Poems

Gesundheit

It can start from anything
or nothing at all
But once the fuse is ignited,
It cannot be put out
by even the most airtight press.

It's over in an instant,
And
yet
the
buildup
slows
everything
like
a dam
lowered into a dam a stream of time.

Then,






unexpectedly,






even though you had the feeling
it would happen all along,
you feel the silence
remorselessly bludgeoned to

DEATH

, then,

There is the horrible shapeless mess
that lingers for a lifetime
or what's left of them.

-

transfUsion
today,
i Stole.
a glancE at my veiNs
being roBbed
by plastic,
belOngings stored
in gLass bags.
never to be seen again.

4/4

Ricky Judd, owner of Judd Harmonics, was, as far as his customers could see, in an illogically good mood. Outside of his store, a blizzard was raging, and everyone who was browsing was merely feigning interest to escape the cutting wind and the blinding snow. He wouldn’t make any profits at all for the day, since no one in their right mind would come out in that death storm to buy music products, of all things.

But they were wrong. The hammer of the bell on the door swung back and forth, and a grin flashed onto Ricky that was too large for his face. He knew he had been wrong to doubt.

“What have you got for me, Ricky?”

The blizzard-slaying warrior was Kilik, the town’s most prestigious music enthusiast (or “audiophile”, as he preferred). Music was his single, solitary passion. He devoted every waking moment to it; playing it, producing it, and listening to it. Teaching was what he did for money, though he wanted his tracks to be noticed by a big company. He was a prodigy when it came to instruments – he had become exceptional at so many that it only took him a few weeks to learn new ones.

Two weeks was also the amount of time between Ricky’s shipments, and so every other Saturday morning, Kilik would inevitably drop by the store and buy something new to bolster his collection and playing ability. Ricky always tried to special order the most exotic, arcane, and more importantly, expensive instruments for Kilik to buy. He didn’t always nab one, but today he had.

“Kilik, my good fellow, please come back this way, yes, I just received the most excellent thing from Italy-“

“I’ll have it.”

He always jumped on a yes like that. Ricky’s grin became even more obese. “Well, we can’t have you just pay for it without even taking a look at it, here, here…”

Ricky pulled out a very large case from under the desk, shaped much like a guitar’s, but Kilik knew what it was. Ricky popped it open, revealing a lute with a neck of double length.

“A theorbo?” said Kilik immediately, with a tone of annoyance.

“Yes, yes, a theorbo, and a very well crafted one, at that-“

“I don’t want it.”

These words were foreign to Ricky. Kilik had never refused an instrument from him before. Ricky’s salesman instinct took control and he started to sell. “Well, the $9000 price tag may look a little steep for what you are receiving, my boy, but I assure you, its sound is completely unlike-“

“You’ve sold me one of these,” sighed Kilik. Paralytic silence. “A few months ago.”

He then promptly turned from the cash register, retrieved a crash cymbal, paid, and left the store. Tinkle, tinkle. Clockwork. The usual.

Whenever Ricky couldn’t pull through an instrument in time, Kilik would always buy a new piece for his drum set. Percussion was his favourite of all; he’d spend half of any day on the drums. Other musicians would often find it curious that an instrumental prodigy would find percussion, the only type of instrument lacking in pitch, their favourite. After all, they’re simple. Hit the drum, receive one sound. They don’t have any edge. And besides that, he produced his music electronically – everything he could do on the drums, he could reproduce digitally with a drum machine with no effort. Thump, thump, snap, snap.

Kilik was halfway across the street when it happened. The snow shrouded him until the tires were on the ice. Braking did nothing. The stock truck picked up him and tossed him thirty feet into a neighbouring parking lot, where Kilik’s head collided with a car mirror, shattering both his skull and the mirror. He hit the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Kilik’s new crash cymbal followed suit. It sounded like a drum fill. Bass, snare, ride, bass, crash.

He tried to have his work produced professionally, sending in tracks to all of the biggest record companies. They all said the same thing. “You are extremely talented, and your mastery over each instrument is awe-inspiring – the harmony, the melody, all genius... But it’s a little repetitive. This is so close to being great, you know. Just add some variety. Put in a bridge or two. A break. Different fills. Something.” Couldn’t they understand it? It was art. It was perfection. Variety would destroy it.

When he regained consciousness, he was in a hospital bed. There was an IV in the back of his hand, pumping huge amounts of some mysterious colourless substance into his arm. Kilik figured it was painkiller; painkiller that wasn’t doing a very good job.

Beep. Kilik turned to his right, and noticed a vitals monitor. Beep. On top was his heart, a line bouncing up and down and beeping with each spike. Beep. Kilik was fascinated. He was reminded of an instrument he had, used by monks in their ceremonies. Beep. Monks could slow their heart rates until they appeared dead. Kilik tried it, and found it surprisingly easy to slow it down. A much more suitable tempo for the situation. Beep. He fell asleep and began to dream.

He was seven, and he had just brought a book home that he had gotten from the library. It was fiction, a story that didn’t really happen. Kilik showed it to his parents.

“No, you don’t want to read that, honey, it’s boring,” said his mother.

“Why don’t you go play your drums, instead?” added his father, nodding him on.

But he hadn’t. He went into the basement, turned on a song, pretended to be listening, and started reading.

It was fascinating. Beep. So much imagery. Beep. Music couldn’t express this. Beep. Then they found him. Beep. In the basement. Beep. With the. Beep. Book. Beep.

He beep had beep never beep seen beep his beep parents beep angry beep before, beep but beep now beep they beep were. Beepbeep they beepbeep started beepbeep spanking beepbeep him, beepbeep but beepbeep he beepbeep wasn’t beepbeep reacting beepbeep enough, beepbeep maybe beepbeep he beepbeep didn’t beepbeep understand, beepbeep so beepbeep they beepbeep started beepbeep landing beepbeep blows beepbeep on beepbeep him beepbeep with beepbeep fists. A bass backbeat. Boom. Beepbeepbeep. Boom. Beepbeepbeep. And now he couldn’t ever play again.

Beeeeeeeeeep.

They rushed to his room, but they were too late. He hadn’t seemed to experience any trauma, or have any reason for changing condition, said a nurse in a report. Maybe he just couldn’t stand the pain.

Heaven: Interlude / Heaven: Part 1

Despite the name, this is the second half of the story. For the first half, read the previous entry for Part 0.

Interlude

Part 1

THis time, He had been anotHer completely unexciting, dull person, only tHis girl had died in a mugging. He could have asked for better, but He had had worse.

He was raising His hand to put a mark in tHe wall wHen He realized that for tHe first time in His memory, something was strange in tHe chamber, and it was something that was in front of Him, on tHe wall. For a moment He tried to shrug it off, and put up His regular mark on tHe tally. THen tHe oddity bit through His willpower, and He tried to place it again. Without thinking, He etcHed anotHer mark, tHen realized His mistake and stomped in dismay.

It was tHen that He realized what was wrong - tHe chamber was brighter than it had ever been. He questioned tHe bulb on tHe ceiling, but it was off. However, His peripHeral vision caught anotHer source of light, and wHen He put it in focus, He scrambled backward into tHe wall, smashing His Head into tHe wood and crashing to tHe cement in horror.

One of tHe computers opposite to His was on. In front of it, facing Him, was a humanoid being that made a mockery of tHe word humanoid. Two arms and two legs It had; upright It stood. Its skin was complete unlike a human’s, though, or any otHer living creature’s. It was definitely white, and possibly glowed, though He was unsure wHetHer It really did emit light or an illusion of contrast. Its texture was mottled as though tHe skin of a corpse, but also scaly, and seemed to shift as though It was wrapped in live snakes. It wore fraying leatHer straps, and bone shards hung from sinew, all haphazardly hanging from Its shoulders and arms. In Its right hand was a shank of twisted, dark iron. Most alarming to Him, though, were Its eyes. THey were a black that filled Its eye sockets, and tHere was no gleam to tHem at all, like holes wIthout end.

It didn’t move. NeitHer did He. He wondered if It was looking at Him. He couldn’t tell.

He decided He needed to communicate with It, but He didn’t know how. He had no language, so He decided He would try to make a word up, one that said He wanted peace. He considered a moment, stared at tHe shank, gatHered His emotions togetHer, tHen made a sound.

Mmmmmnnnnnnn.

It still remained motionless. So did He. An hour passed. THen Its screen went completely white, and symbols started to appear on it. Inexplicably, like a dream, He knew what tHey meant.

In a few moments, I will be able to move, and when that moment arrives, I am going to kill you.

Fear and panic met in His Heart and reacted like cHemicals, foaming and spilling over, corrosive over His nerves. He started walking aimlessly around tHe room, considering His exits. He had three of tHem. THe doors. THe computer. He instinctively picked tHe computer. No. It was tHe easiest, but He knew that if He tried to escape into a life, It would wait until He came back. It was unavoidable. He had to go through a door.

He faced tHem and turned away again, two fears colliding into one anotHer. But It was tHe unknown versus a concrete threat. THere was no choice. He had to go through a door. He turned to tHe doors once more. He knew which He’d pick first - He had only toucHed tHe right door before, and It had seared Him. He had only assumed tHe left would do tHe same. He prayed (to what, He was unsure) that it would lead to an easy escape, tHen reacHed out, His hand hovering for a moment, tHen anotHer, tHen He grabbed tHe knob, twisted, and threw tHe door open in one motion, pulling His hand away as fast as He could.

THis door hadn’t stung Him. After a moment, it was clear why. On tHe opposite side of tHe door was a small space. It had a bar running across tHe top, on which one might hang clothing if one had hangers, but He had no hangers, so as far as He was concerned, It was empty. A horrible dread flooded His mind with tHe new knowledge that one of His potential escapes was eliminated, but despite tHe impending threat of death, tHere was a drop of comfort knowing that one of tHe doors He had feared for so long was nothing but a closet.

Now tHere was only one possibility left, and He was considering simply fleeing into tHe game to avoid It. Back and forth He paced, from door to computer. If such a horrible punishment was tHere for simply touching tHe door, would something even worse await Him if He opened it? Was opening tHe door going to be worse than facing It? Was Its threat empty?

THen His hand was on tHe knob, and tHe same barbed wire He feared above all else wound through His veins and mutilated His muscles, snapped His bones and scrambled His intestines. For a millenium, He stood paralyzed, but tHen He found His composure, and twisted His hand around. He felt His skin splintering for tHe affrontion, He knew His blood was bubbling out of His pores, and tHen It was sprinting towards Him, Its shank was reaching and It was diving for Him and tHe blade was miles millimetres from His throat.

Then the door opened a crack, and the chamber spilled out into infinity. Everything was nothing, nothing was everything, and it and he were dashed from existence forever. It was the most soothing feeling he had ever felt.

Heaven: Part 0

This is the first half of the story - see Part 1 for the last section.

--

It was a cool, breezy autumn day, and Dwayne Burkman was dying on the fiery leaves. Always having been the headstrong one, Dwayne had shrugged away three days of intense, steadily worsening chest pain with little more than a couple complaints and a handful of painkillers. Little did he know that he was trying to ignore a heart attack. Now he was to die at 34, and the family he once supported would be toppled.

His son was beside him, trying to talk his father into living, calling for his mother. They had been raking leaves together. Mrs. Burkman could not hear, and the poor boy was afraid to leave his father alone.

"Tim," Dwayne rasped, "Hold my hand." The boy did so, his moist, tear-soaked hand closing around his father’s. Dwayne noticed that his son was crying. He lifted his free hand up to the boy’s face, trembling, and tried to still his tears with his finger. He may as well have tried to stop a waterfall with a paper cup. Tim tried to think of something to say, but no sound escaped his throat. He was afraid.

Dwayne felt his energies failing. He knew he didn’t have long. "Tim... son... know that I love you, and I love your mommy, more than anything in the world... We’ll all be together again, someday." His breath caught, and he tried to smile. "I’ll see you later," he whispered, and he was dead, his heavy arm falling out of Tim’s grip with a thump. The boy tried to wake his father, but couldn’t. He ran inside.

Dwayne wasn’t aware at the time, but the last words he uttered were lies.

Outside of the spectrum, Dwayne woke from death. However, he was no longer Dwayne - Here, He had no name, a thousand of them. The Man stretcHed, and observed His surroundings as one observes tHeir home after returning from a vacation.

He was in a pitch black basement, square in shape, tHe sort that one would find in an abandoned old house. THe floor and bottom half of tHe walls were of cement and tHe top half of tHe walls were once wood, now rotten and warped. On one wall tHere was a window, up high and beyond reach, but tHe grime and dust that were caked into tHe glass shut out any light that could shine through. On tHe ceiling, tHere was a single light bulb, but if it had ever functioned at all it was now long burnt out, and rusted deep into its socket. In two corners tHere were metal tables, each one standing under two computers, which were perpetually off - tHe exception to which was His. Its monitor cast a shadow of colour on tHe black walls.

One of tHe walls was blanketed almost entirely in rows of untidy vertical scratcHes. It was tHis wall that He went to first, and using a fingernail, He scraped anotHer gash into tHe rotting wood, one of several thousand. His memory was limited, and so He could not remember more than a few marks on tHe tally. THis life had been relatively unexciting. Dwayne had been anotHer family man. THey were tHe most boring ones - tHeir conflicts were shallow, dull. Starving children were much more exciting. His last one like that, Zhurana, had drowned trying to escape a mudslide. Those were tHe sorts of deaths worth living for.

His eyes drifted up to tHe top right mark on tHe wall. It must have been tHe first - or at least, that’s tHe way He figured it, He couldn’t remember and chances were pretty good that it was. He wisHed that He had remembered what had happened before that. In tHe game, people marked tHeir thoughts on paper, but tHere was no language in tHis chamber. Even if He had a pen and paper, He hadn’t tHe slightest clue what He would write. It anguisHed Him.

He restlessly moved from tHe wall of marks to tHe wall of doors. THe two doors were tHe same design, but sight is only one sense. THe left door was dead centre on tHe wall, knob to tHe right, some of a shiny finish still clinging but most of it worn off to reveal tHe dull, wise metal beneath. THe latcHes indicated that it opened to tHe inside, but He had never opened it. He was afraid of what He might find.

THe rightmost door He couldn’t look at, but its memory was seared on His mind. It was symmetrical to tHe otHer door - knob left, latcHes outside. At a time, many milliseconds ago, His curiousity had manifested in tHe spontaneous way it often does, free of sense or caution. He had wanted to close His hand on tHe knob, feel it to ensure its reality, and turn it. After that, He had no idea what He would do. But tHe opportunity never came. THe moment His fingers grasped tHe handle, venomous electricity coursed up His arm, through His bones. A snake of ice slitHered through His ribcage and coiled up His spine, tHen squeezed, screecHed, shattered, exploded. He woke up several decades after with a new hard-coded fear of tHe door and its partner.

His eyes bowled under tHe corner and into tHe last few walls of tHe chamber. Here tHere were more doors, but tHey showed much less menace than tHe otHer two. Just black rectangles, with no knobs, set on glass that gave no promise of giving light. He didn’t know wHetHer He hated tHem or tHe doors more. At least tHe doors had tHe courtesy to say no. THe rectangles gave half-assed maybes.

He sat down and contemplated tHe glass bulb for a few picoseconds before stirring again. With His routine tour of His chamber complete, He sat back down at His computer screen, and in no time at all, tHe seat was empty, and tHe chamber still as tHe computer screen powered down and tHe chamber turned black.

--

More to come when I don't have an enormous headache.

Welcome to the jungle.

We've got fun and games.

I'll be putting all of my writing collectively on this blog, as well as thoughts, freewrites, and anything else that I feel like. Don't worry, though, I'll refrain from complaining about my bad days and emotional rampages.