This Might be a Poem

The young wife in the kitchen

Slumped with her arm on the window

Sill like a lazy vacationer

Her skirt tucked and legs bound

To the cool reflection of tile

Drink from the bottle held careless

As a cigarette though the price

Of wine and tangles in her hair

Betray casual Friday with

Mascara smears

Her gibbering a whisper but

I find it clear her vile sin

A pitiable sight

Crackle. That’s all I could hear. Crackle. Crackle.

A million cracklings laid atop one another, percolating. Roiling. It was the sort of popping sounds that you really couldn’t imagine being anything but what it was. Even if you never knew fire, you knew the sound. The fire wasn’t really the danger, all things considered. The inky black smoke – yes, that’s where the danger truly lied. It twisted into my lungs before I could stop it, tickling in the worst kind of way. Smothering me. Trying not to cough only made it harder, so I coughed until I thought my chest would collapse on itself.

I looked up, tears streaming from my eyes as the smoke crept there, too. The sky was blotted out – no stars. Only smoke, billowing up in puffs. They were trying to imitate the clouds, I knew. But they could never be clouds.

The fire, yes. That was the crackle. I could barely see it, either. It was smoldering and licked just behind everything. Just out of sight. Glow, but no fire.

I felt empty and invaded, like a glass bottle thrust into a bath of water. The air ushered out by a dominating force. For me, the smoke. I was the smoke. The fire wanted to wrap its reaching, delicate fingers around my arms. To hold me like a lover, to kiss my mouth. We were perfect for eachother – smoke and fire. I blinked away the tears and I didn’t notice when my knees gave out. I vaguely felt the ground as I hit it, but it wasn’t enough to rouse me.

It was the fire I wanted, I think. When it brushed the hair from my face, I knew it was going to be okay.

It was warm. So I closed my eyes.

Tree

I've never been one to be afraid. No normal man feels terror at the tooth of bark beneath their fingers. This Tree bothers me though. Touching is seems like touching the hand of an unpleasant sort of fellow. It's like I'm giving Charon the fare for my journey. But instead of gold or promises, the price is my life. With a frown tweaking the corner of my mouth, I move my fingers. A sliver of breath  between my calloused flesh and the white bark. But it feels like an eternity away. My gray eyes cast themselves up, up towards the twisting, gnarled branches of this Tree. Nothing about them should be frightening. They've still got their leaves which rustle with the fall wind. Still green. It looks like they should be turning soon, but they don't. They never have. Green against that stark whiteness. It's not like the Tree of Gondor, though. It's as bright, but in it I find no hope. I don't seem to want to focus on the leaves. They shift in and out of focus, like they're trying to turn my head away from the fruit upon their branches. It's a pretty,  smooth fruit that I imagine has a pulpy texture. Maybe like a plum. I could have a plum if I wanted - it's just a little ways back in my orchard. But they aren't really in season, either. Still, that fruit in this Tree looks..good. Orangy purple with flecks of green and yellow. And smooth. 

I have to take my eyes off of it. It makes me dizzy to look too long at the leaves that want me to play hide and seek. So I lean against the trunk and my back grows cold. It brings an ache to the teeth in the back of my mouth. A tugging. I grind my teeth a little, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s a marriage of electricity and power. But the cold is what grips me. A few seconds longer and I may have gone mad – so I pull away. The gray falls from my eyes. Green again. I could not see my own eyes, of course, but I knew. They would be a dusky, pine-needle green for awhile. They’d get bright again. They always did, right?

The Tree whispered something, but I missed it. And I was glad. The voice was as cold as the bark, but it drilled into the soul instead of the skin. I left. I had to; the Tree would’ve harassed me.

I was told to stay away from it anyway.

Synthetics and Overtones

I had to write two sonnets for Creative Writing. One is about robots. The other has spiritual overtones, though I never try to be obvious about it. But I think it is kind of obvious. I don't claim to be a poet (to be honest, it's not my strong point. I can appreciate poetry and love it, but I'll stick to writing narratives.) These are potentially very rough drafts.

Synthesize numbers and strings in a line

Process with logic; no room for error

Inhumanity’s heavy; I its bearer

My heart does not beat in rhythm or time

 Point A and Point B, reason without rhyme

Impartial justice, what could be fairer?

Spectrums of gray breed nothing but terror

All is equation and every fact mine

Activate: wink into counterfeit life

Framed up in silicone and in plaster

I see flesh and call it a disaster

There’s no emotion, no cut of a knife

I could be happy, this data is key

When you are in the ground, I will be free.

 ________________________

Borrowed and Blue

Cast me away and drape me with wire

No hesitation: hide my heart in death

Broken in two and licked by the fire

Smother everything and misplace my breath

Life is not bought lacking a sacrifice

And death affords us no second chances

So kill the deadness and trap every vice

And crush this branch without second glances

But raise me with courtesy to forgive

Buy me; dress me in things borrowed and blue

Light the stars in my eyes starting to live

I am yours: your heart, your ransom, your dues

This’ no victory march; that title’s taken

I would not trade it, be not mistaken

Shell Station

Ghost town. That really what you could call it. Though “town” was kind of stretching it. It was really just a gas station on a long road of nothing that gave the vague impression that there was a dusty little backwoods town somewhere nearby. Daniela pulled up on her motorcycle. At one time in her life, it could have been a polished Ducati. Not now, no. It was a little Yamaha, a sporty black YZ6R. Her dirty fingers tore the helmet from her head, then wiped her forehead, beaded with sweat. It left a trail or dirt where she touched while the breeze twisted away at her dark curls.

Daniela peered at her surroundings first. Her time on the road had taught her caution. Behind her, the road, and a thick line of pine trees. Most of them looked dead or scorched, their branches looking sad and twisted like lame, reaching hands that begged for pity. Was she in Tennessee now? She thought she must be. Daniela snatched her keys protectively, jammed the kickstand down, and looked at the gas pump with acute irritation.

The whole station looked awful, like the sort of place a horror movie would be filmed. Dusty with flecking, dull paint and rust and grease. A bug-filled light flickered above her head. Daniela kicked the gas pump, which was either long dry or simply no longer functioning. She wasn’t going to last long without fuel.  

The woman brushed her dark curls over her shoulder, bundled her jacket that much closer to her body, and headed from the entrance. A flashlight came from her pocket as she reached the broken glass that heralded the entrance. Careful not to cut herself, she slipped in. The flashlight illuminated dust more than anything, filtering across the beam intrusively. Most shelves were long empty. Looted, most likely. Money was useless now anyway. At least there were no people here, hunching in the darkness and hissing like feral cats at anyone who invaded their haven.

Daniela snatched the few remaining Slim Jims from the floor. Gallon of water. She was surprised they were there at all, but considering the distance from civilization, perhaps she shouldn’t have been. It wouldn’t have been the first place people fled to when the end came. It was kind of lonely. An unloved gas station, left to rot. Gutted. Forgotten. Alone.

But they were all alone.

The Mine

Day One

I don’t recall the events that landed me in this world. I don’t understand why it was me. Perhaps I’d have a better idea as to why if I remembered who I was. But, here I am. The coastal waters lap against the sand in a deceptively peaceful way, but I have the feel I shouldn’t be lulled into complacency. Something is very, very wrong. From the sea and thin strip of white sand, the terrain towers. Mountains, cliffs, peppered and punctuated with flourishing trees. It looked like the perfect vacationing spot.  But I don’t feel like I can stay here. So I walk. Uphill. Before I know it, the walking turns into climbing. The dirt gets packed beneath my nails and sweat forms on my back, my brow. But I don’t stop. No, I only pause once when it looked like the tree just below me moved in a way it shouldn’t have.

It was satisfactory to reach the top, though my lungs stung and my throat went dry. At the peak, it took my breath away anyway. An endless expanse unfurled beyond the horizon, hazed in the furthest of distances. Seas shimmering, mountains and plains and gently sloping hills. Clouds drifted in rolling pulses, the sun winking behind. I found it utterly breathtaking – such a beautiful world! I could not, however, ignore that lack of towns or buildings, or any sign of my kind. Where were the people? Below, sheep milled around in the grasses. No shepherd tending them. I wait in my spot on the mountain top; letting the wind ruffle my hair. It felt like one of those pleasant spring days that left you wishing every day matched it. My stomach growled, rousing me from the enjoyment of my surroundings. I became increasingly aware of my need for the necessities, the ones they also told us about in survival classes. Shelter, water, food. But where could I possibly start? I had no tools and this was not the jungles of South America. There were no banana leaves for roofing. Start small, I suppose.

I picked up a big, flat rock and I started to dig a shelter into the side of my mountain. Dirt would do for now. The sun started to set behind me as I dug. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.