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It’s strange I think, falling out of love with someone. It hurts like acid in your veins and lightning in your soul. Every living moment seeks to drown you. Of course, just as suddenly, you reach a calm. An eye of the storm. You see the person for who they are without the blinders. Without the little concessions you made of their actions and habits. You still love them;You are not in love with them. 

It is hard to see through all the raging emotions. Like walking through a blizzard. Snow and wind batter you side to side, you’re sense of direction is nonexistent, the way forward is unclear. 

Then the calm comes. A brief interlude to madness. You see the path before you with frightening clarity. You are  on the edge of a precipice, you had been trudging doggedly straight to the edge.  A narrow path leads to safety, or at least a safer place. The storm starts up again you hold onto that brief glimpse of your path. You try to make your way toward it. Each step heavy and ardous. The wind howls. The twin specters of hurt and anger howl along with it. 

Never listen to the specters. They want you to go back,  return to the cliff.  They only see what was, not what is. The only way out is through.  Give nothing to the storm; it will give nothing back. 

It’s an easy thing to let caring turn to anger and love become hate. The damage it does can eat away at your mind and leave you as nothing. Be aware of your thoughts and guard them carefully. A stray thought, a hint of memory is a traitorous thing. In this way hope is also to be avoided. 

Hope is more insidious than hate. More damming than rage. Hope tells you that things could go back to being okay. It whispers that there is always a way to make it work again. Hope is a damnable poison. There is no going back. No turning around. The reality is that your future is as bleak as what you left behind. So, focus on the now. One foot in front of the other. One day, then the next. 

Keep a small spot in your mind. Realize that you loved this person enough at one point you were willing to sacrifice your own self to be a part of their lives. Respect that sacrifice. 

Realize that the pain they caused hides the joy they delivered to you. Be mindful, but do not dwell. 

In the end it’s simply one more hill to climb. One more mountain to conquer. Eventually the storm fades and the sun shines again.  You are not living on the mountain or dying in the storm. It is just a single moment among so many others in your life.

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Posted by on November 8, 2016 in Uncategorized


And the dead shall walk the earth…

I’m back Otherfuckers.
After an acidic slide into the pits of depression, I’ve tore my way from my bedrock coffin and into the land of the dying.

It’s time to kick ass and chew bubble-brains.

I’m going to slam my synaptic meat sponge against the walls of good taste and self-deception in a fiery caffeine fueled explosion that will make Michael Bay quiver in jealousy and pleasure. Time to get to work.
Nose dick to the grind stone.
That’s right, It’s about to get freaky.

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Posted by on November 24, 2013 in Uncategorized


AND balanced!

systematic untruths snap fired from the lips of a falsified fool.
jestering the hideous embellishments pertaining to a null of expertise.
zero on the rigor. acidic lies sprayed like bullets through the mac-10 of misinformation and the cunning of a predator circling unguarded gullibility.
the blind leading the deaf and dumb.
cardboard shield of statistics hastily assembled.
source and citation ignored on the climb to the peak of entertainment.
the best of intentions blinded by the glitter of ignorance.
Charlatan grinning and capering around the child without wit.
Dance you motley motherfuckers.

A decrepit sigh and a flick of the button and the jesters vanish.

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Posted by on August 28, 2013 in Uncategorized


a glimpse of the distance

I foresee the gears of celestia mechanica this night
the briefest flash of my future
A question
and the Lagrange of causality will fall upon an answer.
thus is my future decided.
thus does my world hang on the edge of the knife.

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Posted by on December 31, 2012 in Uncategorized



Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge:

“I want you to write the last 1000 words of a non-existent novel.

In other words: “the ending.”

Now, you can be a bit meta with this — the ending in your mind may be a tidying up, a denouement, or you may instead choose to write a climactic end moment before imaginarily closing the curtains.”

So here goes.

As always,Comments & Criticisms are welcome.


I take another drink. She sits across from me and stares. judging? not judging? who gives a shit?
but then I know the answer to that don’t I? I do. I give a shit, but I’m trying my damndest not to show her that just the sight of her is killing me inside.
she smiles. I give a half smirk and take another drink. she tells me to listen. or says it. can’t tell.

she says she’s not trying to hurt me. I let out a laugh. louder than intended, but whatever.
she says That she explains that she has someone else. she starts that she knows how I feel- I interrupt that feelings are what I have only when there isn’t a bottle of gin nearby. I thought it was a pithy biting remark.
Instead she just looks….sad.
and my heart breaks all over again.
I keep it off my face. never let ’em see you bleed.
I shrug noncommittally as if we’re talking about next years playoffs.
Just another day. not my own personal Armageddon . I briefly consider how nice it would be if Armageddon or Ragnarok or the fucking Apocalypse,did come right now.
Then i realize if it was the Apocalypse, the Rapture would be first. and they’d take her and leave me.
fucking hilarious.
And maybe before the devil comes to shove a plate of burning coals up my ass, he can sit down and we can have a drink.
I bet the devil hasn’t had a decent drink in a while. No liquor for thousands of years. That would make anyone evil.
‘sides, he seems like a tequila kinda guy.
I  mention to her that the devil seemed like a tequila guy.
she’s givin’ me that look again. the sad look.
Shit, I’m drunk. She knows why I’m drunk. I know why I’m drunk. yet, I’m too goddamn stupid to admit it. too goddamn bullheaded. I thought we’d had something. fuck it. I was wrong. A guy can be wrong can’t he?

The bottle’s gettin’ empty. She turns her head as I pour another. I always tried not to drink around her. So much for that.
I shrug again and take sip.  

She nods to herself, as if my silence confirmed whatever she was thinking.
She gathers up her purse and her coat.
I watch, really watch, ’cause this’ll be the last time I ever see her again. I watch as her hair dances around her shoulders. The way the earrings droop down against her neck. The way she does her best not to look at me.
but she does.
She stands up straight and looks at me one last time.
I smile and give a casual salute.
I’m fucking dying.
Every breath is like sucking in molten lead. My chest wants to cave in. My eyes feel like concrete.
I would give the rest of this bottle for a bullet to my temple right now.  
She turns and walks towards the door.  She pauses. just for a split second, but she pauses. Then she opens the door and walks out without backward glance.
Like that she’s gone.

He slides into her vacant seat across from me. he’s smoking some sort of clove cigarette and giving me that chilly fucking look.
” the big man’s gonna have fun with your sorry ass.” he sneers.
” yeah, I know.”
He grunts in approval and puts the funky smelling cigarette out in the ash tray.
I look back to him. ” So, your boss, you think he’s a tequila guy?”
” Your boss- He like tequila?”
” the fuck should I know?”
I took another drink.
” I bet he’s a tequila guy.” I said.
He looked at his watch.
“it’s time.” he said.
“I know.” I said.
He stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder.
” She was your one salvation y’know that right, Faust?”
I stare at the empty doorway. “yeah, I know.”

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Posted by on December 5, 2012 in Uncategorized



The Dance

Some say love is like falling. Not for me.
It’s more like a bare knuckle fight with a old-school pro twice your size.
Like a fight, you think you’ve got the chutzpah,
Like love you think your immune.
Let me tell ya somethin: you don’t. you ain’t.

He steps up, I step up.
She she flirts, I wink.
Open flurry, I’m doin fine.
A smooth line, she laughs.
I feint to the right, he’s too slow.
A probing question turned aside with banter
Faster than I thought, can’t bob out of this
A shift of her bare shoulder
A jab to my face, disoriented.
She leans in, the scent of lavender.
I harden my defense, protect the face
I harden my defense, protect the heart.
An uppercut, my mouth fills with blood.
A laugh, my stomach fills with butterflies

The room spins

He throws an unexpected haymaker from the left.
She says she always thought I was handsome.

He’s closer than I thought.
She’s closer than I thought.

My guard is down
I’ve been struck.
The Hammer of Thor,
The Thunderbolt of Zeus
The Sword of Archangel Michael
My own personal Rapture.
My own goddamn Apocalypse.
my brain reels.

The room spins.

and I fall.


Posted by on November 25, 2012 in Uncategorized


Flash Fiction Challenge from Chuck Wendig. 1000 words. has to be about hiding a body.

once more, any comments, criticisms or suggestions are welcome.

A Habitual Cadaver

“I thought I hid you better” I said out loud. She just grins at me.
I look around the apartment. muddy footprints and a shattered window show how she got back in.
I plop down into a chair across from her and lean back. she stares. she always stares, no matter how many times I close her eyes they’re always open.
She just fuckin’ stares at me.
I notice the last vestige of thread still clinging to her eyelids where they’d been sewn shut.
Not anymore. just the same glassy stare. we sit there, just her and me lookin’ at each other like a couple of mannequins.
‘cept of course- I’m still alive and she’s just the corpse that follows me home. every night.
I remember the first night I buried her. the grave was deep and it took me ’til 4am. but I did the deed.
I came home stinking and dirty and there she was. laying on my couch. her pale body covered in mud. I nearly had a heart attack.
I didn’t, but I came close. instead I passed out. I wake up to find her still laying there.
The fucked up thing was my first reaction was that I thought she was a zombie. how weird is that? Of all the shit it was likely to be, some asshole extortionist,someone out for revenge, what the fuck ever. My brain just snapped to zombie. weird,right? Zombies don’t exist. she doesn’t groan or shamble.
I never see her move. doesn’t breathe or blink. but I can always follow her footprints back to the grave I buried her in. I stand up and head to the liquor cabinet. I make a highball and try to keep my hands from shaking.
I casually ask if she wants one. She gives the same old reply.
I sit back down and wonder what to do next. I could try and burn her again. I saw a TV show where they used acid. maybe acid would work. but I don’t know shit about acid, so maybe not. I tried cutting her up, but she comes back together some how. I don’t see any stitches. but the marks from the saw are still there.
I didn’t know what to do. I was being haunted by a corpse. I rarely slept. I was afraid to while she was here.
I’d even thought about a hotel.
But what if she came to my hotel room?  everyone would see. i would get caught. I would go to prison. possibly get the electric chair. do they still use the chair? doesn’t matter, they’d kill me. and I wouldn’t be showing up again afterwards.
I drained my highball in one long pull. I paced back and forth through the kitchen trying to come up with some sort of plan.
a kiln maybe? burns hot. real hot. could reduce her to ashes. where the fuck was I gonna find a kiln?
okay. maybe drop her into some cement. bury her deep. except once again, I didn’t know where the hell you get cement. maybe a construction site?
dragging her body there would be kinda risky. it’s an option though. I went and made another highball. I studiously ignored her as she sat on my couch.
I was running out of ideas. Someone  would notice eventually. some way, somehow. at this rate I might as well chop her up and feed her the homeless for all the-
Of course. I can do all the work right here in my kitchen. I’ve got cooking supplies.  I grab my meat cleaver from the rack. The crock-pot from Christmas I kept promising myself I’d use someday.
Looks like today’s the day.

I work all night and well into the next morning. over four hundred sandwiches and 30 loaves of bread later, I’ve finished. I throw the sandwiches into some plastic bags and load ’em into the back of my car.

In half an hour I’m at the homeless shelter, I offer the sandwiches to the gray haired lady in charge. She mentions something about a bunch of poisonings. I giver her a confident smile and grab a random sandwich and take a bite.
I can feel her in my mouth. sliding around my teeth and coating my tongue.  I try not to gag.  My stomach almost starts to heave, but I somehow  finish without throwing up. I smile as sweetly as possible to hide how ill that  made me. The gray haired lady gets a couple volunteers to cart in the sandwiches. She asks if I’d like to help out, I beg off saying I have an urgent appointment and leave ASAP.

I can feel her roiling around in there. maybe it’s nerves,but what if isn’t?  Halfway home I pull over and throw up. I stick my fingers down my throat and purge every bit of her from my insides. A while later I’m back on the road, feeling slightly better. covered in puke. but still slightly better.
I pull into the driveway and stare at the door. what if she’s there? what if she’s still sitting on the couch staring with those goddamn glassy eyes? what would I do?
calm down.  it worked.  she’s just meat.
sandwich meat. nothing more.
I open the door slowly. my heart’s hammering in my chest. I wipe my palms on my shirt and enter into the darkened foyer. the couch is empty. same for the living room.
the house is clear. For the first time in a week I breathe. really breathe. she’s gone for good.

I walk into the bedroom and collapse onto the covers.  Oblivion greets me in seconds.

Sunlight smiles from my window and I smile back. My muscle ache and complain as I roll out of bed. I saunter into the living room and my smile dies.
She’s not on the couch.
Instead four hobos sit there with rictus grins and glassy eyes.
I grab the phone book and look up ‘Kiln’.

A Habitual Cadaver

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Posted by on November 5, 2012 in Uncategorized