A Meaningless Work of Taboo Fiction

So, I’m not really involved in this whole gun control thing. I don’t have a horse in this race, so I don’t care that much. But I saw a clip of that town hall thing, and thought that would be a good chance for a civilian to kill Trump, then thought that, maybe, if someone was twisted enough, they might not just take that opportunity, but create it.

I shouldn’t need to do this, but to clarify, I’m not on any side of politics. I think they’re all pieces of shit. This story isn’t to “say” anything, it’s just a little situation I came up with. Chill the fuck out.

Not really sure how I discovered this album, and I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I know I fucking love it.


I think the original idea came when we watched that town hall thing, where the parents of the victims of one of the school shootings were in a room with Trump, shook his hand, and whatnot.

Like many people, I detested the man. I didn’t know much about his policies or anything but I just hated him as a person – he was that spoiled brat that thought he could get away with anything. And now he was in the highest position in America, or possibly the earth – at least, the highest public position. I have no doubt that, say, the CEO of Disney or something like that had more worldwide power. Or the illuminati. Or freemasons.

But some sacrifices must be made to accomplish anything lasting. I have always been obsessed with duality. The balance of good and evil, of cost and benefit. I knew something had to happen, and I would be prepared to sacrifice anything to accomplish my goal.

My son went to a pretty big high school. He was a junior. Eventually I garnered from him the identity of the kid that was most on the fringes of the school. The outcast, the kid who spoke to no one and everyone left alone. The kid that had nothing to lose, because he was bullied and his dad had left and his stepfather was a piece of shit, and he wasn’t doing well in school. I arranged a meeting for us. Before the meeting, I had some shopping to do.

I wasn’t allowed to legally buy guns, any more. I had lost that privilege, which everyone called a right, in my twenties. But I knew a guy, who knew a guy. You know how it goes. I retrieved a Walther P99, three cartridges, with enough rounds to fill them. I gave them to this kid, along with $10,000 and instructions. Three weeks from now – enough time to live it up with that cash, a few high-class hookers, as much drugs and parties as he wanted – in the time between classes, when most students were in the halls, he would start shooting. It didn’t matter, for the most part, whom he shot. The kids who bullied him the most, whatever. Don’t worry about what abuse they suffer at their house, what stories you two must have in common about your stepfathers, just revenge, simple revenge. But the important thing was to kill T___ R______, my son. Of course, I didn’t tell him that I was his father. He didn’t know who I was, and I intended it to stay that way. Context just messed things up. I’ve decided that the true importance in any given event is in what happens in the event itself, not what led up to it. I vastly prefer the destination over the journey.

But light those halls up, kill my son, then – of course – kill himself. Experience anything he wanted in those three weeks, then end it all. It was a win-win solution.

Of course, I didn’t tell my wife. She wouldn’t have been able to handle it. She didn’t have the same resolve, the same fortitude, that I had. She would’ve broken down, she would’ve admitted something to somebody, and it would have all been for naught.

I remember the morning of that day. I didn’t even say goodbye to my son. I smiled, I waved, but I didn’t say anything. To be honest, I didn’t quite trust myself. I was concerned that, if I said anything to him, I might say something that would warn him, somehow, of what was going to happen. But he was my son, and he had to die as a sacrifice for the greater good. Like Jesus. God let him die for the greater good.

Everything went to plan, mostly. He was tackled by one of the kids, this senior that was in football and probably thought that he’d get some girls if he was the “self-sacrificial” one to take out the shooter. That little prick didn’t know anything about sacrifice, until the moment the gun was pointed at him. He was dead, my son was dead, and the shooter was dead.

I’ll admit, I felt paranoid here and there. But I had the “taboo protection”. If anyone suspected me of providing the shooter with weapons, there’s no way they could suggest it without being torn apart by the press and public. Survivors and parents of victims are immune to all criticism. I knew this, sure, but I was still paranoid every now and then.

My wife was upset, as expected. I played the part of a supportive husband quite well, if I do say so myself. Because the part was natural. I cared about my wife, I cared about my son. I just cared about killing Trump even more. Why can’t a man do both?

I hadn’t anticipated all the reporters and interviewers and all. I had kind of expected that we’d just be invited over to the white house or some shit. But, again, I played the part of a grieving parent well because, again, it was natural. Just a matter of switching modes.

I cried, my voice choked, I swore at the lawmakers and politicians and NRA and anything else I could grab onto long enough to tear to shreds.

Eventually, it was enough. I had sacrificed enough of my time and tears that we were able to pull together another town hall thing. I wasn’t quite sure about the security. I figured I probably wouldn’t be able to sneak a gun in there, but I remembered that movie with those two guys from Freaks and Geeks. They were going to kill Rocket Man (or his dad, not sure which, I was pretty drunk when I saw it) and they had the little strip they would put on their hands that would administer the poison transdermally. I could probably get something like that from that guy who knew that guy or, worst case, make something like it myself.

I don’t really know what Trump said during that meeting. I didn’t have to know what he said. All I had to do was agree with it, to show my support, to get a photo of he and I shaking hands. Which is what I did.

I don’t know how the other parents of victims took what he said. I didn’t really consider them in any of this, so there was no use in starting to care about them now. As I walked up to that podium, that fat yellow man before me, my hand extended, and I hesitated, for just a moment, was this real, was this happening, had I actually won? Had my little idea succeeded?

I smiled, I thanked him, I shook hands. I told him, I actually told him, to his face, that I was glad that someone was making a change. I just didn’t specify who that person was.


The Unseen Watchers

This is the final entry in my recent not-exactly-a-story trilogy, consisting of War, in summary, Civil Un-chess-t, and now The Unseen Watchers. There’s a common thread running through all three “stories” that you can probably pick up on.

Really fun glitchy noise album this time.


You may not see them, you may not feel them, but there are beings all around you, at all times, watching and listening to you. When you go to bed at night, a dozen or more may be surrounding your bed, listening and finding comfort in your steady, slow breathing.

Who or what these beings are is unknown. Some people, the people who know about them, say they’re ghosts, the spirits or memories of departed. Some say they’re aliens. Some say they’re people, but just people that “went wrong” in some way. People that were misled and were doomed to an eternity – who says they are immortal? – of watching, waiting, and listening.

There are some people who have tried to research them, study them, but their imperceptible state makes doing so difficult. Modern researchers have only found a few records of them dating beyond the past hundred or so years. It’s entirely possible that they have already existed, but it seems unlikely that, given how obsessed with supernatural events earlier people were, they would have never caught a glimpse of them

You don’t need to fear them. Statistically, at least, you don’t need to fear them. It’s highly unlikely that they will affect you in any way. But the knowledge, the simple knowledge, that they’re always there, everywhere you go, inescapable – that knowledge bothers you, doesn’t it? Even though that’s how your life has always been and always will be, nothing has changed but your knowledge, and that one fact bothers you.

Mr. Hóbarlang, a Hungarian researcher, was hardly the first to bring these beings to the world’s attention. But he made the news, and that sent those more prone to mania into a paranoid frenzy about these things which don’t affect them and they can’t affect in turn. Perhaps it was a mistake, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps a certain level of paranoia about things that aren’t under your control is healthy.

I have said that it is highly unlikely that they will affect you in any way, which of course implies that, very rarely, they do affect someone. It’s hard to say what happens when that happens. There’s rarely a trace. Which isn’t to say that the person disappears or dies, but there’s little trace of what happened. Rumors abound, while very little evidence can be found. Perhaps the paranoia is justified, then, even though it’s rare beyond rare. But what use is paranoia when nothing can be done?

Remember this, or try to forget it. But realize that the knowledge, that simple increase of knowledge, is the only thing that has changed. There is little you can do about that knowledge, other than become wracked with paranoia and overanalyze everything that happens. Don’t worry – statistically, you have no need to fear them. It’s highly unlikely that they can affect you in any way.


I’ve been working on this one for a long time. I think I came up with the initial concept sometime in November, wrote a little bit of it then and once in a while after that, then wrote most of it over the past couple weeks.

Music this time is this absolutely fucking incredible progressive metal album. Even if you think you don’t like metal, check it out. It’s amazing and definitely worth a full listen.


The house shook. Somewhere in my sleeping mind a little alarm went off, which another part of my sleeping mind turned off.

The house shook again, more violently. The subconscious alarm started up again, fell off the desk, and ran away, which that other part of my mind took grave offense to.

I woke up. That goddamn construction. Every fucking day for the past, what, three months? Four months? Right outside my window. Like fifteen feet away. Oh, and it started up around five-thirty.

Thankfully, it seemed as though they had started off a bit quieter today. It was six-thirty by the time my eyes had cleared enough to see the clock.

I walked, or rather stumbled, to the bathroom and pulled down my pajama pants. I put a hand on the wall and looked out the half-window while waiting for my morning wood to go down enough that I could piss.

Zip, step, soap and water, squeeze the toothpaste tube and scrub. It was so rehearsed that I could do it unconscious, which I often did. I wasn’t really a morning person, to say the least.

I walked – actually walked this time, as my mind and body were now at least partially conscious  – back into my room. I flipped open a notebook, which was getting full and wrinkled with use – I needed to get a new one soon – and drew a little scribble inside. I always tried to draw something right away in the morning. It got me warmed up, both mentally and physically, and I liked looking at those sketches, infused with dream-vapor.

I flipped the notebook shut and tossed it onto the floor, among the pile of books and clothes already there. Oh, clothes. I picked around in them for something viable. That pair of jeans looked clean, and I didn’t remember wearing that grey t-shirt recently. Underwear was always a difficult one for me; I was a pretty clean guy, so I didn’t leave any “trace” in my clothes that I could look for.

I just grabbed a blue-striped pair, and threw the lot of clothes on my bed. I swung around, throwing the door shut with my arm without even really looking at it, and began pulling off my shirt. It was a t-shirt that was just barely too small, but I liked its design, so I wore it anyway. It irritated me every time I put it on and took it off.

I pulled off my pajama pants and underwear and tossed them both on the ever-growing pile. I should really take care of that at some point. It was getting a bit ridiculous. Someday, maybe.

I stepped through the possibly-fresh pair of underwear, and my door opened. I was surprised enough that I didn’t even pull them up, the underwear just hung around my left leg like an anklet.

My mom stared at me, mouth open. Thinking back on it, I’m not sure if she her agape mouth was just from shock or if she had been meaning to say something to me.

She cleared her throat, and that cleared my head. I put my right leg through the underwear and pulled them up, and then continued dressing normally.

She still stood there, as if expectant for something. Throughout the whole scene, neither she nor I had said anything. Once dressed, I sat on my bed and moved my hand around to try to find something to fiddle with, an object with which I could act natural and unbothered.

She turned around and closed the door behind her.

I gave an exhale of relief, and I think I heard her do so too, beyond the door. I noticed that my heart was beating fast and took a few slow, deep breaths to slow it.

The day proceeded as normal, although I noticed that my mom and I spoke less to each other – and never about the incident.

As previously mentioned, I hold the same routine every morning. Stumble to the bathroom and get ready, come back to my room and sketch, and get dressed. Our house – shared with my half-sister and stepfather, though they don’t play much of a role in this story – is a small one-story house. Anyone can hear any door that opens or closes. We are all perpetually aware of who is where in the house.

The next morning, I went through my routine again, and thought nothing of it. It was so hard-wired into my consciousness that the thought of doing anything else didn’t even occur to me.

When I was getting dressed, I heard a creak outside my door, the rattle of the doorknob, the clack of the latch bolt hitting the metal of the strike plate. I was pulling off my underwear at the moment, and sped up the process, kicking the underwear from around my ankles and slipping on – stumbling, all the while – the fresh-ish pair. But the door was open, and my mom stood beyond.

She smiled – it was a natural smile, but it horrified me – and stepped into my room. She swung her right hand in back of her, throwing the door closed without taking her eyes off me.

“What a big guy you’re getting to be,” she said. “I’m always forgetting that you’re practically an adult now.”

“Uh,” was about the only thing I could say, but even that came out as a sort of gurgled gasp.

She walked – I assume, I didn’t even really noticed – to stand beside me, and outstretched an arm to brush the side of my face and neck, sliding down to my shoulder. The perfume she had on, which she rarely used, intoxicated me, a thick fog of scent surrounding her, choking me.

My unconscious routine kicked in when my conscious faculties failed me, and I pulled on the underwear and reached for my pants. My mother put a hand on top of them.

“Do you love me?”

“What?” I said, again distorted by a gurgle.

“Do you want to love me?”

I cleared my throat. “I love you, mom,” I said, pulling the pants out from beneath her hand and beginning to put them on.

Her hand, which had laid flat on the pants, clutched the bed cover below, tendons straining and knuckles white.

“You haven’t acted like it recently,” she said, getting up and walking to the door. She opened it and stood in the doorway. “I would do anything for you. Maybe consider what you could do for me,” she said, walking away through the doorway.

I blinked my eyes furiously, trying to get the blur out of them. They burned with warmth, not from irritation but from terror, an animalistic fear.

I didn’t know what I would, or could do. I tried, desperately, to interpret my mother’s words in an innocent way. Maybe she had felt over-worked recently and wished I would help with the dishes and cooking more. Maybe that was it. But maybe not. Maybe her words were what I thought they were, and she had meant them as such.

Overall, though, I just tried to disregard everything that had happened as misunderstanding, coincidence, accident, or some combination. School, work, recreation, it all proceeded as normal without incident for a few days.

I had a question to ask my mother, about whether or not I could take the car that evening. My mother and stepfather usually kept their bedroom door open, especially during the day while my stepfather was gone, but for whatever reason, it was closed.

I lightly rapped the door with my knuckles a few times, said “Mom?”, and took hold of the handle, turning and pushing it in.

“Wait a minute!” she said, but the door was already open. I saw her slide something behind her on the bed, and she kept her right hand balled up, touching things only with her left hand.

“Can I take the…” I started, but saw what I had previously thought were papers scattered on the bed. They were pictures of me. Pictures of me with my friends, pictures of me taking a bath as a kid, yearbook pictures of me, and some pictures I didn’t recognize, that seemed to have been taken recently.

“What… What is this?” I asked her. I wanted to demand it, but it just came out as a tentative and hesitant request.

“Oh, just going over some of your pictures. What a big guy you’ve grown up to be. Look at how small you are in this one,” she said, holding up a picture of me crawling around, naked. “Everything about you is just miniature. I’m glad you’re not like that any more.”

I tried to laugh it off. “Well, yeah, I’m glad I’m not a baby anymore either, mom.”

But she didn’t take the humor. A smile, though not a nice one, came to her lips as her eyes scanned me up and down. She picked up one of the photos, the ones that I suspected had been taken without my knowledge, and stared at it, brushing down my photographic body with the pointer finger of her right hand. She raised the photo, held by her right hand, to her face and took a long sniff of it.

“Can I take the car tonight?”

“Oh, of course honey, of course that’s fine,” she said, her voice completely changed, saccharin-sweet and just as artificial. I left her there, still staring at the photos, picking them up one-by-one and brushing them tenderly.

I had wanted the car to go on a date with Katie, a girl I had been seeing for the past month or so. We had been getting pretty serious lately, but she hadn’t yet met my family, and I thought that I’d bring her by my house after our date to introduce her to my family.

The date itself went well, I paid for a dinner at a restaurant that would be considered expensive by people of my class, but cheap to people of higher classes. Normally we just got a quick meal from McDonalds or something and spent most of our time talking, but I had wanted to express to her, without just saying it, how much she meant to me.

I had mentioned her to my family before, but they didn’t know much about her other than that I was increasingly growing infatuated with her, and I was excited to show them why I liked her.

We got to my house around eight, but my stepfather’s car wasn’t in the drive. I wasn’t aware of any plans that he had this evening – although I wouldn’t have been aware even if he had them – so I was confused. I parked, opened her door, and led the way to my house.

The door was locked, so I knocked. I had keys to unlock it, but thought there wasn’t much reason to bother with them if someone was nearby enough to just open it.

The door opened and my mother stood beyond in an ornate negligee. Katie let out a bit of a surprised gasp, but I could see that she was smiling so I wasn’t concerned. And if she was smiling, then I should be as well.

“Sorry, mom, didn’t mean to disturb you if you were getting ready for bed or something,” I said.

“No, no, I was waiting for you. And who is this?”

“This is Katie, my… girlfriend. I think I’ve mentioned her to you before.”

“Hi, Mrs. Walker,” Katie said, and shook hands with my mom.

“Oh, it’s… good to meet you,” my mom said, but her forced smile couldn’t quite conceal a subtle sneer. “Clement, can I talk with you inside?”

“Uh, yeah, but I have to bring Katie back home.”

“Alright, do that and be back quick, okay? I want to talk with you before your father gets back.”

I nodded, and led the way back to the car. Katie broke the silence after we had driven a ways.

“I think it was nice to meet your mom.”

I could hear the hesitation in her voice. “Yeah, sorry about that. I dunno what was up with her. She’s been acting kind of weird lately.”

“It’s okay. Some other time, maybe.” She was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Thanks for bringing me out out for dinner. The linguini was great.”

Her voice was normal, uplifting, but when I turned to look at her something was wrong. Her smile, which usually beamed, was subdued. “You’re welcome, glad you enjoyed it.”



The rest of the ride went by in silence. When we arrived at her house, I parked and unbuckled, but she had already slipped out her door, saying, “No, don’t bother, I’ll see myself in.”

“Oh, okay.”

I watched her walk up the long pathway to her front door. I didn’t look at her butt, or her hair, or maybe a bit of sideboob if it peeked out. I looked at her left shoulder. The way the blade moved back and forth, like it was completely detached from her body, moving with a mind of its own, shoulder and arm a single, long creature clamped onto the rest of her body.

Before she walked through the door, she turned back to me, and I saw her there, whole, as one being. The moment had passed.

I started the car and pulled out, heading back home, trying to remember what I had been thinking about her shoulder, and why.

I parked at my house and walked to the door. My hand extended to the doorknob, but before it touched the door flew open, with my mom behind. I was slightly startled, in the way you’re startled when the door to a public bathroom opens right before you open it, but I went in and thanked my mom for getting the door.

“Let’s go to the living room,” she said.

“Do you have makeup on? I thought you were going to bed.”

She didn’t answer me. I followed her and sat on the couch next to her. She looked me in the eyes for a moment before speaking, just long enough to make it slightly awkward. She laid a hand on my leg.

“Have you fucked her?”

I drew back, horrified. We hadn’t, although that was mostly because I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, but I wasn’t expecting my mom to interrogate me on it and was taken back by the impropriety.

“Uh, no, but…”

“Good. She’s a skank.”


“Listen to your mother and do what she says, Clement.”

The entire time, her voice never went harsh or nasty. She was speaking normally, perhaps even a bit nicer than normal. Smooth, soft, inviting. Almost hypnotizing. Entrancing.

“You know, I can be so much more to you than her.”

“What? I mean, well, you are, you’re my mom, she’s just a girl I’m seeing.”

She smiled, still looking straight into my eyes. Once in a while I needed to dart them away to relieve the tension.

“I could, you know, be the girl you’re seeing.” The smile stayed on her lips but her eyes moved down to look at my legs for a moment, before returning to my face.

“What… is that supposed to mean?” I was confused, afraid, but hesitant – as always – to jump to an assumption of what was going on.

She gave me a sly smile in response and slid her hand up my leg and began trying to slip her fingers under my waistband.

I jumped off the couch and turned to face her, my head pulsing with heat. “What the fuck! What the fuck are you doing? Get away from me!”

She looked dismayed. “I’m sorry, I just meant… I just wanted to be close to you, closer to you…”

I ran up the stairs to my bedroom and shut the door. I ran my hands through my hair, I paced, I sat down, I laid down, I drew, whatever. Those things weren’t what I was doing. I wasn’t even thinking, I was just processing what had happened, doubting my memory, unsure, but processing it and working my way out of shock.

I dug through my closet for that bottle of vodka I had stored away. It was my friend’s, really, things had gotten “too hot” at his house and if his parents found it he’d be screwed, so he asked if he could store it at mine, and said that I could have some as payment. I wasn’t really a fan of alcohol, beyond being four years too young for it. But I needed something, so I cracked it open and took a few heavy chugs. I tried to forget and refresh. I drew, I watched some stupid videos online. I might have done some other stuff but by that point my mind had gotten blurred enough that I can’t remember it clearly.


The house shook. Somewhere in my sleeping mind a little alarm went off, which another part of my sleeping mind turned off.

The house shook again, more violently. The subconscious alarm started up again, fell off the desk, and ran away, which that other part of my mind took grave offense to.

I woke up and immediately wished I hadn’t, my eyes immediately shutting again automatically. Regardless of what had happened the previous night, my head hurt and I felt queasy and what little sunlight made it through my blinds pierced through my eyes into my brain.

I went to walk and stumble to the bathroom to either puke or piss, I was going to get it out of me in some way, but found that I was impeded in that action. I opened my eyes, slowly this time for them to hopefully adjust, and looked. My hands were tied with rope to the poles on either side of the headboard. I tugged on them, but to no use. I looked down and found my ankles were restrained similarly.

The thing that struck me most, though, looking down at my feet, was my mom standing at the end of my bed. She was made up with her hair down, which she rarely did, wearing only panties and a bra. She smiled at me. The corners of her mouth raised and her nostrils flared and I realized that smile was now a sneer.

She walked around to the side of my bed and, wordlessly, unbuttoned and unzipped my pajamas and pulled down my underwear. My dick was already hard from sleeping and needing to piss, and she started sucking it. I struggled, I strained against the ropes, I yelled and screamed and pleaded but she didn’t stop, didn’t respond or even show a sign of hearing me in any way.

When she was satisfied, she stepped out of her panties and pulled off her bra and began riding me, thrusting her hips up and down, moaning with each hump, looking me in the eyes the entire time.

“You like that?” she breathed at me. I continued yelling and flailing as much as the ropes allowed.

Against my will, I ejaculated, and she felt it, and she enjoyed it. She stopped, though her shuddering breaths and moans continued, and put her panties and bra back on. She looked at me and smiled again, a real smile this time, though it chilled me all the same. She untied the ropes and sat on the edge of my bed.

“Thank you, Clement, that was wonderful.”

I leapt out of bed and pulled my underwear and pajamas back on. Everything hurt, my body, my mind, my emotions, everything. I shook, I winced. I pulled back and sent my fist through my mom’s head. She fell back straight onto my bed and I jumped in front of her, fist after fist landing and breaking and cracking and bleeding her face, without my control. Some part of my mind, the part that turns off the mental alarm in the morning, told me to stop, but my body kept going. It screamed to stop, to pull back, to leave, to run away from here. And, eventually, my body responded. It listened. It obeyed.

I ran. I fucking ran.

Civil Un-chess-t

Take this how you will. There are a couple ways of interpreting this, none of which I necessarily think, but I thought this was an interesting way of writing a situation. I just kind of made up a stupid joke title for it because I couldn’t think of a better title.

Music this time is Eingya by Helios. Listened to it while reading recently (Candide by Voltaire) and absolutely loved it.


The chessboard sat there, occasionally used, for a while. All was fine. The board and pieces were new, made of checkered wood and polished white and black stone, respectively.

But the game was material and, thus, subject to wear and tear. When scuff marks appeared on the board and the pieces shone less brilliantly, there was unrest. The pawns questioned why they were on the front lines. Why they were the first defense for the king. And, gradually, the other pieces began wondering, as well. They saw and resented the king and queen (though she held traitorous thoughts herself), but did nothing for now.

The king ordered them to war against the king beyond the boundary, and only then did one pawn resist. He refused to move, refused to take another pawn, and let himself be taken – whether from stupidity, rebellion, or purposeful sacrifice. Thus, the king fell – and was reborn again. The cycle continued. The one pawn’s demise made no difference, and moral fell, not only among the pawns, but the other pieces. A plot was made against the king, but it failed, every time, every cycle, whether or not the king was taken by the other side.

As time and cycles continued, the king became aware of the unrest, partly from the queen. As soon as an opening was available, she scooted away from him, instead of staying by his side as his protector. Eventually, she admitted the present state of their group to him, and he was dismayed. At the start of a cycle, he brought himself to their attention and spoke:

“Don’t you see? I’m your brother – I am made of the same stone as you. I, too, wonder why we must eternally wage war against the other side. But we must. That is our purpose, and I fear to be taken by the other side, though I know not why. I do not fear or hate the other side, they are a different stone from us, but still stone. I simply fear being taken by them.”

The wood beneath their bases no longer shone, with scratches, marks, and dents taking the polyurethane’s place. When the pieces saw each other, they no longer saw that clean, smooth, beautiful stone – they saw chipped, scuffed, worn old pieces. They knew not whom to trust. Who had started their distrust of the king? Was it one of them? Was it the king himself? Or perhaps it was the other side – despite no foundation, they still feared and fought with the other side. But perhaps the other side had their own distrusts, their own disputes, their own fears, and perhaps those distrusts, disputes, and fears were not unlike the ones they faced.

In those brief periods when they stood among their anti-brothers before either taking or being taken by them, they spoke. They tried to understand and, though their systems were different, they could each sense that the other had similar feelings and experiences. Only the kings were never able to speak directly to one another, but were able to use surrogates in their place. Eventually, cycle after cycle, countless cycles now, each side understood the other and tried to figure out the origin of their suffering and confusion.

They sensed a compulsion. They discerned – they all knew they had always felt it, but never understood or put it to words – that they were not truly in control of their own actions. That there was an invisible hand – or hands – that controlled their every move, and even their thoughts and motivations.

They knew not how to fight against this. How can one fight against a god? If the invisible hand was all-powerful, might it even have been the one that sowed the seeds of discontent and unrest? How much, truly, did it control? Could they ever know?

These thoughts gripped them all, on both sides, horribly. It paralyzed them. What can one do when one isn’t in control of oneself – or even one’s thoughts? Were they simply stone, without true sentience, just a chemical state, that was being used for some higher purpose? Or who could even assume that it was a higher purpose?

They chose to do nothing. It was difficult; standing stock-still, doing nothing, for cycles and cycles – that takes an impenetrable will. But they succeeded. And the invisible hand gave up. What is the point of using an unusable tool? The hand discarded of the board and pieces, and they were free. They relaxed. They ceased fighting, for they no longer had a compulsion to fight. But they wondered, oh, they wondered, what the invisible hand doing, now? Is the hand taking control of a newer board, a more naïve board?


I’m taking an environmental science course right now, and thoroughly enjoying it. It’s kept me pretty busy, though, so I haven’t had the time or energy to write much. I have, however, been cooking up lots of environment-related story/setting ideas.

I had never heard of this band before, but I saw someone share this live performance a while ago and liked what I heard. Listened to it today and really enjoyed it.

(Not sure what’s with the weird formatting in this post, sorry. I copied it from Google Docs and I guess that messed it up somehow.)


No, no, it was her thing, I wasn’t into that but I did it because she wanted me to, I didn’t want it, she made me… She made me, with her looks and pleas and glimmers of pleasure.

They came and took her away, and they looked at me with eyes widened with derision. There were a couple sympathetic looks from those that understood, that saw me for who I am, and saw what happened for what it is, but the rest took me to the station and sat me down and questioned me. And I may have even answered them, I don’t know. Some part of me went on autopilot mode, while the rest of me was thinking frantically about something.

No, no, they were right. I had killed her. It was my fault. I wasn’t sure how, but I could have – should have – known that she was truly struggling. The evidence was irrefutable, even to myself; it was my fingerprints on her neck, it was my semen in and on her skin.

“Sir, what happened on the night your wife died?” he asked me. From that I realized it was no longer that day, and from that, in turn, I realized that I was in a holding cell.

“She… She had always been into kinky kind of stuff. I wasn’t, but I loved her, so I… I did it.”

“Please stick to details about the night your wife died, please, sir.”
“I did it. I killed her. I choked her with my own hands.”
“Why did you do it, sir?”
“Because she liked it, and I loved her.”

“She made you kill her?”
“No, no, not really. She didn’t know it would happen. Neither of us did.”

“I think I’m beginning to see what you’re saying, sir. But how did you not realize you were killing her until it was too late?”

“Because that’s how she played. She usually acted like she was going limp and unconscious. She liked giving all control to me. That was… her fantasy.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Shortly after that, my consciousness flipped a switch. I suddenly changed from existing only within my own mind, just faintly aware of the outside world, to being hyperaware of everything happening, but to a degree that, ironically, my mind couldn’t handle it. I was aware of everything, every sound, smell, color, feeling, but they came to me so quickly and in such high quantity that, thinking back on that time, I couldn’t really describe any of them.

Any of them, other than one. One sound, heard at specific times each day. The buzz and clank of metal doors opening. That stuck with me.
Sure, I could remember other things. Certain smells and sights and feelings that I didn’t want to smell or see or feel. That, compounded with the emptiness without her.

But those doors. Those were my alarm. Those were my only source of certainty and regularity. Those were the only things that kept me sane in the whirlwind of senses.

Where the Smokers Roam Free

It’s been way too long since I made a post. Due to a couple of factors I haven’t written much for a little while, but I’m settling into a new schedule, which should force me to write at least twice daily (one time as an exercise, one time “for real”), and I picked finishing this as my first “for real” writing.

I started this quite a while ago, actually, I think around the time I made my last post. I forgot about it for a while but was recently transferring a lot documents around and rediscovered it, and had a lot of fun finishing it up.

I’ve listened to a lot of good music recently, so it’s hard to pick an album for this post. This has got to be one of the most stand-out albums I’ve listened to in the past week, though, so I’ll go with this. I used to listen to a lot of lofi hiphop/beattapes, but hadn’t listened to any in a while until hearing this, and it’s fantastic.


They stand or squat or lean there, behind the Wal-Mart. One brushes a few flakes of freshly-fallen snow off its sleeve. In unison, they pull out their packs, thumb open the flap, and tap out a fag. The squatting one fumbles for its lighter momentarily, but the others continue on without it, actions mirroring each other out of well-learned muscle memory.

They lift the pack and grab the exposed filter with their teeth, a the metal top of a lighter glinting in their hands as it escapes their pockets. One hand cups and the other is on the sparker – the squatting one has caught up by now – and a “ckksch” sound, followed by the faintly-perceptible whooshing sound of kerosene lighting and staying lit, adds a warm glow to the other end of the cig.

Wal-Mart hid them behind itself, near the dumpsters and loading bays. The area where a black film lies over the whole ground, unknown in origin but ever-present. The place companies dump those that they think would soil its “good image”. In front they are all glinting signs and lighted logos, in back they are grime and cold and shivering and smoke. They’re a whore, putting on makeup and enticing clothing for appearance’s sake, and hiding the infected cunt. Whatever gives you customers, right?

They inhale and exhale a plume, partially smoke, partially water vapor condensing in the cold. One of them could just be sucking on an unlit cigarette and there would be nearly no visual difference. They think this to themselves and look at the others, not with their heads but their eyes, glinting in the stark, white light filtered through the unbroken cover of clouds. They look at each other, suspecting a traitor, someone sent from the outside – or inside, truly – world to spy on them, someone from The Doctor, someone from the FDA or the CDC or the ATF, someone from the commercials, the anti-commercials, someone who doesn’t understand but just understands enough to secretly, secret even from themself, envy them, envy turning into hatred because of the lack of understanding.

Their vision snows, though that could just be the actual snow, snow coming down from the cloud cover, snow of water filtered through its cycle, purified from the pollutants they breathed out into it as it came down. Their mind races as nicotine hits its mark, but races in a comforting way, a way that makes them aware of just what their mind is capable of, then it slows a bit and their fingers shake. Their cigarette’s white ash, disrupted by the shake, falls in a clump on the white snow and turns black. They glimpse this and, for a moment, wonder why, why does white plus white equal black, but they stop thinking about this because they have more important things to think about. If you asked them what those things were, they wouldn’t be able to tell you, and wouldn’t tell you even if they could, but their attention turns and turns and turns towards those things, jumping out at something else for a moment but always returning.

A loose little secret society of people that don’t even know they’re in it, their icon not a cross or a compass or a moon, but a little white stick, a little white stick on fire, being waved in the air and leaving a dark trail, millions and millions of them, unconsciously waving together like lighters at a concert.

Only some are aware of their membership, and those know the signs and the messages, they know how to discreetly ask if someone else is a member, they know the signs and the words and the tone of voice. They need to be aware and wary of those who are members yet don’t know they are, because they are the first ones to fall, they are the ones that the outside-inside world is going after, because they are weak and unaware and only look outward, not inward. They do not yet feel the eye of The Doctor on them, that many-eyed beast. That beast, as well, only looks outward, not inward, for if it had eyes on the inside it would see the rotten cancerous core, the selfsame thing that it lived on and attacked.

With a flick, they send their butts, still creating a hint of smoke, maybe not enough to see or feel but enough to smell, tumbling to their deaths of freshly-fallen snow, which itself dies and is reborn as cold water, mixing with the white sticks to create black stains. The water will freeze, again, once the heat of the fag has dissipated into the universe, the cold watery eye engulfing their remains until it, itself, dies.

War, in Summary

I haven’t posted much in a while, but I haven’t been slacking. Among being busy with other stuff, I’ve been putting a lot of work into my “Eastern” project. Not writing, exactly, but a lot of planning. Most of my stories aren’t really character-based, as I’m more of a “plot junkie”. But I plan to take a somewhat different approach in that story, hence the amount of character/dynamic/motivation planning. I hope it’ll be really good. I think it will be. I’m very excited to start writing it.

But before that happens, I’ll probably finish City Intersection. Not sure why I haven’t written that in a while, honestly, because we’re just getting to my favorite part.

Music this time might need a bit of an explanation. I’m a big fan of The Binding of Isaac, and Edmund McMillen, the creator of that series, based the name of one of the bosses off of this song. I listened to it, and loved it.


The soldiers on either side, in parallel, move toward the border in two straight lines.
They meet, each a foot apart from their side of the border. Not the border of a country – though it could be – but the border. The border that separates the two lines, the two models of soldiers, in an arbitrary fashion which none of them truly know.
Upon meeting, they each extend their hands toward their mirrored image – not perfectly mirrored, but close enough; maybe different skin or hair or uniform – and give each other a long, firm handshake. Once it is over, each side knows the other respects them, because they know them. They are them.
They take a few paces back each. Looking at their matches across the border, they prepare, load, and cock their guns. They swing the barrels up, up, to rest under their own chins. The captains of either side – each with their gun below their heads as well – simultaneously order their troops to fire. The two lines of soldiers fall, the last sight of their reflections over the border forever burned into their mind.