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Overgrowth

Frozen and unmoving.

Lifeless bones, remains spread in a meadow. Empty eye sockets and empty heads.

Rigid and stiff, bones getting devoured by greenery.

Weeds and moss. Flowers and herbs.

 Dead bodies returning to new life.

Complete overgrowth.

Greened bones.

 Life and death in a spring meadow.

Weeds and moss. Flowers and herbs.

Bones becoming one with the earth.

 A herd of sheep on a spring meadow.

#poetry #poem #original poem #writing #writer #creative writing #meadow #skull #plants #moss

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A Blue Sky

Graves wide open, bones and remains beneath a blue sky.

Rows and rows of graves, holes in the earth beneath a blue sky.

Fields full of bones. Fields of lifeless remains.

 100 years dead beneath a blue sky.

A 100 years cold, a 100 years unmoving, a 100 years empty.

A 100 years beneath a blue sky that can never be seen.

 Graves wide open.

Empty eye sockets staring into nothingness.

Fields full of bones beneath a blue sky.

#poetry #poem #original poem #writing #creative writing #writer #sky #graveyard #graves

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My body feels numb. And heavy. It is so, so heavy.

I feel like I can’t move.

How long have I been like this? I feel…so tired. As if I was drained of all energy. I can’t even remember what happened. I know I was at work. I was…I was fixing the generator. Something was wrong with it and it caused a power outage. I dropped one of my tools and…

 My eyes open up and I’m met with a white ceiling. It’s not my ceiling, I can tell that for sure. My ceiling is blue. And on it hangs a lamp shaped like a cloud. This lamp is round, and its light is cold and bluish.

When I look around, I see a grey door, and on the wall hangs a poster, that reminds you to wash your hands. I’m lying in a bed with a metal frame, a thin blanket covering my body. On my nightstand lies a get-well-soon card and through a big window shines the pale light of the moon in.

I wound up at the hospital, it seems.

 I blink a few times, my eye lids feel like they’re circling in around my pupil before everything goes dark. And now that I’m awake I can feel my brain drumming inside my head.

I must have gotten into a really bad accident.

 I sit up in bed, trying to get a better look at my room when my blanket slips off my chest.

   It’s blank metal. My chest…it’s made of metal plates with wires lying beneath them, holding it together. Why? What happened? Why is my chest…?

 I pull away the blanket with arms that feel stiff and I see what’s become of my body.

All of it…all of it is metal and wires.

 But why? Did the generator have a shortcut? Did it burn my body? But…they could have still fixed it. Modern medicine can treat bad burns. So why…why is my body?  Why would they take it? My body…it could have been fixed. It could have been fine.

 I hear the door creaking open and when I look up I see a man with short black hair and thick rimmed glasses. He’s wearing a doctor’s coat, and in his hand, he’s holding a tablet, which he’s reading intently. I bet it’s my data he has on there.

 “What did you do to me! Why…why am I-!?”

He looks up and gives me a polite smile, trying to seem reassuring.

“Ah! Ms Caldwell. How are you feeling?”

“How I feel!? Where’s my body, you asshole!? What did you do to me!?”

 I hop out of bed and in three steps I’m over by the door. My eyes sting, I want to cry but I can’t. I have no tear ducts to cry from anymore. He seems startled and even more so when I grab him by the collar and begin to shake him.

“Why did you do this!? Answer me!”

“Ms Caldwell, please you need to calm down. You’re still fra-.”

“Answer me I said! What did you do to me!?”

I tighten my grip and he gasps for air, terror written all over his face.

 “Why did you take my body!? It was fine! It was just burned, wasn’t it!? So you could have-!”

“Ms Caldwell, there was almost nothing left!”

I let go off him and he backs off, trying to catch his breath.

 “Your body…it was completely burned from your legs up to your neck. It all was black as coal. If it hadn’t been for your headgear, you would be dead now.”

“But…but I could have…”

I begin to stumble backwards, his words, they can be true. He has to be lying. He must be. I scared him and now he’s trying to climb out of the hole he dug. That…that has to be it…right?

 “Ms Caldwell, I understand this can’t be easy for you, but you have to acknowledge that there was no other way. I assure you, we tried what we could to preserve your old body, but it simply wasn’t possible. Over half of it was completely destroyed by the explosion and the following fire. No amount of medical treatment could have changed that. So we transferred your conscience to a new vessel.”

“But…-.”

“No buts. You need to rest now. Go back to bed. Please.”

 And with these words he hastily turns around and shuts the door behind him. I linger for a while, staring at the spot where he stood before, but then I turn away. Maybe he’s right. Maybe all I need is rest.

I bend down and grab the sheet off the floor, my joints squealing as I move. I’m about to get into bed as I spot my reflection in the window. I know it’s my reflection, but I also know it isn’t me who’s looking back.

This person has a flat face made of shining metal, she has no nose and her mouth looks like the one of a ventriloquist’s doll. Her eyes aren’t eyes, but cameras and her ears look a lot like antennas. Whoever this person is, she isn’t me.

 This person isn’t Kim Caldwell.

This person is only a vessel of her conscience. Her hands never held my wife’s hand, her lips never kissed my wife’s lips and her eyes never looked into my wife’s eyes. This person isn’t the one who married her, and she isn’t the one who buried her.

This person only carries the memories of the person who did. A person who should have been dead. A person who should have been buried with her wife.

  When the doctor enters the room of patient 00136, Ms Kim Caldwell, to check on the state of her being, he finds it left empty.

The bed is made, and the window is open, a realization that overwhelms him with a sense of horror.

 He drops his tablet and goes to alarm the security guards, disturbing their coffee break. They can’t make sense of his agitated ramblings at first but when they do, they’re up and about on their feet, searching for the master key to activate the tracking implant.

As soon as the doctor’s got an address, he’s rushing out on the hospital, over to his car parked near to the entrance. The engine awakens with a loud roar and then he floors it, hoping he’ll get to his patient before she does something that’ll hurt her.

 When he arrives at the address, he’s surprised to see a cemetery, but he doesn’t have the time to give it too much thought. He needs to hurry.

He sprints past tombstones, old and new, wildly looking about for the metallic silhouette of a woman. He calls out to her but receives no answer. He looks around but finds no one. It’s as if she vanished into thin air.

But as he searches for her, he finds a fresh grave. A fresh grave with a tombstone carrying the name Rina Caldwell and beneath it, Kim Caldwell, scratched in scraggly letters, that have a metallic shimmer. He finds it and he decides it’s best to let the dead rest.

#writing #writer #creative writing #short story #original story #lgbtq #lgbtq story #wlw #cyborg #tw death #scifi

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A Blooming Field

Hand in hand.

10 feet below the ground.

Bygone lives reunited in eternity.

Thousands of memories, spread by the wind like dandelions.

A story broken in thousand pieces, buried in a blooming field.

 Two lovers on a walk together.

Hand in hand.

A disagreement, a quarrel, a fight.

A loud bang, a scream, then silence.

A body lying on a red field.

 Hand in hand.

10 feet below the ground.

A bygone life.

#poetry #poem #original poem #writing #creative writing #writer #tw violence #nature #flowers

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The Herd

Bleating and Baaing.

Soft Faces with gentle eyes.

Then disray, fear. Shouting men and barking dogs.

Away from the meadow, away from the young ones. Pushing and crying in the transporter.

The way to the slaughterhouse.

 A loud BANG.

Then Nothing.

 Bloodstained faces with empty eyes.

Bodies taken apart, the good is sold, the bad is buried.

Blank faces with hollow eyesockets.

Skulls and jaws, teeth and vertebras.

Bones over bones.

 None of them fit together anymore.

#poetry #original poem #poem #writing #creative writing #writer #sheep #tw blood #tw violence #tw animal dying

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Buried in the Milky Way

A sky full of stars. Fireballs made of gas, millions of lightyears afar. Bones made of stardust, as old as the Big Bang.

Infinite bodies, spread across the galaxy. Remains of giants buried among the Milky Way. Thousands of stories, all fallen into forgottenness. Forgotten, yet remaining. Thousands of lives hidden amongst the stars. Hidden in a mantle of nothingness.

Bones made of stardust, buried in the Milky Way. Thousands of stories, all fallen into forgottenness. Memories of infinitude.

#poetry #original poem #poem #writing #creative writing #writer #space #galaxy #milky way

[lunar-inklipse]

At the end of our street stands an old house with dusty windows. It’s been there forever, long before all the other houses and it belongs to Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠. He hasn’t been here forever, though. I know that for sure. He’s been here for a year at best, but everyone acts like he hasn’t. They act like he’s been here longer than his house has been and that’s what they think, too.

They all like him because he’s polite and because he keeps his lawn neat and because he always tips his hat when he greets them.

They don’t see him for how he really is. They don’t see how ashen his skin is, they don’t see how his mouth is too wide, how he has too many teeth. They don’t see how his long fingers bend and turn in all the wrong directions. They don’t see how when they look into his dark eyes, what lies behind them is not human. But I do.

I see it. I always see it. I see it when I wake up in the middle of the night and find him standing at the window, waiting for me. I see it when he opens the window and hands me a paper bag with his long, curling fingers.

I see what lies behind his dark eyes and then I open the bag.

In the paper bag is something bulky. It’s a ham sandwich with lots of cheese, a chocolate cookie and an orange soda. It’s food and he brought it just for me. It’s my midnight lunch.

Mom doesn’t want me to eat stuff like this, she says it’s too much carbs and sugar and that’ll make me fat. Mom doesn’t like fat, she likes thin. Thin and pretty, pretty and thin. If I’m not pretty enough she gets upset and sends me to bed without dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast.

Mom needs me to be pretty so I win the contests and get a lot of trophies. Mom needs me to win so she can be happy. If she doesn’t win, she won’t be happy. She’ll be angry and yell at me till I apologize for not being pretty enough. And then she’ll ground me.

Mom would kill me if she knew about Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠’s visits. She would kill me if she knew about the food. And she’d definitely kill me if she knew I ate it.

But I don’t care.

Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ helps me climb outside the window and lifts me over the fence. Then we walk down the dark street together as I eat my lunch. Sometimes I hold his cold long fingers and then he’ll smile at me with too many teeth. I like it when he smiles because I know it’s just for me.

We always go to the park and he’ll push me on the swing and catch me when I fall off the monkey bars. He’ll help me catch frogs in the pond and when it’s winter, he’ll always build a snowman with me. He’ll ask me about school and my friends, and my family and I’ll tell him about them. Sometimes I’ll ask him about his work and his friends and his family and every time it’s a different story. A different job, different friends and a different family. But they’re all his stories and I like it when he tells me about them.

In the morning I wake up in my bed and I’ll wonder if I really talked with Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ that night and if I really had that midnight lunch and if I really went to the park. Sometimes I’m sure it was all a dream. But then I’ll see the dark footprints in my carpet and the mud on my boots. I’ll see the little paper bird on my nightstand, and I’ll see the dirt on the windowsill. I see them and I know it wasn’t a dream. Not at all.

When I go to school, I always pass the house at the end of the street. Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ will be in his yard every morning and water his roses. When he sees me, he’ll tip his hat and smile with too many teeth.

When I come home, he’ll be sitting on the porch, reading a book. Every time it’s a different one and I never recognize the language on the cover. I try to decipher the letters sometimes, but it always gives me headache.

When he sees me, he’ll tip his hat and smile with too many teeth.

I like Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ and I like it when he comes and visits me. Before he visited me, my stepfather would visit me, and I didn’t like that. He wouldn’t bring me midnight lunch and he wouldn’t take me to the park. He wouldn’t ask me about school and my friends, and my family. He wouldn’t say a lot, he just would do things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t like that at all.

But since Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ started visiting me, my stepfather would stay way. He would just lie in bed and sleep. Or at least he would lie in bed because in the morning he would always look tired. Like he hadn’t slept at all.

Sometimes I’m scared of what will happen when Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ leaves again. When he gets himself a new house and new friends and a new family.

I’m scared he’ll go away, and I’ll never have midnight lunch again and never hold his too long fingers and never see his smile with too many teeth. I’m scared I’ll wake up in the night and he won’t be the one visiting me.

But Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ said that will never happen. Ever.

He said that when he leaves, he’ll take me with him. He says I’ll be part of his next story and I really hope it’s true. I really like his stories and I really like Mr. Ǫ̸̥̮̝̮̟̲̥̈́ŗ̴̼̣͍͔̞͍̟͖̈́͂̊͊̐͐̐̂̀͘͝͝ą̴̧̪͇͉̫̻̪̙̤̯̥̲͌͒ţ̸̡̡̖̳̬̮̮͓̘͕̳̱̓̀̕î̵͙̥̈́̈̅̿̂ơ̵̗̙͉̤̞͗̀͌̃̑̋͂͊̅́͋̚͠ But most of all I like his smile that’s just for me.

#short story

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I watch her as she walks around, as she talks, as she laughs. I watch her but she never sees me in return. I try to call out to her, get her attention, but she doesn’t notice me.

She can’t hear my voice behind the glass. So all I can do is watch her, living about her life.

Not long ago, I was her and she was me. But one day she reached out to me and when I took her hand, our eyes met for the last time. One last time she saw me and then I was her and she was me.

No one noticed how she was wrong. How she wasn’t quite me. No one noticed I was gone, so all I could do was sit still and watch her.

I watch her through the bent image of our cutlery, how she laughs and chats with my mother as they do the dishes together.

I watch her through the muted reflection of the turned off television as she puts a blanket over my father after he’s fallen asleep in the chair again.

I watch her through the bathroom mirror, trying to shove my little brother away so she could brush her teeth.

I watch her through the faint reflection of the shop windows, as she walks through the mall, chatting with my friends and exchanging the latest gossip.

I watch her through the display of her phone camera when she takes pictures with my girlfriend, making silly faces and using silly filters.

I watch her but our eyes never meet.

Never can she see me. No one ever sees me. No one notices I’m missing, no one notices that she’s not me and I’m not her.

Once, I thought my dog noticed.

Once I watched her through the warped reflections of the parked cars as she walked my dog on a leash, humming the tune to a song I couldn’t remember the lyrics to anymore. I watched her and I saw my dog, how he wasn’t quite as cheerful, as excited, how he wasn’t so quite eager to get his belly rubbed.

I watched him and I thought he noticed.

Thought he noticed she wasn’t me and I wasn’t her. But by the end of the day, he had forgotten already. Forgotten I wasn’t there anymore.

So all I can do is watch.

#short story

[lunar-inklipse]

Where I go, the earth burns beneath my feet and when I leave it, it remains infertile.

Where I go, misery will come.

Where I go, death follows after me.

But I cannot halt. I cannot settle down in a place and let it be the epicenter of the destruction I bring. It would split the world in half. It almost has once, and I will not let allow myself such recklessness again. So I must keep going and pray where I go, no home will lie.

It is a cruel presence, my existence. I do not know what purpose it does serve. Maybe I have no purpose at all. Maybe there is no reason for the misery I bring, no great higher purpose.

Maybe misery is just misery. Maybe there lies no beauty in destruction and no peace in death as I once thought in my youth. Maybe my existence has no grand meaning and I am only here to serve as messenger of the wars to come.

So long have I wandered this world, seen day become night and night become day. Seen seasons change and empires fall but still I could not find an end to my journey.

Maybe it’s not meant to have an end at all, and I am chosen to wander this world until I have corrupted every town, burned every field and poisoned all the waters. Maybe the apocalypse will not come in one great war but will be brought upon by me, each day a little bit more, step by step.

But I do wonder, if my journey has no end how could it have had a beginning? Because despite all the time that has passed, I still remember my days as a boy. I still remember who I was before my wanders.

I still remember when I was…human. Or at least, when I was still close to it.

I was born in the cold months and my mother died of childbed fever, not short after she first held me in her arms. I was a sickly child and my skin was ashen, the doctors were certain I would not survive until spring. But oh, how wrong they were.

As I grew, my skin remained ashen and my body stayed gaunt, but no sickness or harm could ever take me down. No fever could kill me, and no wild animal could mangle me. No bruises would remain on my skin for longer than a day and no wound would become a faded scar. It would just…vanish. As if it had never been there at all.

Not even my father could kill me, and god bless, he tried to.

He hated me more than anything and I could not blame him. He loved my mother, he loved her dearly and she was the light of his life. I was merely the darkness that had claimed her. If he could find a reason to hurt me, he would take it.

If I forgot my chores or brought home a bad grade, he had reason enough. His hands were coarse from the work on the fields and his voice still rang in my ears when he was done. The taste of blood became oh too familiar for me and I would be quick to learn how to walk without making a sound. If I just stayed quiet and hid from him, I would be safe.

My sister tried to look after me, our father’s rough treatment of me concerned her greatly. She did not hate me like he did.

But still, I know what lied beneath her eyes wasn’t love for me, not at all.

It was fear.

And pity.

I think she always knew that I was not as human as I was meant to be. It frightened her, but she wanted me to be safe and happy, nonetheless.

So I can bear no grudge against her, even if she never tried to stop him.

Of all the people that died at my hands, she was the only one I truly wished I could have saved. But I now know that could have never been possible. It was just a matter of time and place, to be frank.

I was fifteen years old when my father last laid his hands on me. It was nightfall and he was yelling so loud, the walls of my room where shaking. He had found my journal and as he had gone through it, he discovered that my best friend and I would not go out fishing like I always told him if he ever asked. He didn’t like knowing this and he was sure he would beat those sentiments out of me if he was just rough enough.

He raised his fists at me, and I could feel a burning ache coming over me, before he had even touched me, and then he was aflame. I watched how my father feel to his knees, screaming in agony and begging the gods for mercy, and then he was quiet.

Nothing more than a charred skeleton lying before my feet.

When my sister came in, she was scared, I tried to explain, tried to tell her what happened but as I tried to approach her, the floor burned where I set my feet. She wanted to escape but the fire consumed the house and her along with it. The flames wandered over to the houses of our neighbors and soon the entire street was blazing with an orange glow.

When the sun set the next morning, all that was left of my hometown was a pile of ash. And so I began to wander.

My journey has lasted many centuries now and it has been a lonely one. No living soul has survived its encounter with me, has proven the ability to overcome the misery I bring, so lonely I will remain. Lonely and without a purpose.

But as I wander, I now see a figure far in the distance. A figure that seems so…very familiar.

And where he stands, the earth blooms.

#short story