Godfrey Publication is a large magazine that ventures into short stories, poems, artwork, and continuing narratives all written by young up and coming authors. Godfrey Publication was founded by Donovan and Jonathan Godfrey. Issue 1 features several clever and creative short stories, insights into adolescent life, and two recurring narratives.
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Transcript
Godfrey Publication: Issue 1 Pen. Paper. Thought.
A collaboration of art, story, poem, and imagination.
clothes, and grey people. I hated Ironsburg. Grey fog, mist,
radiation, steam, and every other chemical wafted out of holes
in the ground. I never forgot the day I came here. They told
me you never will forget.
I was still fresh faced, loved my hair, and the music I listened
too. I was going to the Iron Hole, the Grey Prison. Work two
hours a day, free meals, free housing, free everything. And
those two hours of work, they aren’t even labor. You sit at a
desk. Never work. Perfect, I thought. I never cared for the
“Prison” part of Grey Prison til I came here. You could never
get out of here. I wasn’t going to go to school, forget real
work; Iron hole beat everything else out there.
Anyway, I pulled off the bus into the Housing Department. They took all my information, along with
twenty other folks. The way it works, Iron Corp; and the Iron Family; make so much money, and they
have machines doing nearly a hundred percent of the work; and they will always make money. They can
do everything. Ironsburg can produce anything, make anything, fix anything, and it can do it all for free.
They built something like a million homes, and these are given for free to all employees. The employees
work two hours a day doing trivial desk stuff. Some legal forms, make a few calls, talk to the
receptionist. Stupid stuff.
I got shit back at home for going to the Grey hole; but how could you pass up a free living. I quickly
learned how; this place burned. But I was addicted to doing nothing. It didn’t matter anyway; soon the
whole world was going to be Ironsburgs. Work could be found here and there; and creativity was still an
outlet in advertising and movies; but pretty much every job was filled with the free machine labor. You
could go a whole day being serviced at every restaurant, shop, store, and even theme park and never
meet an actual person.
But you think about Ironsburg too much you get lonely. Maybe that’s why I stopped by Cynthia’s place.
It was quick and ended with a red slap on my face and being chased off by her shrieking. But it was a
good stop. I made it home alive and ready to get back to that book. I punched in, 2000, and the safe
coughed out the tome.
I flipped to another random page and was greeted with fanciful fruity lettering, “Joker From Eggerton.”
The picture showed a person in a strait jacket with an egg on their head. The ink seemed to move the
figure into hysterical fits. Shadows danced and skirted the edges of the ink and the coarse paper. A
smile was hidden in the darkness of the paint; a wide predatory smile.
What the hell. I turned to the writing. “Joker from Eggerton is a bewildering enchantment I had come
across in my many travels. This hex is very powerful and should be used with caution. Firstly you must
acquire an egg; I find Griffon egg and Ostritch egg to be the most suitable, but even pigeon eggs work.
Find a person who is sleeping and say Vodu-sly-chi and upon the final incant break the egg on their
forehead. Therefore and until the next full moon all who encounter the victim will regard them as
insane. Their words will only come out as gibberish and people will be unable to understand gestures
made by the person. Their writing will also appear chaotic. The person will feel completely normal and
be unaware that people can’t understand them. It’s absolutely maddening to be unable to
communicate to those around you.” Familiar blue writing was missing from the corner of the page.
Galandor must have never used this one before. Perhaps I would have to try it out for him and put my
own review in.
I tore a piece of paper out from a notebook and wrote Vodu-Sly-Chi. I then walked to the Market and
acquired a four pack of eggs. But by the time I was passing the park I decided against going through
with this plan. One, I would have to find someone sleeping. Two, I did not want to ruin anyone’s life.
Well, maybe Gabe’s, I laughed. I bit my lip and returned home. Alright, time for one more and then
maybe bed time; I returned to the book.
The pages on the front half of the book had been safer prior, so I plucked another page near the
beginning. “Ram’s Charge, throw a rock and chant Ram Thém Du Loo Roo. A magic punch will break
through almost any door.” Galandor had scribbled a handful of words at the bottom, “Bollocks any
door, good on wood doors though. Also be musical, makes for a better punch.”
Okay, I nodded. Innocent enough, not going to make anyone go crazy or cause an eruption. I ran out
into the backyard, waved at the vanishing black sun and picked up a fist sized rock. I sprinted back
inside and took aim at the bathroom door. Okay, not that door; took aim at the guest room. I chucked
the rock and sung, “Ram them du loo roo!”
And with a loud ring the door burst from its hinges. Splinters splayed out from the hallway to the
opposite end of the bedroom. I retrieved the rock with gusto and now took aim at the bathroom door,
“Ram Them Du Loo Roo!” I encored with the cheer of a child in a candy shop.
And with another delightful crash the bathroom door was obliterated. I would have trashed my entire
house in excitement but the doorbell was chiming. I moved to the door sweaty with enthusiasm. I
opened the door oblivious to the world.
Rob was standing in the doorway, wearing an eight o’ clock shadow and a yellowed wife beater, “Hey
neighbor, something happen?”
I wiped my greasy hair back with a huff and smile, “No nothing’s wrong. Why?”
“I just hear a loud banging sound,” Rob scratched his chin, “Thought something happened.”
“Oh,” I chuckled, “No it was nothing.”
“You sure?” he tried peeking behind me.
I put my hand on his chest, “Nothing’s wrong, so you can skip buddy.”
Rob turned around annoyed and went back to the next house. Just as he left my lawn I taunted, “If your
so bored go get your own fun burner!” He shot me a rude gesture but I didn’t mind. Rob had been my
neighbor for nearly eight years. He was always trying to be my friend, but after him and Cynthia, him
and Alice; eh, forget him.
No. Let’s not forget him. I still had those eggs in my fridge. He was already freaking insane coming over
like we were buddies or something. That burner next door has had it coming for years. He showed me
everything Iron town had and then took my pride. Well I’m taking everything from him, they’ll lock him
in the looney bin; say he has Smog Fever. By the time a full moon comes around he will be so doped on
medication he’ll be crazy forever.
Like magic, no seriously it was no coincidence, the book opened up to “Joker From Eggerton”. Break the
egg on their head and say, “Vodu- Sly- Chi-“.
I could always go prepared, maybe there was another spell that could help me. Or maybe I was stalling
so I’d burn out and not go through with the plan. I don’t know what I was thinking but this book
captivated me. I saw an entry, “Flint Fingers”. “Animate Dead.” Watcher Eye, Sprite of Hellniok, Circe’s
Chime, Feter of Fetrid, Cheater’s Oppression, Laugh and Forget. So much endless spells. Strange black
images and idols danced around me. The lights flickered and shadows joined the midnight trance. I was
spellbound. Black script filled the void between me and the pages. Hel, She, Fes, Vas, De, She, Mi, Buka,
Vivi, Du Loo Roo. Cryptic words. I felt the stitching of reality peeling away. The clock on the wall
sprinted circles.
Grey mist clung to the windows of my living room. The cold stone floor beneath shot me up and off the
floor. The book was thrown to my side. Where; I was at home. What; I saw the book. The clock said 1
in the afternoon. I scratched my head and stared at the ancient pages thrown about the floor. I
remembered looking at the book, but then nothing. I remembered getting high in my youth and how
some nights just slipped away. This was oddly reminiscent of those days. Except; I wasn’t on anything.
Had the book done some magic to me? I examined myself, not knowing what to look, but happy to see
all my parts looked and function fine. After a swift run to the restroom I was assured my body was fine.
That was enough fun for one night, I shut the book and stowed it beneath my bed again. I grabbed my
coat and strolled onto Iron Corp. About halfway to the endlessly tall building, I was stopped by Gabe.
He had a small hallo of sweat around his wimpy sunken face. His glasses barely hung to his open and
stretched collar.
“Thank goodness,” he sighed, “I’m glad to see you’re okay.”
“I’m alright,” I beamed, as if it was something to be proud of.
“I just figured,” Gabe looked at his grey shoes, “Any member of Iron Corp, when absent from their shift
must call fifteen minutes prior to their shift and state why they will be unable to attend their shift. They
are then forced to submit an application to work at another time so their hours can be met at the end of
the week.” The words all came out simultaneously.
“No one does that Gabe,” I chuckled, “I can do the hours now.”
“No.”
I looked back at Gabe, a stern justice etched into his bony face. What was his deal?
“Iron Corp doesn’t ask for much, but if you are unable to meet the small demands set forth by Iron Corp
we will be forced to terminate you,” Gabe stuttered but as his words came to a halt he drew a defiant
breath of air.
“Come on,” I chuckled, “Why so serious-
“No Michael,” he clenched his teeth, “You are terminated!”
I did a double take, rewinding those precious seconds again in my head. Terminated? In the fifty years
Ironsburg had been around no one had ever been terminated. Terminated? What?
I scratched my head and questioned, “Terminated? Gabe, buddy, you can-not be serious?
Terminated?”
“That’s right burner,” Gabe nodded vindictively. A smile tried to force out from the corners of his
mouth.
“Burner,” I stuttered, “But, what the hell are you talking about Gabe. This is a joke right? I mean? What
the literal-“
I would have opened into a full riot. I mean blitzed the guy. That tiny piece of inconsiderate filth, fire
me? Terminate me? But I was met with a saccharine clock to the head. Two Iron guards escorted me
after a good hello to the noggin.
In a flash, dismally similar to the prior evening I went home; gathered my belongings; was escorted to
the Housing Department; was given a fine for $800 for damaged property; then I was dragged to the
Termination Wing; a place that hadn’t been used since the founding of Ironsburg; after a small pass of
time was taken to the Main Hall because the Termination Wing wasn’t functioning correctly; I was
forced to fill out a flurry of documents; then I was shipped to the bussing station; and then I was forced
to say farewell on a blue bus to San Fran. I was in such a rush I forgot I was making a run-on; but I had
not forgot the book. In all my years in the Iron hole, I had lost many things. But I was coming home with
this book at least.
Mom and Dad were going to go ballistic. It had been nearly decade, I had spent a large portion of my
life doing absolutely nothing but drowning in the filth of man. I half wondered if they would even see
me. In a matter of a week my life was taking a terrible turn of events.
The roads were empty. Wasteland surrounded Ironsburg for miles. And after the wastleland we
entered a different waste. One with happy people in the happy bright neat houses of the suburbs. I
remember my youth in a place like this. But we were out of the Iron hole. Living here was expensive.
Houses were hand built by humans, food hand made by humans, everything hand made, and it was
freaking expensive. California had been the last bastion for what they touted as humanity and
sensibility. They wouldn’t allow machines to take their jobs, to rule their life. Californians loved making
life difficult for themselves.
Atleast if mom and dad didn’t accept me again, any direction out of California got cheaper. Maybe I
could take a speed train to New York. Heard New York was like Ironsburg, just less smog and more
boats. Just as much work. They had also adapted the two hour work schedule. Beat out the ten hour
shifts here in California, slave labor if you asked me.
I resisted peering at the book on the bus. I was too out in the open. I was also mightily distracted. I had
done something worthy of an award, I was the first and probably the only person ever to get fired from
Iron Corp. I mean no one ever got fired. I don’t know what possessed Gabe to fire me. I guess he was
following protocol, but sue me, I wasn’t the only person to miss a shift. Heck Harry went on a Flux binge
and missed like two weeks of work, no one batted an eyelash.
I was thankful Iron Corp confiscated my phone atleast, I could only imagine the earful Cynthia is dealing
out right now. I bet she is tearing Gabe in half right now. You couldn’t be any more of a burner than
being fired from Iron Corp, I mean two hours a day of work. Of desk work.
I greeted San Fran with a grim sneer. Houses evenly separated, fences, nice green yards, colorful artsy
houses. People wearing mismatched, colorful clothing danced down the sidewalks. Pets on leashes,
and people working actual jobs. I saw a person cooking behind a counter, a guy selling hot dogs on the
street, even a guy shining shoes. What was this? The year 2000. Gosh, it was disgusting. Actual work.
Gabe, you idiot, what did you do to me.
As I unglued myself from the sticky plastic seat of the blue bus I let out a god awful sigh. I nodded to the
invisible driver before exiting into bright sunny California. I headed into the station, flashed my ticket
and a robot sentry cleared passage into the city. A cold lifeless voice hollered, “Have a great sunny day
citizen.”
I felt a mixture of nostalgia and sadness to be back home. As I moved deeper into the city signs of
robotic life became nonexistent. The station was a rampart for Iron Corp, occasionally people would
take vacations out this way. It was expensive and usually came out of smoke or liquor rations. Not to
mention, getting into the city and affording room and food was hefty. I debated entering a nearby café
and accessing a phone terminal.
What was the rush though? I was in no hurry to be back home. To face my parents and their stern
disappointment. In my near twenty years of life I had managed to acquire this book. That was it. I had
no relationships, no real friends, no money, no degree, I was worthless. Worthless except for this book.
I had fiercely debated opening the book, and I won the argument as I took a seat on a corner table.
“Alton’s Coffeehouse,” a tile sign read above a small single storied venue. This was definitely not
Ironsburg. Far from it. I could actually see the horizon. Buildings, fog, smoke, ash did not mar the sun’s
smile. I opened the book and the ink glistened illuminated by actual sunlight. Part of me missed the
artificial amber light that had filled Ironsburg, a very small part of me.
“Slumber,” opposite the title was a picture of a sleeping man cast from black paint. Beneath the title,
“Simply say- Hyp- Dra- Mi- and throw finger at target. After one second they will fall to sleep and will
only be woken after eight hours have passed.” Galandor’s blue scribbles were on the bottom of the
page, “Good to remember this one; note to self, easily dispelled or avoided.”
Interesting, I concluded.
“Flint Fingers,” the next page headed. “One must lick their thumb and index finger. Before licking
thumb chant- Hetha- Thahe, once; before licking your index finger chant- Thahe- Hetha, once. Snap
fingers together to produce sparks. When done consecutively the sparks produced grow rapidly.” I
nodded agreeable, pretty cool spell, I thought. But Galandor had scrawled something interesting on the
bottom of the page, “Forget your fingers, lick your palms using each chant on different palms. Then
clap. Much bigger sparks, your welcome.” Had Galandor made a better spell?
Well I would have to find out, for science of course, if Galandor had actually succeeded in a better
version of Flint Fingers. Flint hands, I guess would be a better fitting title. Man, I chuckled, I loved this
book.
“Dude,” a voice broke my thoughts, “Dude that book is totally righteous. Like totally dude.” A man
emerged from my peripherals and took a seat next to me. If this was Ironsburg the appropriate
response would have been to spit on him or knock him clear out. But this wasn’t Ironsburg. I shot him
an uneasy smile and swiftly shut the book.
“Yeah,” I nodded.
“Where’d you get it from?” he questioned eyes unpeeled from the tome, “From Raynald’s bindings?”
His seat tilted towards me off the ground.
“Where?” I replied.
“Where’d the book from man?” he asked again. He moved long greasy hair to the back of his head. He
would have defininetly fit right into Ironsburg.
“You live here?” I interrogated. His chair clapped against the ground and his eyes kicked away from the
table.
“Yeah of course man?” his eyebrows furrowed.
I shot my hand out and offered a shake, “My name’s Michael, Michael Abernack. Look, I’m new here.
Perhaps you can help me get a job.”
The man pushed dust off his shoulders and sat up straight. He opened and closed his mouth a few times
with a humble smile before nodding, “Yeah,” he took my hand. “Name’s Barney, Barney Jurstenfeld.”
“Good to meet ya Barney,” I gleamed.
“Yeah you too man,” he admired, “So the book?”
“Aw man,” I admired the book with my eyes, “I’d love to tell you but right now I got to find a way to pay
rent.” Barney shot up and out of the metal chair. A chorus of clangs danced about the floor as his chair
rolled about. I joined him standing. A wide smile cut across his cheeks, mine too.
“Okay,” Barney took out a hair tie and pulled his hair back, “Follow me. I’ll introduce you to my boss, his
name is Mordy. He will totally help you out brother.”
We began moving down the street together. I was surprised to see us moving toward the direction of
the station. Maybe this guy had come from Ironsburg after all.
“So,” the man shrugged, “You said your new here?”
“Yeah,” I nodded hoping to leave it at that.
But of course, Barney continued, “Where’d you come from?”
“I actually used to leave here, long time ago,” I muttered, “Its
been a long time.”
“What took you from this capricious place brother?” he awed.
He seemed to love looking straight at the sun. And something
told me he had no idea what capricious actually meant, but
neither did I.
I half considered lying to him, but what did I have to lose; “I came
from Ironsburg,” I confessed.
“Ironsburg?” he scoffed, “Ironsburg?” He chewed on the name.
“How the hell did you get out?” he pondered aloud, “I mean I thought no one left the Grey hole.”
“I mean people are allowed to leave,” I confessed, truthfully, “I mean most people never leave. I mean
you barely work and everything is free. Why would anyone want to leave?”
Barney twitched before jumping to life and throwing a finger up toward the sun, “That man, that right
there. The sun, the beauty of it. How it moves across the sky, how it makes magic to everything. The
sun is life. And from what I hear, there isn’t much of sun in the Iron pit.”
“You’re a weird fellow, Barney,” I chuckled.
“I know dude,” he threw his hands behind his head, “Aint nothing wrong with weird. So anyway?” he
turned to me. “If this Iron place is so great, why’d you leave?”
“Brace yourself,” I shook my head and rolled my eyes, “You aren’t going to believe me.”
“Nah dude,” he stopped moving and placed his hand on my shoulder. Barney was wholly weird, like
really weird. But he had an air of acceptance, like he didn’t care what your path was, if that’s your path,
that’s your path. He was chill. And maybe he was rubbing off on me.
I closed my eyes and spat out the embarrassing truth, “I got terminated.” I felt Barney’s hand twitch but
he didn’t say anything. My eyelids drew up like curtains and I saw wrinkled eyes.
“Like you quit?” he quizzed.
“Like I was fired.”
Barney ran circles around me, a chorus of laughing and elongated “dude’s” were fired like arrows
toward me. He rolled across the white pavement, he punched the wall, and he howled like a hyena.
Finally, wiping a funny tear from his face, he placed his hand back on my shoulder. “Fired from
Ironsburg. Now I have heard everything. I mean I didn’t even know you could get fired. What did you
do, sleep with wrong person’s wife? Did a bunch of Flux? Oh maybe you caused a factory explosion?”
I allowed Barney to go on with crazy theories for a few more moments before I interrupted, “I missed a
shift. Guess it rub my supervisor the wrong way and he nipped me. I mean it was pretty trivial the way
whole thing went down.”
Barney seemed to share in my confusion, “Well that’s boring. I mean-“. He stopped stumped.
“Wait,” electricity whipped behind his irises, “I mean what if that was a sign? I mean, think about it.
Maybe your supervisor didn’t want you to become a burner. Maybe he was saving you? Or maybe a
higher force was saving you? I mean maybe right.”
“You’re a weirdo Barney,” I placed my hand on Barney’s shoulder and glanced at the book in my left
hand. “But maybe a higher force was saving me.”
“So what’s the story with the book?” Barney perked, “Where’d it come from.”
Barney was the kind of person you could tell anything, but not that. “It’s nothing. It’s my journal. A
dear friend made it for me.” I smiled at the book.
We continued down the street almost all the way back to the station, but ended up stopping at Waste
Control. I should have guessed as much with the way Barney looked and acted. Barney confessed it was
not the luxurious of jobs, however, living in California was very expensive, but people rich and poor
needed their trash collected. And California did not have robots for most jobs, so he filled that very
necessary gap. I didn’t like the idea of having a job that could easily be replaced by a machine. At least
restaurants and stores benefitted from human interaction. I did not add to the process at all.
Barney and Mordy were both burners. They took life lightly, however, they paled in comparison
compared to me. I had failed at working at Iron Corp. I was fired and expelled from the Grey hole. It
couldn’t get any worse than that. Mordy paid reasonably, but I knew it would be swallowed in seconds
in this dang town. Living with my parents cut down extensively on costs; but I had a sinking feeling I
would want to leave sooner than later. I could save up enough money over a couple months and make
it to New York.
There you go, Dad couldn’t be too upset. I had a job. I had a plan. I had it all figured out.
“You have absolutely nothing figured out!” a climax to the long tiresome dinner with my family,
“Garbage man? You want to move to New York? For god’s sake you were fired from Iron Corp. It
doesn’t get any worse than that. I cant believe it. How are you my son?” My father shook his head in
disbelief.
“Now please calm down Jethro,” my mother flitted around my dad like a gnat. “He is our son, he is in
trouble. He needs our help.”
“And what about when we are gone?” my father growled. Large, towering red eyes glared at me.
Disapproval was a ray gun fired continuously through me. I was shackled to the chair, and shame shut
me up.
“Hey come on guys,” Madeline, my sister, chimed, “He can fall back on me after you guys are gone.” My
father scratched his head angrily while my mother coaxed him to calm down. The evening had been
saved on numerous occasions thanks to my sister.
Madeline was my beautiful, smart, successful, always in the right place, at the right time, always; every
time. Even when Madeline failed some fruit would find its way to her. It aggravated me greatly at times.
Growing up with someone like that, always feeling like the second favorite. It was obvious my parents
loved her more than me. She wasn’t nearly as much a disappointment. But Madeline was always kind
to me, even when I wasn’t always kind to her. I truly loved her. She was my sister, and her path was her
own. I appreciated her and secretly always liked seeing her win. I loved her and it was good to see her
again.
The evening was bound to spell disaster. I had been fired from Iron Corp, I was moving back into the
house, I was working at a trash company. Things weren’t great, and these were the consequent seeds I
sowed. But I had braced myself for the evening, I even took to remembering that sleep spell just in case.
Hyp- Dra- Mi-. Who knew, maybe things would get crazy out of hand. Dinner remained silent thereafter
and even after dinner people only spoke in hushed whispers.
Dad went out back to his shed, he often painted back there. Mother went to washing dishes. I found
myself plopped in front of the tv, a familiar setting. My sister lingered between all three of us, she
seemed to be the only neutral nation in the house.
I saw her move toward me, and she silently took a seat next to me. “Good to see you again,” she
whispered a smile.
“Dad doesn’t seem to feel that way,” I chuckled.
“You always had a way of laughing anything away,” my sister rolled her eyes. She uncrossed her legs
and stretched.
“So how has California treated you?” I chatted.
“Im sure its not nearly as fancy as Ironsburg. I hear in Ironsburg machines do everything for you. You
don’t even have to cover your mouth, a machine will cover it for you,” my sister nudged me
sarcastically.
“Don’t have to wipe for ourselves either,” I snickered quietly. We giggled for a moment, but then my
sister was touching my arm.
“I think this is good for you Michael,” she spoke very light and sincere. I could see light drops of dew
glistening on her wrinkled eyes.
“Why you getting all emotional,” I tried to let out a little laugh but she jolted me.
“Don’t,” she stammered, “Listen, I have been worried about you Michael. You, Ironsburg, everything.
We never spoke, half the time I was worried you were dead or fixed on Q or Flux or something. Look
Michael, your my brother, I worry about you and I think this change can be good for you.”
“Okay,” I assured her, “Okay. Thanks sis. I should probably get some sleep, I have work in the morning.”
“I cant believe you already have a job,” my sister gushed, “I mean your working at a trash place, but I
guess you cant really take the burner out of burner.”
I was a burner, I thought walking up the stairs. I was willing to just sit in the sun and burn away while
everyone else ran around. Life was a lot longer than most people thought and I was lazy. I would be
happy sitting around all day, I beamed opening the door to my old bedroom. Funny how people change.
I was very excited to be reunited with my book again. I had left it underneath the covers to my old bed.
I guess they always expected me to come back. I missed the old place.
But nostalgia was swept aside for excitement. It was all shit, all of it except this book. What do you
have for me now baby, I licked my lips opening to another random page. I instinctually avoided the back
pages and when choosing pages I kept to the front. I was surprised to occasionally see a page a second
time, but I feared the dark haunting images that had graced the back pages.
*Michael has made it out of Ironsburg, the book being his only possession. Life has grown into a
massive line of obstacles; however, Michael is nearly oblivious to his circumstances being completely
captivated by the prospects offered in the ancient text. What secrets does Galandor’s tome hold? What
secrets does California hold for Michael? And just who is Barney? Michael may be discovering magic,
but as he delves into this new world many things are discovering him.
**Barney is just Barney.
***Cynthia will not be in the next issue.
Another Bus Stop. by Donovan Godfrey:
By writer, I meant I had the aspiration of achieving the admiration of an audience of thousands; but had failed to do so up until now. I thought of myself as a writer, I was equip with an above average vocabulary, had a unique coolness to myself, was introverted, aloof;
basically like the majority of people. I desired to be special, to have a talent that required little effort. To captivate the hearts of others effortlessly in displays of extraordinary magnificence,
but again with little effort.
I felt disconnected most of the time. I was here but I wasn’t. Everything felt so fake sometimes,
everything had a plastic feel. Laughs, emotions, it all seemed planned. Everything in life had a dullness
to it. I could spend a whole day hating everything that occurred. I blamed circumstances sometimes, if I
could get some book sales, if I could get a book published, a book I liked, a book that was finished, then
id be happy. But I never climbed those steps. I was bound to an earth of doubt and apathy. Putting pen
on paper swept me from this mechanical world, but the roads that lit up in my cranium hit too many
forks, too many dead ends.
I thought of life as a big maze sometimes. Writing was a dead end, I had spent years turning around but
turning back to see if the dead end had opened up. I expected to turn around and it would be there, my
star novel. I circled like a dog, and became frozen like a rabbit.
Sometimes, driving home, that highway called for me. I yearned to answer its call, to leave everything
behind. To go to an unknown place, to live in something new, to break free from my disillusioned
simple life. The shackles of comfort tied tight taut around my neck, I wanted to rip myself from my
lulled life of slumber and awaken with adrenaline. But coward comforts ate away my anxiety, my
adrenalined ego; then I was driving up the driveway.
There was a joy in a simple life. Something had to be said for the predicatable paths of each day, the
easiness, the simple breathing, the lazy effortless strokes I took in the pool of prediction that
surrounded me. I wanted to be a writer. This trade had coaxed a disposition in me that screamed…
easy.
It wasn’t though. I could happily till away several layers into the marble square; but forming something,
forming life from a chisel and stone, was an impossible feat. Had I not lived enough? Experienced
moments that defined life? Had life not weathered into me the relatable emotions of that which bound
our populace in fascination? I felt if something terrible happened to me I would have become a
savant.
Of course, this followed the same logic as my escapism. I had failed to experience my last level of
growth, writing was not simply having experiences or emotions, writing was transcending, something
high in the stars. I could desire to be in space for an eternity but the gravity of inability afflicted me. I
would never be a good writer. And so life seemed bleak at the moment. I kicked my feet forward, a
predicate of resilience, of resolve to continue pushing forward, of being another human being.
I wanted an award for everything. I had chosen to live another day in this wretched whirling world, can I
have a medal please? I made it a handful of years in college, not successfully, but I survived, where was my
degree? Life sucked like that. If everything was a contest, and at every moment you were rewarded
with reasonable recognition for the regular duties of regulating a reasonable life, then I would have
reached a million medals. Everyone would though, would defeat the purpose. I rambled on more than I
should have. I thought of myself as wise, I could correlate a discussion in my head of the complexities of
the little life I had achieved. I was no different than the millions who swarmed around me daily.
So I was mellowed out and rambling. It made the bus stop much colder than it should have been. The
concrete black river muddled with a rancid raucous cloud of filth stood before me. Orange yellow box
fish flitted down the river in neat lines. Large beasts of metal wallowed in the black waters.
It was a .
I got up, annoyed with myself, as the bus pulled to the stop.
The door opened up revealing a man who was bothered to see me. He had an indignant look as I
trekked through the mechanical mouth of the motor beast. The man announced the toll, gave me a
look, and pushed his view forward. My fingers lazily lopped coins into the dispenser and the man
began his descent before I sat.
The beast growled slugging its way through the saturated sludge streets.
Cupped Star
Rolling Like a Leaf
-to Grandma
Bed of Dried Earth The Crab Folk
Electric Kitty
Sweet Red
Delicacies of
the Dark Heart
You Know Why -an ode to someone
Those Curves in Line
It’s All A Scenic Route
Industrial Revolution
Crossed Off.
Green Greedy Eyes
Where do all the empty days run?
Trespassing signs on unowned land.
Pay for leisure,
Sustenance barred behind iron windows.
Fun shackled green, sleep on steel
Blankets, iron beds, Empty Sundays ignored.
99.99 sleep in the park
12.99 smell a rose.
31.99 smell exotic bouquet.
Leisure run, free w/ purchase
Of 51.99 shoes.
Where did the free dance of life go.
Today I traded sexual relations with a middle aged women