Turn the Ugly Light Off god

By Daniel Schwabe

There’s a ghost in me who wants to say I’m sorry, doesn’t mean I’m sorry

“If I die at this stadium,” I say, “I want the ball that did me in buried alongside me.”


There is a pain digging through me. It’s only a matter of time before whatever it is surfaces and I face the consequences of its existence. I was angry to tears. Of all the ways to express emotions, the only one that comes to me naturally is tears. Tears of happiness. Tears of crushing depression. Most of all, tears of anger.

Pin me up against the wall and take away my sense of control, you will push me to this zone of helplessness. I could feel the tears welling up. I tried to hold them back, but things don’t work out the way you want them to. Fight or flight. I fear what I’m capable of if I ever choose fight. Flight. My instinct is bolt.

“Let’s just say,” I said, “It takes a lot of self-control not to punch people. And there are a lot of people I’d like to punch.”

It’s a ticking clock. Several of them. Each synced to their own devices. When people step in my way. When people decide to talk down to me. I’m good at what I do and do what I’m good at. Try to cross me and I’ll leave you in my tracks, broken and bloodied. This isn’t a threat, it’s a promise.

The Killer in Me

“I couldn’t care one way or the other,” I tell my mother. We’re talking about charity. Most people do it for rewards in a make-believe afterlife. Others do it for a sense of duty to their fellow man. Neither make sense. Why help others when they don’t help themselves? The people in other countries dying upon the streets while their leaders roll around in money. The weak are massacred. I know that it’s wrong. I know that I should feel some amount of pity. But nothing comes to me. Human is an animal on the verge of extinction at our hand. The world would do better without us.


“There aren’t enough beautiful things in this world,” he says. “I’ll create some more.”

The death artist is like any. He is good at his craft. He explores his limits and those of others.

Foul ball

I’m standing, talking. The ball slams into the fence a foot from where I stand. I forget the dangers of working here.

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