From the Old to the New

I'm not sure how many people actually read any of this stuff, but in case you didn't know, bloodredtales is no longer.  It has been no longer for a long time now, obviously.  So, instead, I will be moving over to wwwbrandonberntson.com, which is more up to date and will cater to more content, newer writing, and all that cool stuff.  So, in case you've been here, come along and join me over there.  I will be shutting down the bloodblog soon.  The newer website isn't quite finalized, but we've been working on it.  Stay cool and be at peace.

The Dome of Heaven

Another precious angel come and gone, an acute stab of pain piercing his breastbone, and he bows his head in shame. Another chance to be a gentleman, to prove his worth, his courtly demeanor, but to no avail. Opportunities wasted on himself. Perhaps he was not as courtly as he thought himself to be. Everything was imagination anyway. If not for imagination, he would not be radiant and beautiful. He would not be strong and valorous. If not for imagination, he would not know love in its purest, most resplendent form.

These scars run deep. They are only dreams, fairy-tales, imagining what it would be to be a man wrapped in those arms, laughing with that face. 'Sing to me again,' he would say, and her smile would spread wide, issuing warmth that moved over his head, his scalp, and along his back. Let her weep upon him a thousand tears, broken, wail in anguish and fury. He would be everything she needed. I could be what she needs, in every way, he told himself. I can feel what you feel, see what you see, dream what you dream.

Susceptible to every hurt, to every woe and jab. Men should not be allowed to be this vulnerable. Men should not be made to hurt like this. What happened to armor, to the steel breastplate of strength, able to withstand every affliction and scar? What happened to valor, the courage of the battlefield, that thing that should make him feel stronger, but instead made him whimper in defeat? Was there strength in this? Something to be proud of? Was this what other men had that he did not? Why he spent his days alone in these mountains, buried in caves, while everyone else lived happily ever after?

He heard that she'd gotten married, but did it matter? He would've never known a star like that, a famous singer, gotten the opportunity to make an impression, and what would she want with a creature like him when there were so many better ones to choose from? He'd come down out of the mountains and saw her on one of the televisions, a music video, in the store-front windows, and fallen in love instantly. I see the way you really are through the sound of your voice, through the lyrics, and the passionate way in which you sing. Can't you see that this must mean something otherworldly? He told himself her husband would never see her the way he did, love her the way he did, think she was beautiful the way he did. That must count for something, right? That must mean they were meant to be together.

Beauty going far beyond this, deeper than the surface, more than physical. Lasting beauty, so intense, so powerful, he recognized it in himself, the reasons he wanted to reach out, knew they were perfect for each other, if he could just find a way to communicate it to her. Thick, black curly hair. Pale eyes set in pale skin, looking deep into his, through him, and beyond. They rest on something far away and behind him. He doesn't know what, but he wants to be whatever that is she is resting her eyes upon. A dream turned to dust, turned to shame, turned to hurt. Open to hurt. Open to pain in every way, he is a vessel, a magnet to pain, and on and on it comes, because he thinks about what it must be like to love someone, to love something, and to have something love him in return the way things are meant to love, but he can only imagine it.

Her songs run wild through his brain, over and over, a ringing fire stirring blood, making him warm and torn asunder. I can see, he wanted to say. I can see beyond this surface, beyond everything everyone tries to be. I can see. Please. Dear God. See me. See me here. See me now. I am throwing the inside of myself back at you, so you can see me, too. But you are not paying attention. Maybe you cannot see like me. Can't my anguish travel to you? Can't you feel me, despite this distance, crying out to you? Surely, you must know I'm there. You must hear these words on the wind traveling louder than your lover's do.

“Just don't breathe, do not climb up. Do not pay attention to any of this inside of you. There must be a reason you are made this way, little Gollum, little gangly arms and legs. Simple paper to write your notes upon, professing all your shame and weaknesses to someone who will never love you, whom you will never meet. Your too-vulnerable heart. Do you think people actually care? Do you think they want to see this side of you? Can't you see she wants someone stronger that doesn't reveal this side of themselves? What is it, really? Just another name for another degenerate weakness? Proof you are no man at all, just another tepid weakling in a world of mighty Super-heroes. They are all stronger than you. Every one. Handsomer More intelligent. Successful. Stronger. Don't forget balanced. That's a big one. No up and down roller coasters for them, not like you, no crazy voices, screaming in your head, temperament to set off a volcano, tear down the strongest dam. And still beautiful, you say. Outshines all this, you say. Hope, you say. They are more romantic, too, sensitive in a way that actually counts, sensitive that is actually a strength. Not like you. And sense of humors, too. They have real skin to touch, can take them out to nice restaurants. They don't want something that has just been skinned alive. Run, run and hide, run far, deep into those hills where no one goes but you, feast on things with four legs, hide in your damp, dark cave that smells like death, mold, and decay. These are the better places for you. All the others have important things to give, not like you. Everything you are not. They are healthy through and through.”

Uncover all these black feathers, giant black feathers that have been raining down for centuries, and see how crystal clear it is underneath all this? See, this glow, this shining, blinding sun? Know this is how I was made, born for some knightly status, made up of dreams of chivalry and of noble race.

But still, unprotected. Alone. I know what it means to be alone. I know aloneness like no other, which is why I can be what you need, the patch on your pain. The hand you can always rely on in your time of need. I know the silence that echoes back no matter how hard I scream. I know the touch of my own hand to soothe me. I know all the imaginary games I play, and know they are more unreal than anything, but still I try to make them real. I know my mind is the only refuge I have, that keeps me company and creates all these friends I have, all these beautiful friends that love me and want to be with me, and tell me about all the beautiful things I have inside that no one cares to see. Someone else's voice, some voice I cannot mimic, that is not just another timbre of my own, making up things along the way. To walk with someone besides myself, through a jungle or two, share this patch of wilderness where you can see every star in the sky, if you just lie down right here and gaze upwards. And have you tell me, “You're right, Gollum, you can see every star.” But I would not be able to handle that. It would be too much for me. I would want to bring you the highest summit, and show you the land all around us. I would want to put these feathers on you, so we could see it all from a better view. But my mind plays all these tricks on me and I can't tell anymore what's real and what's pretend. It all gets mixed together.

Heavy is the burden he carries; it bends him to the earth, breaks his back, makes his spine a curve of jagged ridges, painful to behold. He wears a mantle of rusty metal and broken glass, and this he carries with him wherever he goes.

My mind is my worst lover, he thinks. It does not transcend time and space. I cannot go vertical. I take this walking stick wherever I go. I see the conditioning of the world, how people are raised, what they are told their dreams should be. I have dreams, too, to be a beautiful bird someday, but all these shards get lodged underneath my skin. I live in the thoughts of an impossible future, going nowhere, always elusive. Everyone trembles at the sight of me. Nothing makes sense. See, my pasty white skin shines through this transparent shirt as I crawl around on all fours, trying not to see myself as a beast, but I know better, slavering drool making huge pools between my feet. Confrontations with my own reflection that terrify me, send me screaming and running for safety. If only I could exchange my head for another, wash it all out, scrub and scrub until it shone better, shoot a firecracker into a star.

A worthier name, a worthier calling beckons. He pants and breathes, laboring on, mainly for breath, trying to break free, trying to understand anything, mainly why. That always seems the best of questions, and the shortest. One word. One simple, short, three-letter word. Why? But he has no answer. He wonders if he ever will. Too many things keep getting in the way.

A beautiful face, parted, moist lips whisper in his ear. The night descends. But it is only pretend. There are no stories left in here. It is just a hodge-podge of disenchanted images, scrapings off the bottom of some sickly floor. Caked dirt begrimes his face. Beautiful, he thinks. Beautiful in here. Something beautiful is in here. Someone. Something. Something can love me. Something. Even me. Still.

But he just tells himself that to make himself feel better; he isn't sure he believes it. He lives mainly through the memories of others, things he creates out of basic imagery. He sees them together, hobbles and scurries from the mountainous terrain, and peers at them, watching from behind thick trees, or high up in the branches. He watches them walking hand in hand, and his imagination takes flight, like it did with the music video. He wonders how they met, what they have in common, and he daydreams about how beautiful and perfect it must be. He stays in the shadows, hidden from view because he does not want to frighten them away. He puts all these things together, the best way he can, and creates a beautiful story he can go home with and tell himself over and over is real. He is a wretched, miserable creature banished from civilization because he wanted to love something and he is a hideous creature, and this is his only contact with the rest of the world, but dreaming all the time. He spends the majority of his time picking flowers for someone he can never give them to. His cave is packed with mountains and mountains of flowers he wanted to give to someone, anyone, but they are all dead now. He would not make a good household pet. Claws pluck at his sleep. Long, slippery wet tentacles tickle his chin. In his dreams, he is beautiful, strong, and handsome, and he holds an inspiring, lofty position above the earth. People are clamoring to love him, hear his story, and he gives them everything they ever wanted. It brings tears to his eyes. Everyone loves him. He has a thousand friends. They never wished him away. They always wanted him near. They want to help him.

A beautiful thing holds him close, hands soft and warm, delicate, and tells him he is beautiful, too, and it makes him cry. He has never felt this. He never thought it possible. He had given it up long ago, despite the way he dreams.

And then he wakes, and the dream is so vivid in the real world, he really does cry, because this is something that happens every day. He should know better by now, but it doesn't get any easier. He whimpers and kicks his legs. He tries going back to sleep to recapture, to go back there, but it's too late now. He wonders about the cruelty of it, and why, but he still doesn't have any answers. It is cruel, he thinks, brutal, heartless trickery, a black and bitter betrayal. But what can he do?

He cannot go back to sleep. He knows these cold wet rocks better than anyone. Fancy again comes to life, something pretend, walking side by side something, anything, as long as it's alive. He doesn't care. As long as it isn't cruel. He doesn't want cruel. Alone and cruel he knows. Alone and cruel he knows better than anyone. He dreams that someday it will liberate him. He doesn't know when, or if, but it's a dream he has, and that is what he knows. Loneliness and dreams. But he sees it. And maybe that is all that matters, this thing he sees. This clarity, this ray of yellow silver light, penetrating everything, warming his skin. He never knew what that felt like either, but he likes it. He has never had warm skin before.

He climbs up the rocks, higher and higher, grabbing hold, his hands and feet made for this, steep, jagged rocks that disappear into the sky, blanketed by clouds, and up and up he climbs. Up and up he goes, stopping once to look behind him at the rest of the world, a sea of mountains, trees, rivers, and clouds as far as his beady eyes can see. There are lights far off, the rest of civilization at the edge of the world where he falls in love every day, and every day has his heart broken. So, thinking this, he turns and continues upward, not knowing where he goes, not knowing if it matters, not knowing if he cares. It is just something to do, something to put more distance between he and the rest of the world. Enough distance and maybe it will disappear. Maybe he won't have to worry about it anymore if he just keeps climbing and climbing until he can't climb anymore. It will all be erased from his mind the farther up he goes and he won't have to worry about anything anymore, about the black feathers that cover the private song he sings.

From the distance, he is a lone light in the darkness. He doesn't know it, but he is. Anyone and everyone from the world he leaves behind, from the edge of civilization, can see him clearly. They watch him carefully as, like a star, he moves up toward the dome of heaven.

My Language Is Yellow

The yellow sun warms my cheek as I walk along the bike-trail beside the water. I look up, trying to bring the deep, unbroken blue of the sky inside me. I will be a marble, I think. I will change colors as I go, and I will be space and crystal September sky. Crisp, cool blue sky high up in the air overseeing, overlooking, seeing all. I will take all this inside me, and it will turn my skin the same shade of blue.

There is not a single cloud in the sky, the perfect autumn day, late September, mid-seventies, on my way to the library for another translation of Ovid, because I simply can't decide. Who can bring that original muse to life in its most dreamy and poetic form? I could always learn Latin, perhaps, or Italian, the thought I had while reading the Divine Comedy, but I guess we'll see how it goes. It's just a phase, I know, but one I appreciate. This is what I do, after all. A writer reads. He is a greedy, avaricious reader. He is a gluttonous, always hungry, insatiable reader. He is a beast of a reader. He is a monster with what he reads. He is a rapacious, slavering beggar with every damn thing he can read.

The Divine Comedy, I think, in all its original glory. I almost feel like a schmuck for not reading it in Italian. If you love to read that much, why wouldn't you learn another language? But that's for later, after I read everything first in English. I'll understand it as much as I can first before taking that step. I have a lot I still don't understand.

I'm always transfixed by the rich, velvety green of the leaves on the trees against the blue backdrop of the sky. The contrast of the green on blue says: Life, light, and color. Maybe I should've worn yellow.

Yellow marigolds in bunches occupy a huge clay pot on the top of the bridge as I walk under. Yellow cornflowers, also in bunches, branch off to my right. There were sunflowers before all this by the other bridge a while back, like bright yellow signposts telling me “Here you are again.” Bright yellow smiling face.

I never really thought much of the color yellow. One of my brothers likes yellow, but I never saw the attraction until today. What is yellow? Even the name, after a while, looks odd. Yellow, for a bright, almost obnoxious banana, taffy, lemon yellow. Everyone knows yellow. Even writing the word looks funny. Yellow. Like it could be someone's name. But now it is standing out everywhere, and it isn't clashing with the bright blue and rich green, but adding another dimension to it. You'd think it were spring instead of fall with all these natural shades of color. Sunshiny bright, warm yellow blue, strong rays of the sun, rejuvenating yellow. I picked a good day to walk.

The clear running water to my left, now as I look, only adds to it, a crystal transparency where you can see its coldness without having to touch or taste it. Smooth, polished stones shimmer bright under the water and the sun, and me, going in and out of the shade of the trees. I am wearing black (nothing unusual there), more smiles along the path than I am used to seeing, maybe because today I'm paying attention. Smile reflects smile, reflects smile, reflects blue and yellow sky with rich tapestries of green. Yellow is the armor of the sun, the warm plates I use to shield myself against the smoky black of hardship, confusion, and dark clouds. Yellow mixed with incandescent white and blinding silver can penetrate anything.

Here, little yellow ball of the sun. Reside inside me, warm my chest, my bright, sky blue arms. Overpower this oppressive, poisonous black stain to white. I have had my fill of pain and sorrow. Now, I can see the strength and beauty in yellow.

I smile, my cheek is warm. A biker rides past, all business in slacks and a bright yellow shirt and tie. Another signpost, as if in confirmation. Warm yellow armor slips boldly, nobly into place, and my skin turns bright, September blue, some poetry of some new language I long to speak without someone else's translation.

Born Broken

You tease me with your sacred silence. I had forgotten how hard it was to reach out and hold this tiny ball of the sun. It warms my skin, dries all the tears on my face, and makes the leaves rustle and burn behind me as they spiral out of control.

I go deeper inside. I cannot care anymore what the world thinks of me. Have me or destroy me. It’s not up to me anyway. I’m out there for everyone to see, but I’m met with walls of shadow. I think I must be deeper than I realize, which is why I spend all my time here. I can’t conform to shallow routines. I'm simply intensity too hard to handle. Anymore, I think it must be a curse, the role I have to play, all this pressure inside, a deep, unbroken sea, while the games wage war from up above. I can think of you no longer. It simply brings too much pain. I cannot pretend, or breathe your face, wish you into existence, pretend you’re real, have you there when I need you most. It’s like trying to hold a shadow, a puff of smoke, and I think about how much time I've wasted, how much got away from me, trying to believe it was all real. My heart alone is more than I can take. I wrap it up on a daily basis, trying to stop the bleeding, but nothing helps. I go deeper inside, hiding inside me, curl into a little black ball that blots out the sun.

I used to want to make it sing, louder than anyone could hear, deafen your ears, make your heart soar, change you as a person, make you think and be something you never thought you could be before. Maybe I could write poetry that moved easily, like water over polished stones. I am my own deception. I create the lies, all the situations that make me think there’s hope out there, but I get in my own way. I didn’t know there was more than one of me. All this talk and crazy voices, drowning out the life I see, and they won’t go away. They speak and make mouths on the table, on the walls and counter tops. Eyeballs watch me from every which way. It is just me in here, with all this going on, worlds upon worlds, and I haven’t touched the one I really live in. I wonder what my fate must be. I don’t care if I never make a million dollars. I realized that was never the most important thing, just another reason to be a prisoner to a materialistic regime. I don’t care anymore if I meet the woman of my dreams. She’s brought me too much pain that I can bear, and I haven’t even seen her face.

The leaves rustle, burn like crimson, and turn away again, unable to stop these tears on my face. Odysseus cried a lot, it seemed, and there was never a stronger man. This does not make me weak, I tell myself. But I’m not sure I believe it. Odysseus was, after all, a king.

I wanted to write all these sonnets for you, little poems about love, how much you mean to me, change the face of art as we know it, save a life or two. I figured that was a noble dream, but too high a delusion, and it just made me insane. Between these two demon voices waging war with each other is my twisted face anyway, nothing more than a lonely, haggard visage, haunted by everything and feeling too much. I adopt other people’s pain. It seeps inside and won’t go away, makes me feel I’m being generous at least, performing some selfless, charitable deed. Do they feel better after they give it to me? Or maybe I take it without asking. Helps me forget who I am. That is not a bad thing. I am a ghost to myself. My whispers bear no weight. Cry on my shoulder, but try not to fall through. I am not substance. I never have been.

Cut me here. And here. And here. And there. Sever everything that ties me to you, and watch me float away. Part of my fantasy was dreaming in space, beholden to none. None of the pressure now to be so perfect all the time, this impossible challenge, this quandary I gave myself. A belaboring issue warns. God, I just want to be rid of you! How long must you follow me around with your sad little eyes and your puppy dog tail? You make me so damn furious! What is this even supposed to be? Expression? Madness? Pain? I’m just tired of the same old things.

Lament and drop this heavy stone on me, my marker of repose. Leaden those skies! Burn my face with fire! I just need a really good excuse to not go out anymore. I guess my heart has shattered. Nothing surprises me anymore, gets me excited.

There is water in space. Pretty water, like silver, has bubbles. From there, maybe I can just watch the rest of the world go by. I can have my own silver bubble, just for me, just my own, something outlandish, like a fairy-tale, that finally makes sense. Hope, I think, would have been a good thing to go without. Hope creates want, and want creates pain. If only I’d never had hope, I think, I could’ve learned how to live, learned how to breathe. Hope is a devil of a thing. All this wanting, all this longing, human ache opened up a wound here, a wound there, watching my blood spill out all over the place. Angry voices telling me I’m not good enough, reminding me I’m not a movie star, that everyone has wants and wants and wants, and the things I have to give no one cares about, so get used to it. They want football stadiums, fancy meals, and travels around the world. I’m just another poor and lonely man among the rest, a heart twice as big as his chest, and not a single confession can I utter that means anything. I'll take just one soul who cares.

I’m trying to let them go, trying to forget them. I’m not sure what that means. I put my hands to my ears and scream and scream and scream. Shards of broken glass lodge in my throat. Just to think…Something still…something broken…something beautiful. Beauty is different for everyone, I guess. This is okay. This is beautiful to me, despite what you think.

Something soft…a rose petal maybe between my fingertips, satin against my cheek. Left out here in the middle of the highway with my guts spilled out all over the place and only a needle and thread to stitch me back together. Born broken. Two demon horns lodged into my chest, driving me up against the wall. Confessions and honesty that amount to shit, that amount to shit, that amount to shit. My face staring back at me in pity and shame. All I can do is shake my head. Maybe there’s something more important than dreams coming true. More than just a movie star. Loathe to live with myself, sick to read this drivel and blasphemy. I know that’s you Death, creeping around my door. What the fuck are you afraid of, you pansy-ass piece of shit?

Hold that pretty porcelain face, cupped in my two hands. Stare into my eyes. Look deep. Deeper still. Beg. Plead. No. No. Don’t cry. I need you to see something beautiful inside. What a fool I am, with only myself to blame.

I shatter another glass in two, look behind me and cry some more, wondering how all this happened, who made me what I am. Was it me? Was it you? God above? A choice I made? Not sure why. There must’ve been a reason. Because it simply seemed like the right thing to do. I look behind me, demon’s at my heels, a horde of them, laughing, grumbling, garbled voices, claws like teeth, teeth like knives. Sometimes there are simply too many wounds to heal, and there I take on the wounds of others. Lessen your pain. Make you smile. Put myself on hold for a while. It’s okay. It takes me out of myself. That’s the best gift I can give. Helping you while helping me. “Could someone pick up my arm and put it back in place? I can stitch it back together myself.”

There is a child there, sucking his thumb, his back against the wall. He is terrified, too afraid to even cry, to speak. We all have one. I step close, bend down, but he doesn’t recognize me. His eyes are sewn shut.

Tiny sun. Little ball of white. Fill my hands, warm my brain, give my heart a golden plate. Satin between my fingertips. Rose petal on my cheek. Going deeper. Deeper still. Always deeper. Suffocation. Under water pressure. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Deeper still. I have to do this, uncover as much as I can, despite how much it terrifies me. I tell myself this makes me brave, but I wonder…I’m starting to think this is a full time job in here, and that’s just the way it’s gonna be. All those dreams will have to wait a while.

I whisper to myself: Demon Slayer. Knight of Honor, Truth and Chivalry. Poet Prince. Golden Warrior of the Sun, to make myself feel better. I know they’re in there somewhere. I am good for something, something for me, something for you, even if you’re not there. Wanting just got in the way. Painful wanting. Bitchy, horrible, asshole wanting. You got in the way of all the good things, all the things I tried to do that meant something beautiful. None of them with you. How I wanted. How I prayed. God, at least, gave me a heart, a spirit strong enough to endure it. Does being alive mean I obtained a victory? I can hurt. I can bleed. Thank God for that. Some cannot. I can make my emotions count for something, for someone, even if only for pretend. Even if for me. It’s about time I put myself at the front of the line. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before.

Silence echoes through my den. My pen falls and writes again. I have nothing new to say, nothing to change any lives, just another confused muse trying to get through, wanting to make sense out of something senseless. Why not through me, I think? I needed something to do anyway. There’s still so much I don't understand, after trying so hard, after coming so far. Did I think a reward would be given? That I deserved some Nobel Prize? That I was entitled? Was I really that naïve? I deserve to be humbled.

Something’s clawing at my window. Best to leave it be. My footsteps fade and echo along the street. I walk by couples holding hands and utter to every one of them, barely above a whisper: “May you always be in love.”

Nothing Broken

I have walked along the trail of fire, no longer composed of shadows and screams, nightmare visions, ripping up through my spine and into my brain, shattering me in two, like it used to do. This softer, newer place is more like a quiet lullaby, fireflies between the trees, every dream I have shared with another, and every other sharing their dreams with me. This boldness allows me to see things from a higher plain, clouds all around me, where I have to stand on my tippy-toes to see over and above and into everything else. Everything as it really is, as things really are, which is sometimes better than pretend. These aren’t illusions anymore. Hope swells here, my chest burns bright, and I feel like flames from the sun. Precious diamonds make my skin. I am a spectrum, a prism of light and color. My eyes turn everything magical. I begin to think of words that never existed in my vocabulary: Glory, Mighty, Awe. An angel hums in my ear, a clarion call.

All things mesh together, realizations of light-colored eyes, reasons for the way things were that have easy explanations now. Forgiveness held more power than I ever imagined, a chain that reacts to love, that reacts to joy, that reacts to bliss, that concludes with Freedom, which makes it all go round and round again.

It’s funny to walk on two feet, to be on solid ground, and feel like you’re flying. My heart is a lance, penetrating every breast I walk beside and encounter. Nothing broken. No shadows. No torture chambers. No permeable darkness. No laughter mocking me.

Someone told me I created all this, but I never thought I could take credit for that. But now, I see they weren’t lying. Several conscious efforts put me here, standing tall, proudly, surveying the scenery. What do I have this sword for? A spiritual dragon cannot be slain by such superficial means. My hair is blowing in the breeze, and all around me—vineyards, farmlands, sheep grazing, rolling hills after hills of lush, deep green. The sky is a perfect, cerulean blue with huge white clouds lazily moving across the sky like giant spaceships. Tiny cottages dot the landscape. A cliff overlooks an endless, unpredictable sea. Birds call, seagulls. I think I see a sea-lion or two. I could stand here all day. Nothing’s stopping me. Maybe I will. I have this valorous duty to defend the land, my King and Queen, rise in the face of wrong-doing to set things right, be a strong and noble man to some fair maiden, and tell her chivalry is an honor I practice every day. I’ll invite you to my castle, and we’ll read poetry by candlelight and you will see a side of me far from the battlefield. No, my dear, please. Do not get up. Let me…

To capture all this beauty in ink is impossible. How do you capture a feeling on a page? You can paint a picture, see a knight in armor, feel the warmth of the sun penetrating my breastbone. Some come close. Truth is all there is here. Truth captured. Truth fought for. Some naïve nobility I laugh at, but I cannot help but be me.

Radiant smiles leave an impact like a cannonball. Keep that fire burning. I want it never to leave me. I put it in an unbreakable jar for safe-keeping. No one can touch it then.

Pretend, imagine, go away to some lost paradise, some fairy-tale creation, a perfect fantasy of my own making and watch it come to life. Someone tells me I created all this, and it turns real. It was real all along.

I burn like fire. This trail is easy to follow once you get the hang of it. I am like a lost treasure waiting to discover myself, and amazed by what I find. You mean all that was inside of me?

There are no shadows here, and nothing is broken. Love burns with blinding, white incandescence, knocks on my door, and by God, it wants to stay! It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

If you’ll excuse me, I have to set the table and get dinner ready. Playing a good host is one of my favorite things.

If Not For All the Screaming...

Here's another little horror tale in the traditional sense. Available on the Nook for only .99 cents. Don't have a Nook, no problem. You can download the app, too, my friends!

If Not For All The Screaming...

The Truck Driver

One of my very first horror story ideas, available through Kindle or Kindle apps. For a measly .99, you can't go wrong.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YEZB8E