Various Exerpts

things I wrote years ago, mostly studies on expanding vocabulary.

 

So when I was younger I used to skim through the dictionary, pick ten or so words and then try and write a paragraph using them. It’s was to build my vocabulary, get a better understanding of structure and flow, and perhaps stumble upon a chain of thought that was provocative and profound. I don’t think I ever achieved that in any of my works, but I strived for it. Mostly this is just a bunch of pre-teenage angst, emotion, and nonsense. Still... enjoy.  

 

The sky has been threatening to storm all night. The laden air is heavy with promise and the almost putrid stench of honeysuckle. It finally split in two like hands tearing apart from an answered prayer. The downpour was immense, sheeting down the sides of the house, and distorting the view from the safe side of my window. I shoved the glass up on impulse and thrust my upturned palm outside, but within moments my efforts were defeated as the precious drops overfilled my hands and joined their breatheran in the mad, suicidal dash towards the ground. Have you ever been in that kind of storm? The kind where all you can smell is wild honeysuckle and all you really see is the landscape caught briefly in the flash of some cosmic photographer’s bulb? The kind where standing under the downpour makes the droplets cling to your flesh like a second skin and the air is so moist, so steamy, so palpably sultry that the relentless pounding drives a mist up from the ground like some tangible, reluctently summoned beast? Yeah.... me neither....

 

If you could touch the lacerations in an ill-worked mind you'd find not only a acute sense of apathy but a measure of appetence for better control. Grown oblique with little or no use, until finally the obsolete remnants scatter in four directions with direct thoughts. You are inarticulate to the point of ignorance.

You're life is like being trapped in a grave. A shady spot under the ever-watchful eyes of the moon. In passive slumber you are content to waste your flesh as fodder for worms. Guilt free - no doubt. But happy? Inhibition has kept the godly passions at bay in your heart. The corrupting hands of lust, eagerly welcome upon the serene body of your mind. Then resistance... like a slap of some self-righteous form of punishment, plunders your mouth in search of the words to halt this act of unholy violation.

Catch it now! Don't let it fall into the maw of oblivion. To be swallowed, and categorized, and labeled as one defeat. Your pride be damned. It's a life on the line, a breakable thread suspended over this stinking gullet. Oh a maverick are you? I laugh at your audacity... mock the mawkish nature of the statement. Because you.... you are an obligor... an unwilling palooka. Your emotions skitter fatally across your face. To be read and calculated as you play into the same hands time and time again. Retreat! Yes, I know the cowardly thought has begun to form in your mind, and furthermore I say it will be necessary. Tiny tendrils of feelings unwanted crowd around your heart. Choking and teasing and cinching around the vessels, forcing blood to become stagnant. You will die. The inevitable task seems docile in the wake of this torture. Farewell... next time.... CATCH IT!

The illusory threat of debauchery weighs heavily on your mind. The razor thoughts cut down as you speak the truth. Sharp tongue. Words slicing their own throat in a pitiful attempt to regain the shreds of dignity fluttering down from where you once stood upon the golden pedestal. With wild eyes and limbs weak with fatigue you've succumb to the sublime, repeditory, conformity of life as the system knows it. But relax. You have no system to fear. The elusive chain of captivity rests in no mans hands, whether to tame and destroy or resist and defeat.

He could tell his angry speech was making no effect of her hardened face. The stony look in her possessive eyes took him, and ravished him, and threw mangled emotions in the wake of his words. Without him she would wither, without him her world would crumble, but he didn't care she thought. He knew and he didn't care. As dignity fell to modesty, his eyes lowered, he stepped back - imagined the frightened girl long since smothered - shackled but not killed. She would live again if he chose to leave. The demonic pressure always consuming and growing as every defense upon her mind retreated to throw safety into shadow. The pallid skin of the half-dead girl would swell into boils, splitting and popping until from the rotten flesh two wings took shape. Tattered and torn but still tangible. And he would watch, spellbound, as the black feathers fell in chunks, the ripped holes drawing in puckers to refill what was once missing. The mottled gray skin in turn giving way to downy white. The little girl lifting her head, the bright look in her eyes a luster of liquid emerald. The strength as she dove from the darkness, heralding a new feeling.... independence, defiance. She didn't need him. And if he left, she wouldn't lament. But rather seek comfort in the arms of another, one more deserving. And if he stayed it would be of his own device.