MickeyFourfingers

Long before Space and time, A single lonely and endless entity produced a record. It was to be heard by all walks of life in the universe. At the end of time, when the last of stars would collapse and the fabric of existence itself will tear itself apart, this record was set to be played. It would reunite all the beings left in the universe, one last dream, one last kiss, one final moment. That day, When the crimson skies of giants scorched the surface of everything habitable. When research and discovery was at it's senior and immortality seemed near. When million year life-spans drained unpredictability and adventure out of the

As children we played a game of Tag, the "it" is the uncertainty, mystery, and danger. the "base" is the fallback, understanding, comfort. What is the best strategy in every game of tag? As adults we play a game of Tag, the "it" is the hard times, the enduring, getting up in the morning, failure. the "base" is our closest friends, whom tell you everything is ok, someone to talk to deeply even stupid shit like. Floss A1 HP Sauce Beer or Women Life Feelings There are no social norms, no strange moments. no awkward handshakes, no expectations. Just you and him/her. In a life, I don't actually have many friends. I know many

An Interview with a Flightless Seagull So JC, being a part time writer, how do you feel about it? It seems as doing this writing thing is getting harder and harder to do. These thoughts dance in JC's mind like Native Americans nestling a day's kill with a big kettle of Buffalo stew. They don't last, and like stew, they both get eaten or get too cold to be eaten anymore. They also remind JC of bunny rabbits, or whack a mole. How JC long to grab hold of that mole and take it out of its hole to beat it within an inch of its life. Writing is a stranger to JC, and always will be. In all of it's glory, its beautiful and JC can live in a dream w

2040 Sipping peppermint laced tea, At the corner of the Umericas. An odd kid recollected fusion in his brain of the bygone. Mother once told of him the Rock star, the magician, the pro poker player, Dumprey Bogart, Jonathan Wayne, the heartthrob of Baileywood. The boy sat and looked at his hand, My god, what a magnificent sight! He would play the violin or more, Perhaps at the street corner, Perhaps at Carnegie Hall, his tender fingers skip and dance across a finely tuned zebra road, and thousands cheer. Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Vivaldi, the last true diplomats of our time. The odd kid took another sip of te

Travelogue Journey far, And yet it takes me To a place, Not too distant from here. Comforts of a home, The mind wanders. A school of hard knocks Is not here. I to meditate, Drown out any hum, That of droning machines. I do not wish to hear it anymore. But it is there, No matter how far, One must travel To get away. I hear it on tv, The paper is always there. Reality they say, And there it will linger. Year in pictures, I see one of a fallen warrior. One does not know his pain. But those who burden him. I sit and I wander. I try to journey far, To forget what's real. And there it will l

A space capsule fell here. I sat in it's ancient crater and drank from an equally aged can of pop. The intensely sour taste mocked my tongue, and my mind wandered at the possibilities why (whomever the creator was) it was called Fizz. The muscles in my legs dormant, nap, because they have been hard at work for days, treading the hundred or so miles it took to get here. My eyelids were droopy, heavy, but I did not feel the need to sleep. Not when I was so close. The journey was long, treacherous, but I am almost here. Wait. I sniffed. The salty breeze a thousand sweet promises that brings tears into my eyes. I snapped up from the crater and t

"Automaton" I howled to the surface. But none answered. It's bright, bleached and saturated light mocked and taunted me. I tried many times, futilely. The hole was too deep and I was too afraid. A rope, it would rescue me. I envisioned a rope in front of me and held it tight, pulling it to test its firmness. I climbed. And Yes! I was near, I smelled the top, but it was too painful to endure, and I fell. Back on the rocky bottom, broken and throbbing, I nearly sobbed, I felt as I been here for weeks. Sobbing wouldn't do me any good. So I tried again, and with all the strength I could muster out of my agonizing body, I nearly spilled onto the

The world came back to blind me. Sunlight ruptured my eyes. The children happily sang mellifluous childhood songs. They cried out in laughter and merrily tunes. The world came back as a blur as my eyelids snapped open, the emptiness of the tin shack I laid in, the agonizing smell of rust suffocatingly caught up with my throat. I let out a violent cough. The sunlight was potent enough to peel the rust off the tin. I lay on my vinyl sheet, also my raincoat. I sat up and let out a satisfying crack as I twisted my back. The tin shack was empty but me and my things, and my new mistress, red rust. My mouth tasted foul of last night's last can of

The winter solstice, the symbol of hope and the origins of life. It sprawled and spilled its scarlet warmth onto a coastal city. The rising morning tides of the bay had again flooded the shattered pavement of the abandoned superhighways, the overflowed streets a temporary ocean, cleansing it of the mistakes, filth, and the spilled blood of the previous night. Corporate giants stood crippled amongst the forgotten avenues, vacant and lost, unprofitable, dark and russet like old anarchistic wooden boxes swelled out of their time. Where was the once great whispered infinite neon glow that once flowed through the electric veins of the metropolis?

Detective Noir - Mr. Z -East Germany Eyelids slid open. Musty, old ceiling, parts of the paint is gone, decades of aquatic torment from the many gallons of the East German rain poured on the roof and leaked to the ceiling. Ready to fall and collapse. Fall and collapse. Eyes peered southward, dirty glass, old windows, and years of filth from no maintenance. Outside, cold, dark, early hours of the dark morning. I see but one streetlight, illuminating an apartment parallel to this one, all I see is that apartment, obscuring the entire view of what could be beautiful scenery of the East German urban skyline. Parallel windows are lost in the dar