Stream of Consciousness

A dream or nightmare

There wasn’t much to it. At least not in the end. The various pills and elixirs scattered and spilled on the floor mixed in the piss and vomit. Torrent of tears from mothers with Rosary-wrapped hands held in prayer to a god that wasn’t there while the altar boys knelt to pleasure Father Jesus. The voluptuous, vivacious Virgin vixen lay on the bed, her legs spread open for the offering of saints and sinners alike while the whore superior baptized the children with menstrual blood.

The boy overdose on heroine. Blood clotted the dropper. The injection came in with strong. They televised his death as Saint Francis Assisi held his naked body against his own.

A stained-glass heart. Multicolored facets of Hell. A bit too Catholic for the religious.

Manticore & Other Horrors by Cradle of Filth is available now at Amazon.
Manticore & Other Horrors by Cradle of Filth is available at Amazon.

“Never pay the reaper with love only”

A romantic gesture. We’re splitting hairs here. Had a good cry the other day and broke down. Last time I did this, I took a walk. Sometimes I lose myself in a character I created. A routine that I become. For hours, I’m watching the world through the eyes of a some teenager sitting on the beach, his nose bloodied from a fight that ensued the night before, watching teenage girls jogging by while he ponders the rising sun and what this life means. And this teenager will never grow up to be me, because I was never this teenager. Maybe I wished life was a bit more like a teen romantic comedy where it all sews together in the end. Or maybe, my only hope that I am able to write one.

I survived last week with just the hairs on my knuckles. A whirl wind of emotions, a roller coaster. A tsunami of torrential tears. My thirtieth birthday, the International Book Discussion, and FESTIBA. I decided that my secret needed out of the bag. I confessed to Lee first, sometime last year. He knew the play by play. When he left work, I decided not to let my coworkers know the situation, so I bended the truth. I played cards that hid my secret without actually having to lie to them–think the pronoun game when attempting to hide the sex of the person you’re seeing. I told Grace after she was fired because I trusted her enough to keep the secret. The added bonus is that she’d never slip and discuss it in the lounge. I’ve hinted it here on the blog, if not just stating it outright. Anyway, I won’t discuss it tonight.

Friday, FESTIBA involved me donning the Clifford costume and walking around city hall court yard. I couldn’t see anything except the skyline, and Edinburg doesn’t have one. Not to mention that I lost about 15 pounds in sweat alone. Still, I saw a couple of familiar faces–including I-love-you girl, who, after checking the archives, I never mentioned here so I’ll save that story for later as not to get sidetracked.

Killer Clown
Exhibit A (as if there’s an Exhibit B)

I’m sure I never mentioned that my coworker, Angela, is deathly afraid of clowns. So not only did one of my coworkers dress up as a clown, another decided to “hire” the killer clown from the water-dunk booth to chase her after it ended. I should also mention there’s a prank war brewing in the horizon. A war that I’m a part in ever since my spicy brownie won the affection of my fellow coworker (the same guy who got the killer clown to chase Angela around). After Clifford, my night was pretty slow moving. So I joined whatever activity there was until it was time to pack up and leave. We carried our stuff to the van at the end of the night and we were led away by our fellow leader. By this time, my mind was at getting home rather than remembering the planned conspiracy. Just then, Angela bolts as that guy in the picture above starts chasing her around. My blood rushed through my head and like the monster I am, I got giddy. Of course, now I’m part of the conspiracy group and must not be a target of the revenge conspiracy. However, Saturday and figured something out. I figured, coupled with my stepping out of my comfort zone Friday, that I could bribe my way out of this as I’m already in the works of pranking the prankster that set her up for a scare.

Starbucks Solution
Will you look at that, Exhibit B

Now Angela is Catholic and, as most of you Catholics know, we’re currently tumbling through Lent. Which means, she’s not allowed meat on Fridays and must sacrifice something. She gave up her two main sources of caffeine–coffee and soda. So I’m wandering through Walmart, when happen upon the solution to my prank problems. Now, personally, Starbucks is the corporate devil which spews coffee zombies addicted to name brands. However, Starbucks is the mecca for most coffee drinkers; therefore, giving her this as an act of contrition should get me off the hook.

I suppose we shall see how it plays out Tuesday, as I won’t see her until then. Meanwhile, I’m beginning my notes on the story I mentioned in an earlier post. I’m still uncertain how much of the reality will get left behind. I just know that the direction I want to take it is YA. We’ll see.

Writing & Writers

And the god looked upon its people and spoke

Mark Ryden

With a voice lacking compassion. Benevolence is overrated. The bombers flew over the holy land. Just a child, looking up at the oblivion, damnation profession. Confessional, the pews are empty as her porcelain stained tears spilled. Rosary. Jesus Mary Child. Grown up, her words echo the silence.

Forty five minutes and seventy-nine months. People think of him like the hatter, though he’s nothing more than the white rabbit – steering into the flow with eyes sewn shut to cancel out the light. Burning red, fading hopes. Vacant. Disinfected. The father’s abortion spilled. Seed stained. Utter the words and the prayers. Count the beads upon his fingers. Each one, a sexual thrill rises through him.

Father forgive me. I’ve not sin enough. I’m the ballast, charged with solemnity. Take in the cannibalistic flesh, drink of the blood. Praise them. Happy are those who bash the little ones upon the stones.

Lips of jasmine. The light has faded. The star burning out. Expanding. Withstanding. Commanding. Stellar view. She knows that suicide is just a symptom of feeling nothing worthwhile. The funeral ballerina twirling to the waves of the dirge.

Suicide is but a symptom of its dying grace. Left shattered upon the altar of our greed.