It's more then just you
Little Scientist
Novelist
Humanitarian
Artist
Oh the things you could do
Oh the places you could go
But she killed you
Now none will ever know
Murderer
Rapist
Drug Dealer
O the places you could go
But she killed you
Now none will ever know
Maybe you would grow up and preach
Jesus to lost nations, lead millions to Christ.
Oh the places you could go
The seeds you could sow
But she killed you
Now none will ever know
Maybe you will grow up and beat your wife,
deal drugs to teenagers,
sell death to the masses
Oh the places you could go
I'm sorry that this planet is this way
I'm sorry that this is what we do with our gifts
One life for millions
Every day we crucify hope
One little clump of cells at a time
This planet is full Beauty and Pain
Lies and Truths around every corner
Behind closed doors there are Mirages and Mirrors
Out here there are bright lights and dark shadows
I already love you with a passion
I will protect you at any cost
Now it's time.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Cabin in the Woods
I was content here in my little cabin the woods, for the most part. I -liked- the fact that winter never ended, that each morning there was a fresh blanket of snow on the ground, and the branches of the evergreen trees that surrounded my home were weighted down with white, creating an almost surreal glow in the evening. I liked stoking up a fire in the fireplace in my living room every night, and curling up with a good book. I liked the silence of the wintry woods that I had chosen for my home. I liked peeking outside and seeing the occasional deer tiptoeing quietly through the yard, and the owls that called to each other every night. These things all made me happy.
Sometimes I wondered if Spring still existed, or if the world was locked in a perpetual Winter, but I tried not to dwell on this too much.
Never mind the locked metal box under my bed, and never mind the noises it made. I'd learned to ignore the scratching sounds coming from the inside. I didn't really notice anymore when it rattled occasionally. Keeping that... thing... locked in there... well, it worked. What else was I supposed to do? Left to my own devices, locking it up in a metal box and hiding it under my bed was the only logical option at the time when it had introduced itself into my life a few years ago, quite catastrophically I might add. But I don't like to talk about that... Sure it threw a fit for nearly a month after I finally managed to get a hold of it and get it locked up so that it would stop wreaking havoc in my world. It would smack itself into the walls of the box, rattling, clanging, making as much noise as it could, sometimes causing the box to bounce around underneath the bed like a spoiled toddler having a tantrum. But eventually, the bouncing, banging, and clanging subsided, gave way to a slow, rhythmic tap, tap, tapping, which eventually gave way to feeble scratching, which eventually catered to silence, give or take the periodic fit of desperation. But those never lasted long. I would just turn on the tv, drown out the noise, and everything was OK.
Then one morning as I was walking to the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast, there you were, outside my window, looking in at me. I ignored you for a few days, but you wouldn't go away, you just kept looking in my kitchen window like a hungry stray, so I let you in for pancakes one morning. We chit chatted about the weather other informal pleasantries. I decided the company was nice, so I let you in for breakfast again the next morning. And the next, and it became a new routine for me. Our conversations flowed like mountain brook in early spring, and it was good. Pancakes and you. It worked. But it wasn't enough for you. And it was too much for the thing locked in the box under my bed. Your continued presence seemed to irk it, and every time you would leave after breakfast was over, it would begin banging on the inside of its prison, causing quite a racket that I did not appreciate but I did not say anything of this, it was my burden, not yours.
One morning about 3 months later, you had to go and break custom. I don't know why my home made pancakes, topped with real butter and syrup, fresh on a hot plate, wasn't good enough for you. I don't know why sitting in my kitchen, enjoying your breakfast and our conversation and watching snow falling slowly outside the window couldn't have just... been. You had to go there, had to ask about the box rattling under the bed. I shrugged you off that morning, but you persisted. Morning after morning, your green eyes full of curiosity and ignorance, insisting that whatever it was, it couldn't be that bad. *I* knew that it *could* be that bad, if I opened the box, and let you see what was inside. Or did I?
Did I really know? I began to wonder. What if it *wouldn't* be that bad? What if you *were* safe? What if I *could* show you, and everything would be ok? Would you still come over for pancakes? Would the dialogue still circulate with ease, or would it dissolve in awkward? Would you be disgusted and disappear, leaving me back to my solitude, just me in my cabin in the woods, watching the snow, stoking fires, reading books... alone? And what if you did decide to disappear? What could be the worst of it? I'd be back where I started... right? In my cabin, in the woods, watching the snow fall, stoking fires, and reading books, day after day.... right?
So one morning you came to my door, I let you in, fed you breakfast, and on queue, you inquired about the box. This time I didn't shrug you off, I didn't change the subject. I looked you in the eyes and said "ok." I stood up from the table, walked over to you, and reached out my hand to you. You reached your arm out and took my hand. I will admit my heart leaped inside me at that moment, when our hands met. I thought, "This must be right. He has only ever been kind to me. I can show him what's in the box. He promises not to leave... maybe if he keeps this promise I can be free. I can release what's in the box, maybe go out into the world, the two of us... and..."
I stopped my thoughts here, and focused on the moment. I led you to my bedroom and instructed you to sit on the edge of the bed. I walked to the other side, knelt down, and reached under the bed. I took the locked metal box out from under the bed, stood up, and walked back over to you. I sat down beside you, placing the box in my lap. Feeling the movement of being lifted and carried, the thing in the box was now alive and banging as strong as it could, which wasn't too bad for having been locked up with no light, food, or water for nearly 2 years. But enough that it seemed to fascinate you. I looked at you, apprehensive about your reaction. But your eyes were wide with wonder and anticipation. Open it, you said. "Are you sure?" "yes yes!" you insisted. "If I open this, please promise, even if you don't like what you see, that you won't stop coming around." You looked me straight in the eyes and said "I promise."
So, I took a a dusty key off of the night stand beside my bed, and inserted it into the lock. I was so afraid, and so excited. My heart raced with anxiety and enthusiasm. Oh, the potential disasters, oh the potential victories. All of the possibilities were racing through my mind as I turned the key. Then... it happened. The lock clicked, the box burst open, and the thing inside that had been locked up for two years, burst its way out.
The cataclysmic, life altering tragedies that ensued are too much to write about tonight. Those will come another night. Suffice it to say, I should have never let you in for pancakes. I should of closed the curtain and ignored you till you either gave up and went away, or starved, or froze, or wolves ate you.
:p
Sometimes I wondered if Spring still existed, or if the world was locked in a perpetual Winter, but I tried not to dwell on this too much.
Never mind the locked metal box under my bed, and never mind the noises it made. I'd learned to ignore the scratching sounds coming from the inside. I didn't really notice anymore when it rattled occasionally. Keeping that... thing... locked in there... well, it worked. What else was I supposed to do? Left to my own devices, locking it up in a metal box and hiding it under my bed was the only logical option at the time when it had introduced itself into my life a few years ago, quite catastrophically I might add. But I don't like to talk about that... Sure it threw a fit for nearly a month after I finally managed to get a hold of it and get it locked up so that it would stop wreaking havoc in my world. It would smack itself into the walls of the box, rattling, clanging, making as much noise as it could, sometimes causing the box to bounce around underneath the bed like a spoiled toddler having a tantrum. But eventually, the bouncing, banging, and clanging subsided, gave way to a slow, rhythmic tap, tap, tapping, which eventually gave way to feeble scratching, which eventually catered to silence, give or take the periodic fit of desperation. But those never lasted long. I would just turn on the tv, drown out the noise, and everything was OK.
Then one morning as I was walking to the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast, there you were, outside my window, looking in at me. I ignored you for a few days, but you wouldn't go away, you just kept looking in my kitchen window like a hungry stray, so I let you in for pancakes one morning. We chit chatted about the weather other informal pleasantries. I decided the company was nice, so I let you in for breakfast again the next morning. And the next, and it became a new routine for me. Our conversations flowed like mountain brook in early spring, and it was good. Pancakes and you. It worked. But it wasn't enough for you. And it was too much for the thing locked in the box under my bed. Your continued presence seemed to irk it, and every time you would leave after breakfast was over, it would begin banging on the inside of its prison, causing quite a racket that I did not appreciate but I did not say anything of this, it was my burden, not yours.
One morning about 3 months later, you had to go and break custom. I don't know why my home made pancakes, topped with real butter and syrup, fresh on a hot plate, wasn't good enough for you. I don't know why sitting in my kitchen, enjoying your breakfast and our conversation and watching snow falling slowly outside the window couldn't have just... been. You had to go there, had to ask about the box rattling under the bed. I shrugged you off that morning, but you persisted. Morning after morning, your green eyes full of curiosity and ignorance, insisting that whatever it was, it couldn't be that bad. *I* knew that it *could* be that bad, if I opened the box, and let you see what was inside. Or did I?
Did I really know? I began to wonder. What if it *wouldn't* be that bad? What if you *were* safe? What if I *could* show you, and everything would be ok? Would you still come over for pancakes? Would the dialogue still circulate with ease, or would it dissolve in awkward? Would you be disgusted and disappear, leaving me back to my solitude, just me in my cabin in the woods, watching the snow, stoking fires, reading books... alone? And what if you did decide to disappear? What could be the worst of it? I'd be back where I started... right? In my cabin, in the woods, watching the snow fall, stoking fires, and reading books, day after day.... right?
So one morning you came to my door, I let you in, fed you breakfast, and on queue, you inquired about the box. This time I didn't shrug you off, I didn't change the subject. I looked you in the eyes and said "ok." I stood up from the table, walked over to you, and reached out my hand to you. You reached your arm out and took my hand. I will admit my heart leaped inside me at that moment, when our hands met. I thought, "This must be right. He has only ever been kind to me. I can show him what's in the box. He promises not to leave... maybe if he keeps this promise I can be free. I can release what's in the box, maybe go out into the world, the two of us... and..."
I stopped my thoughts here, and focused on the moment. I led you to my bedroom and instructed you to sit on the edge of the bed. I walked to the other side, knelt down, and reached under the bed. I took the locked metal box out from under the bed, stood up, and walked back over to you. I sat down beside you, placing the box in my lap. Feeling the movement of being lifted and carried, the thing in the box was now alive and banging as strong as it could, which wasn't too bad for having been locked up with no light, food, or water for nearly 2 years. But enough that it seemed to fascinate you. I looked at you, apprehensive about your reaction. But your eyes were wide with wonder and anticipation. Open it, you said. "Are you sure?" "yes yes!" you insisted. "If I open this, please promise, even if you don't like what you see, that you won't stop coming around." You looked me straight in the eyes and said "I promise."
So, I took a a dusty key off of the night stand beside my bed, and inserted it into the lock. I was so afraid, and so excited. My heart raced with anxiety and enthusiasm. Oh, the potential disasters, oh the potential victories. All of the possibilities were racing through my mind as I turned the key. Then... it happened. The lock clicked, the box burst open, and the thing inside that had been locked up for two years, burst its way out.
The cataclysmic, life altering tragedies that ensued are too much to write about tonight. Those will come another night. Suffice it to say, I should have never let you in for pancakes. I should of closed the curtain and ignored you till you either gave up and went away, or starved, or froze, or wolves ate you.
:p
Friday, November 20, 2009
Working on my novel
Brown eyes, brown hair. Through a glass darkly, I can see her face, her eyes. Or are those my eyes, is that my face, the face I see in muddied pools of last weeks rain? The memory is........ I shift my focus to the present. I am hungry, and crouching in this building, sifting through my memories for gold is not going to ease my immediate need for sustenance. Memories of my mother are not gold anyway. She wasn't all that nice, although I suppose she did the best she could with what she had. Maybe. Maybe not.
I stand up and stretch my legs. I am in a building, that in historical times served as what was called a Pharmacy. A building where people could purchase medicines. I saw a picture of a pharmacy once. A building with bright lights, people smiling, dressed in white coats, behind counters, shelves populated with as many pills as there are pebbles, sorting them into little bottles for distribution. People smiling, exchanging paper money for their medicines. Nice clothes, nice smiles, bright lights. This building must of been at one time, like the picture I saw. Now, it's just a dark and broken shell. The shelves that would have housed pills are empty and covered in dust. File cabinets are toppled over and a smashed computer monitor next to where I stand appears to at one time have been home to a family of mice, maybe a rat. Throughout the pharmacy are empty and toppled metal shelves, broken glass, and fallen ceiling tiles. The sun begins to set over the concrete shells and slats of light shine through allies and in between buildings in a last ditch effort at illuminating my part of the planet. When the dusk sets in, I quietly emerge from my shelter, avoiding the glass and trips that I have set to alert me of dangers when I sleep during the day. Before stepping over the threshold, I stop, slowing my breathing, and focusing on sounds. It is quiet. I scan the windows of the surrounding buildings for movement. I direct my attention to a shell down the silent street and squint at a building at the end of the block. In the dimming light a figure appears in a window of the building, then moves back into the shadows. Everything else is still. I scan the street once more. Seeing no other movement, hearing no sounds, I dart across the street, and move quickly down a cracked and uneven sidewalk, then slip quietly into the building. Inside, the figure I had seen before steps out and motions to me, then slips through a back door. I follow, and once through the back door, I close it behind me. Complete darkness, then a flame. The figure strikes a match and begins lighting candles around the small room, then looks at me and smiles.
"Hello Firen," the figure says.
"Russoe," I reply.
I stand up and stretch my legs. I am in a building, that in historical times served as what was called a Pharmacy. A building where people could purchase medicines. I saw a picture of a pharmacy once. A building with bright lights, people smiling, dressed in white coats, behind counters, shelves populated with as many pills as there are pebbles, sorting them into little bottles for distribution. People smiling, exchanging paper money for their medicines. Nice clothes, nice smiles, bright lights. This building must of been at one time, like the picture I saw. Now, it's just a dark and broken shell. The shelves that would have housed pills are empty and covered in dust. File cabinets are toppled over and a smashed computer monitor next to where I stand appears to at one time have been home to a family of mice, maybe a rat. Throughout the pharmacy are empty and toppled metal shelves, broken glass, and fallen ceiling tiles. The sun begins to set over the concrete shells and slats of light shine through allies and in between buildings in a last ditch effort at illuminating my part of the planet. When the dusk sets in, I quietly emerge from my shelter, avoiding the glass and trips that I have set to alert me of dangers when I sleep during the day. Before stepping over the threshold, I stop, slowing my breathing, and focusing on sounds. It is quiet. I scan the windows of the surrounding buildings for movement. I direct my attention to a shell down the silent street and squint at a building at the end of the block. In the dimming light a figure appears in a window of the building, then moves back into the shadows. Everything else is still. I scan the street once more. Seeing no other movement, hearing no sounds, I dart across the street, and move quickly down a cracked and uneven sidewalk, then slip quietly into the building. Inside, the figure I had seen before steps out and motions to me, then slips through a back door. I follow, and once through the back door, I close it behind me. Complete darkness, then a flame. The figure strikes a match and begins lighting candles around the small room, then looks at me and smiles.
"Hello Firen," the figure says.
"Russoe," I reply.
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