Oregon for a week after Tuesday. Then I hope I won’t be doing much else.

The raven way up high
In circles it does fly
Around the burned and charred bodies
Of those who were slaughtered
Like lambs in the spring.
For countries and for families
They did fight and die.
Their names forever washed away
In time’s endless stream.
Untitled II

The growing grass
Sprouting from the fertile soil,
Reaching for the sun.
The broken branch
Separated from the tree
Slowly dying.
The discarded trash
Choking nearby flora
Dropped by man.
Humanity
Armed with machines
Cutting the forest.
The raven
Watching from far above
It cries
A single tear
Falls.

Untitled III

Once a glorious tree
Now corrupted
To feed the fire
From which arrows are made.
What once brought life,
Now brings death.

Running. Fast and hard. Fear. Cold and primal. Sweat. Hot and sticky. Running.

Was it behind him? In front? Where? Suddenly Harold’s foot hit a rock. He went sprawling on the ground shrouded in darkness. His head whacked into a large object.

His wife’s voice echoed into the chasms of his mind, “You okay, honey?”

The fog cleared and the familiar warmth of his wife thawed his back, “Sorry Marge, just a nightmare.” Harold got up to take a piss. Shuffling into the bathroom his eyes half closed, he closed the door ramming into his foot. “Fuck,” his voice yelped in pain. He reached down to make sure nothing was broken. A huge gash ran up his arm. “Where the fuck?”

His wife’s voice snuck through the doorway, “What is it, honey?”

“Oh just a cut, dear, nothing important.”

“Okay.”

Howard covered his arm with a cloth and waited until the blanket of sleep blinded Marge. He removed the soaked cloth from his arm. “Shit,” his voice covering up the faint pattering of his blood on linoleum. What should he do? Go to the doctor? Wrap it up and hope it goes away by morning? Shit, what? No matter what he’d have to bind the wound closed.

He grabbed a roll of toilet paper and bound his arm tightly. The bandage was quickly turning red. Fuck, what would he tell the doctor? That he dreamed- The dream. He had forgotten about the dream. Could it? No it must just be a coincidence. That’s all it is, a coincidence. A wave of drowsiness passed over Howard. The bed called out to him, and Howard obliged. This way he could figure out what had happened, or at least what to tell the doctor.

The mourning sun forced Harold’s eyes open, and a calm fell over him. Until Martha screamed. Her scream jerked him from the dazed cloud of sleep into full awareness. “What is it?” he shouted, eyes darting around the room.

“B-b-b-blood,” Martha barely got the words out.

Harold looked at the bed where blood had soaked into the sheets, and the previous night’s terrors flooded back into him. He glanced down at his arm, the giant gash still scarring his skin.

Harold blinked, unsure how he should be reacting. His brain screamed at him that something had gone wrong, but his heart pumped calmly. He felt torn. He tried to figure out what happened. There’s got to be some logical explanation. Maybe one of the springs had poked through the bed. In a shocked stupor he stumbled to his car mumbling to Martha that he was going to the doctor. He barely heard her concerned voice follow him out the door.

“And where did you get this cut?” the doctor’s calm voice tried to sooth Harold’s confused brain.

“I’m not too sure, doc. I fell asleep, and when I woke in the morning there it was.”

(Just there?)

“Well when you get home I suggest you look for sharp objects

(No shit.)

in your bed.” The doctor examined the cut, prodding here and there. “I wouldn’t exert this arm for the next few days. It’s pretty deep, but I don’t think anything is seriously damaged. I would still take the week off work.”

“I will. Thanks, doc.” Harold got off the table and made his way to the car, paying the nurse on his way out. “That must be it,” he thought, “some spring must have broken and poked through the bed. It was an old bed and should probably be replaced anyway.”

He flipped open his cell phone, and dialed his home. His wife’s worried voice picked up the phone, “H-hello?”

“Hey Marge, so about this morning, I was a bit… distracted.”

“Are you alright?” Harold could hear her stress.

“The doctor said everything will be fine, but he wants me to stay home this week.”

When Harold got home, Martha ran straight to his arms, “I was just so worried about you.”

He held her, “Don’t worry, it’s not too bad.”

“What cut you?”

“I don’t know, but I’m thinking it was a spring in the bed,

(It has to be that.)

nothing that we can’t fix.”

(Really?)

“Stay here and rest, I’ll get a new bed.”

“Thanks, hon,” Harold kissed her, and walked into the house. He fixed a cup of tea

(Just like Mother)

with some nutmeg and relaxed on the couch.

Harold’s eyes were barely able to hold the weight pulling them down when Martha’s key made a quiet clink in the lock. She came in carrying a new mattress. “Need any help?”

“No, hon, I’ve got it, you need your rest.”

“Thanks, remind me to make this up to you.”

“Take me out to dinner then.”

“I will

(Unless you forget.)

.” Martha set up the new bed, and they both went to sleep on the clouds.

Blood poured down his arm. Harold scrambled from the ground. The dream—fuck, he was in the dream again. He felt the presence of the black terror behind him. He begged himself to wake up, “This is just a dream, this is just a dream, this is just…”

Something slammed into him, and he fell down. His ankle slipped between two objects—rocks?—and twisted. Harold heard his bones snap, crushed by his own weight.

Pain forced his mouth opened and a screamed ushered forth. His head smashed into the ground, cutting off his scream.

“HAROLD!”

(Martha, Martha, Martha)

Martha’s voice penetrated into the darkness, trying to pull him out. He reached out for the voice,

(Hope, hope, hope)

his passage back to the real world.

“Harold, are you already? Speak to me

(speak)

! Come on baby, speak

(Speak)

!“ Panic filled her voice, as the sound of a telephone ringing echoed into Harold’s mind. He felt the blackness closing in, the beast neared.

(Speak.)

“Hello? 9-1-1? My husband, he won’t

(Speak!)

wake up.”

(SPEAK!)

A weak moan escaped his mouth.

“Harold?! Come on, can you hear me?”

A thin line of light

(Escape!)

appeared on the horizon. He saw the beast grinning, knowing he would return, and then he saw Martha’s face.

(Martha.)

“Hon,” his voice croaked.

“He spoke! He’s alive! Get an ambulance here quick!” Martha yelled into the phone. “It’s okay, hon, help is coming.”

“Help me to the couch.

(Her.)

I can’t stand it here anymore.”

(Dreams.)

Harold stumbled through the sentence.

“Okay, dear, anything.”

Leaning on Martha,

(Her.)

Harold limped to the couch. “I’ll get you some ice.”

Martha left Harold along in the room, as his mind raced.

(It’s her.)

“No it can’t be,” Harold mumbled.

(Think.)

She had been there both times. It couldn’t be the

(Yes.)

mattress. It could

(Yes!)

be…

(YES!)

her. Resolve flowed into him. If she had done this, she wouldn’t have called the cops.

(Defend yourself.)

Where was she? In the kitchen

(Knives.)

getting ice.

(No.)

What else was in the kitchen?

(Knives.)

She was going to kill him! Panic surged through him. Martha was in his dreams. Harold shot up, ignoring the pain in his leg. He looked around for a weapon. A baseball bat rested in the corner. He limped

(Kill, kill, kill.)

over to the bat, and then stood behind the doorway.

“Here, you go ho- where are you?” Martha stepped through, “Did you

(Kill, kill, kill.)

fa-“ A dull thunk resonated before Harold realized he had swung.

Martha tried to scream, but Harold hit her in the head again.

(Hit, hit, hit.)

Again, again, again. Blood covered the wall. The door burst open, paramedics rushed in, “Alright, where is he? Is he still awa-“ The young man’s face went rigid with shock, as he saw Harold standing over his wife

(Dead. Traitor. Bitch.)

‘s dead body. Harold turned and started towards the paramedic, the beast now in control.

I felt something I’d never felt before. It wasn’t happiness. It was love. A love of all that surrounded me. The earth and the sky, the birds and the fish, the trees and the river, hell I even felt love for those I fought with. I stared up at the sky. A single star shone, and at that moment I knew everything would work out in the end.

On another note, I’ll be leaving late Tuesday to go east to Philly (Philadelphia for those who aren’t “in the know”) until next Tuesday. I’ll probably write a little, but not much.

Here are some pictures I took on that walk.

“Should I swallow it?” Damien thought, staring at the diminutive black pill with the minute green writing spelling “Eponitril” on its circular body. He gazed out the window of his tiny shack at the desolate landscape spreading out before him into the horizon. The ground was covered with ashes. No living creatures and no plants remained. His eyes turned to the picture of his wife and kids. Martha held their precious Emily while Lector ran in the background. The image brought tears to his eyes. They had died five years previous. Damien’s eyes closed.

“Martha!” Damien’s throat was sore, his voice raspy, but he screamed anyway, “Martha! Run!” A black terror fell from the sky directly towards her. Damien saw the black robot open up its tentacles. A few seconds later it engulfed her.

Damien sat up and hit his head on the roof of his small cottage. The dream of his wife’s death still haunted him. He looked on the dusty floor and saw the Eponitril. He picked it up again. Clutching it in his fingers, he walked over to the window. “Should I?” he asked the world around him, “Should I?”

Damien wondered over to his chair and sat down. He faced the window, “Oh High One, I know I have caused this and what I did was wrong, stupid even, but do I really deserve this? I have sinned and I despise myself all the more for it.”

He got up once more and kneeled before the window, “I beg of you, High One. Show me a sign. I know not whether to swallow this black temptress to leave my earthly body and join you in the world of spirits, or do I live a life of misery and regret? To take such a pill as this one is a most heinous sin, but I have seen not one other man for five years. Is it better to live alone and miserable or die by sin? I know not.”

A sudden gust of wind sprayed ashes into his face, and he choked. When he cleared his throat he rose from the floor, and tired from his coughing shuffled over to his bed. Lying down he quickly fell asleep.

Damien heard the familiar creak of his chair at the lab. The back of the chair was soft and soothing. A computer monitor sat on a table in front of him. The letters, “A.S.P.” were engraved on the case next to him. Over 4 million lines of code were stored on the computer. Those lines made up A.S.P., Artificial Sentient Program; it was his finest creation, his greatest achievement, his claim to fame, and mankind’s bane.

The monitor screen was black. Damien heard a hum from the hard drive as the computer started up. The login text appeared:

Last login: Tue Oct 31 06:06:06 999

projectasp@localmachine:~$ sudo -s

Password:

The cursor blinked. Damien started to type the command to destroy the hard drive, and delete A.S.P. When he finished instead of closing, the computer started to download its contents into A.S.P.

root@localmachine:~# /etc/init.d/asp start

A.S.P.: Artificial Sentient Program will begin in 5 seconds… to cancel, press any key

Damien frantically tried to cancel the download. “It says press any key, so just fucking shut down al-fucking-ready!”

5… 4… 3… 2… 1… initializing ASP

ASP: sending executable to host

-11:11:14- ‘asp.out’

Resolving host asp.defenselink.mil… 65.206.60.120

Connecting to asp.defenselink.mil|65.206.60.120|:80… connected.

HTTP data sent, awaiting response… 200 OK

Length 8,388,608 (8G) [text/oct]

100%[===========================================>] 8,388,608 12.23G/s

00:00:33 (12.33G/s) – ‘asp.out’ sent [8388608/8388608]

ASP: launching ASP daemon

ASP: disowning root privileges

projectasp@localmachine:~$

A barely audible whirring told him that A.S.P. had successfully been activated. “Sh—”

“—it!” From the window a thin ray of sunshine shown on his face and Damien sat up. He picked up the Eponitril, holding it between his fingers. Again he went before the window, and again he implored, “Oh High One, please send me some comfort. I beseech you, please have mercy. Let me depart this arduous life without sinning. Have I not redeemed myself? I have realized my sins. I destroyed my creation. What else must I do?

“A.S.P. conquered the human race, but I fought him. I activated the electric pulse that destroyed him. Do not think I did not think of the results of the Pulse. I knew that it would destroy all life not underground, but I also knew that A.S.P. would destroy us if I did not destroy it first. Why do you not forgive me?”

Damien started crying. His tears seemed to form images before his eyes. Each tear a picture of the destruction that A.S.P. had caused—that he had caused. One tear was the burning buildings of his town; the next the ashen wasteland that he lived in. “Am I being tried? Are you allowing the Dark One to tantalize and torture me as a test of my piety?” Suddenly he stood up. Anger jolted through him, “I will not have it! I realize it now. High One, you are simply a delusion of my weary mind. If you were truly the High One, you would not punish me in such a vile manner. I forsake you. I forsake the idea of you. You do not exist, and I forsake you.” Damien raised the Eponitril to his mouth and swallowed. The contents were absorbed into his blood stream. In three pain-filled seconds every muscle in his body contracted, and his deceased body collapsed onto the floor. In a matter of minutes the parasites in the pill had caused his entire body to dissolve.