golden afternoons.Theyd just finished cleaning their tools when they gave Alice the look.She knew what the look meant. The look meant pain; it meant broken skin and broken bones and broken blood and broken dreams.But she wasnt afraid - Alice was half-lion after all, and since those days in the reverends basement, when hed bound her quietly and taught her things no girl her age should have to learn so soon, she was not afraid.You can never be ready, the man with rabbit ears told her. She thought they looked like rabbit ears, at least. You can never be ready, and you know it. So well try to make it easy for you. He smiled. She grimaced. She didnt like when he smiled - it looked too forced, too artificial. He didnt smile again. This will only hurt a second, said the man with the hat. Nighty night, said the sleepy mouse man.Even when they made the first incision, she didnt flinch. Keeping up ima
songs for casmir.You killed a man, didnt you? The man on the news.Yes.They stood in an alley. It was dark, and it was snowing, as it often did in winter. There was a long silence that seemed to hang in the air. It wasnt an uncomfortable silence rather, it was a respect for something dead.I see, she croaked. It was all she could manage. They stared at each other for a long while. She didnt try and look for any sign of love there, in his eyes. She would be a fool not to know it wasnt there.I could kill you if I wanted to, he said. You know that, right?She nodded. He shifted nervously from foot to foot. Neither spoke for a good minute.A voice from over his shoulder called out that they were leaving, but he did not turn away from the petite girl in front of him. A cold wind curled around their forms, and she shivered pitifully. She glanced at the knife he gripped tightly in his left hand, and for a moment imagi
DetoxLike lilies grow in stagnant bleach,so must you endure.So here is your list;Monday is for shockTuesday is for nostalgiaWednesday is for hatredThursday is for hopeAll you have said in words and in poems has been lost to firesSet alight by waning cigarettes & the breath of dragons that have curled within your handsYou cannot drop kick them, for fear they mightlatch onto your bleeding anklesAnd take what spark is left from your first marriage.Your liver has learned that screaming does no good; it only provokes you more,the numbness of your common sense the equivalent of tomato tears poured on open sores.Red wine(It might as well be daggers)And it must be blindingbecause I can think of no other wayYou can sit there and look me in the faceTell me how to direct my lifeWhen you ruined it; when you both ruined itWith scotch, gin, tonic, wineFlaming molotov candles would burn down this houseIf I ever stoppedIf I ever tried to remember how it feelsto bloom in
Excerpt from 'December.'Its been seven years since that monumental day, but I swear, if I ever forgot a second of it...Winterberry Elf is one of the few surviving members of the insurgences Snow Bomber Squad, a special forces cell that played a key role in ending Santa Claus ruthless genocide of the people of Snowy Wood. A rare double agent among the ranks of Claus forces, it was her access to the Toy Shop War Councils plans that guided the rebels to victory in the Battle of the Christmas Tree Grove. Now 32, Winterberry is currently living in a location that cannot be disclosed in this article. She is retired, unmarried, and spends most of her days assembling the North Poles long forgotten history, which until the collapse of Claus rule, was largely unknown due to propaganda campaigns ran by the Big Fat Liar (Claus), or, BGL, for the previous seven centuries.Forgive me. Im a little distracted - we all get a little dis
Piece.How easily it can be broken,Fragile like glass or a child's finger bone. Slender and quivering in a cold graspEyes milky white glass orbs It isn't sympathy, It's Fate, and it's blind ignorance to youWaiting for a tweak / crack / snap of pale marrow branchesTo let you, the fawn, frightened andbreathing warilyKnow when to bolt from the hungry wolfFaster Even though we all know it's only a pinch of salt a wisp of smoke away from tearing into you.
twitch.too quiet to realizethat while plucking out the heart stringsyoud cut your fingera million little dead things tumbling from where your sickly pallor had opened uptheres no more life left in you to sell on the street corneryoull substitute it for sex in back allies, fancy carsletting people shit on you for five bucksit feels like Vietnam all over again.your daily creed consists of get the fuck out of my wayand the mini-skirt you wear earns you a fist in your facespit your splintered teeth onto the groundlike apple seeds (they're too sour for my taste)and keep going.you had your hand in writing at some pointand it was sharp like used needles that gave you some kind of diseasethe scars remind you of when the Muse went AWOLshe didnt even bother to say goodbyejust packed her bags and left.sometimesyou cant force the smileand its hard not to just pull the plugrip out your own feeding tubetake a flying leap andbecome one w
Empty Rooms.It was the day that the animals left,All of them,By land, sea or air,Without so much as a goodbye.And at the command of the Lord,they gathered at the Edge of the World,And all leapt into the darkness -Save for the MonkeyWho, with a bruised banana and shiny key,Returned to the Forests and locked their gates,The vines and roots curling up and weaving togetherIn a great impassible barrier,For he, in all his trickery, could not bear to leave.It was the day that the stars fell,One by one, shot out of the skyBy Great OrionAs he unleashed his arrow, filled with all his pain and malice.And as their cold, pale bodies fell to the EarthAnd littered the streets of Man's great citiesThe people, in all their ignorance,Saw that the stars were not lightBut virgins, cloudy-eyed and silver-hairedStrung up against black velvet skiesTo watch for the death of newborns.It was the day that the World -Ravaged and rotting as it was -Was returned to the Children of the Hills.All the f