Hindsight

I stood there. I stood there, soaked with the thick, unforgiving rain, anonymously rolling down my brazen cheeks. My skin was cold; the passing of the forcefully depressing breeze gave it no mercy. The hope in my weary eyes darkened in synch with the sour clouds colliding above my head. “Why?” I hopelessly questioned myself. I stared nondescriptly into the valley lying before my blackened feet. Blackened. We were, and are all blackened. Not even the salt of nature’s wrath could scrub clean the sins of our fathers, nor the sins of ourselves. Acadie was the blackened cesspool of man’s…

The Revolutionary

A photograph, when etched in the cheek of Time, bears neither the impression of mere souls gracing a celluloid skin—nor the pockmarked truth of Vision’s allegiance—but is the serial scar of Light’s captive embrace. It is such illumination that leads to the eventual scarring of the entire face of Time, and sands the allegorical surfaces of its sinking alabaster down to bleeding Epoch—a swelling gash which opens itself to receive the breath of the Widow…that warm lace fragrant with the numbing breeze of enquiry. It is ironic that she has never been seen, her breath the mere evidence she admits…

Lotion for the Locust

In the paved hallway, traffic swelled. The wife, she had an apron, and its lace was from Hell. The son purchased dreams by the jarful and kept his prizes away from display. The two would intersect turns daily, en route from the soul of a machine to the ventricles of its tentacled heart: the abject staircase. It wound its way through the floors and bisected the Upper and the Lower, overpassing the necessary darknesses of both, and bringing forth as though it were a solar well, the elixir of day which flowed from above. The Lady Danver was neither a…

Kissing Nothingness

A crimson chortle called close the pigment on her plain, pink, parted lips. Those lips, they knew the song, they quivered and hastened the sale of their chastity to it, they offered themselves, fleeting to the night’s cause; those lips, thus eager to merge with that singer of slatterns’ verses. Her lips, they expanded, they were enflamed with seduction as she guided the stick across them. The plain—that pale—pink, it had soon parted from her lips. Replaced with a red as heavy as that bleeding on the petal of a primrose, the application of colour to the face was her…

The Anhedoniacs

Like infected diamonds falling onto an obsidian floor, the bitter tears swam down the hosiery which was clinging to her face. An abyss in lucent ebony, sacred flesh was singed continually as her crying increased the tightness of the mask which veiled the seven facets of what was once her gem of a visage. Akin to the bile of Judas fermenting on a saviours’ lips, the quick wails intensified as the dew of sorrow elevated itself to a heavy mist, a mist of tears, which when melded with the nylon made an amalgam of sadistic comfort and closure which was…

The Singer’s Thirst

His left hand slid from his abdomen to his lips, and he tried to talk to that sinister appendage, but Jezrahiah could feel it. He could discern the subtleties of pain and pleasure, those twin songs resonating inside his cavernous—his empty—stomach. It was akin to a capsule; a glistening, almost plastic sort of casing that had been emptied; thin, but rigid and hard, as a pill which contained no medicine but appeared at least, to help. His stomach could not help him at the present, nor could his hands. His voice was but a mere concept, an ideal he could…