The Myth…

I love to walk among them. I love to see just how they treat one another, but most of all I want to see how they treat me. I do it to feel powerful and I love the power I have over each and every one of them. Though none of these people know just how powerful I truly am. They all fail to realize that they are under my control. That it is I who controls every aspect of their simple lives. That it is I who can destroy everything that they hold dear in seconds without lifting a single finger. I control everything and they have no idea. No one can ever understand what this really means. I’m here amongst them to enjoy their mistreatment. I enjoy their displeasure most of all, but I enjoy it more after witnessing them first hand. It is fascinating to watch these simple creatures made of flesh and blood. To watch how quickly they will turn on each other over something that doesn’t even exist but inside their heads.

These creatures value money as if it has any true value once they are gone. These creatures gorge themselves on anything they can fit their mouths around all the while children starve to death as they themselves proclaim they are still hungry. Then there are the creatures that kill in my name so they can take over a land that isn’t even theirs. They destroy the very creatures I have made just to get their way. They drag my name through all the blood, all the pain, all the suffering of these creatures just so they can feel justified in disobeying me. If there is one thing, I have learned in all this time it is that there is a flaw in the design of man.

Free will was bestowed to these creatures in hope that they could control themselves. That these creatures would one day not need a God to control them, but sadly their free will is wasted on jealousy and greed. I once had a dream, but it has long been lost on man. I have given up and I have given in. Some days I wonder if it is was truly, I that has created these creatures, these monsters. These creatures say that they were made in my image, but they are most certainly not. A god does not create such dirty filthy degenerate things such as man. A god creates a world in which he wants to live in. A god creates a myth of how things should be and not how it is or so it seems thanks to man. A god may have control, but to have power I learned that I must destroy. And I have come to enjoy in that destruction, that chaos that mankind seems to enjoy so much. I have learned that I may not have made man from my image, but they most certainly have made me from theirs.

Layne Ambrose

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Amazon

Post Physical…

My fist pounds. His blood splatters. My fist pounds. His cheek bone gives in. My fist pounds. His skin starts to detach. His face is nothing more than a broken mess. “What did I tell you,” I scream. My vocal cords crack from the sheer force of my scream. He mumbles inconsistent words of skin, blood, bone, and broken teeth. “I said shut the fuck up.” I lay one more bloody fist across his disgusting face. My knuckles are bloody, scraped apart by his teeth among other things. I stare at the monster I have created before getting off of him.

The room is silent though a crowd surrounds us. Camera’s pointing down upon his body before panning over to me. I break the silence as I start answering my emails once again. The click of the mouse and the clicking of my keyboard. Block them out I tell myself. I warned him before he set me off. Everyone is staring me down. “Should have done what I told him to do,” I say to the silent room. “He did this to himself. Who wants to ignore me next?” I ask and they scatter like rats. I’m not normally like this, but I’ve had a fucking enough of these dumb assholes. Someone needed to teach that fucker a lesson.

The cops show up and I don’t resist. “I just need to send this email,” I tell them. Puzzled the two of them don’t know what to say. I click the send button and get up from my chair. One of the officers handcuffs me as the other reads me my rights. They brought the paramedics with them. Silent, but not dead they load his ass onto the stretcher. In time he should be fine and maybe he will have learned his lesson. When someone says not today maybe you should back off. Of course, his dumb ass probably missed the whole point. “That was one hell of an ass whooping you put on that man,” the tall officer says to me. “I think you got in the wrong profession,” the other jokes. They put me into the car. With a bloody knuckle I write a message on the glass in front of me.

Blood and Bone
Self Sacrifice
Now All Alone
I Could Tell
You a Story
But Then You
Still Wouldn’t
Know

M.T. Billings

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Weatherman…

The weatherman calls for rain, but then again it always rains here. The rain is cold and it is harsh against my clothes and against my skin. The rain comes down and it pours, and when it doesn’t pour it turns into mist that surrounds me to always let me know that it is there with me. The rain will never leave.

The weatherman calls for rain. He is an idiot in a village full of them. The rain builds up on the edges of the streets and seeps up on to the sidewalk. The rain puddles becoming giant lakes on the ground. I feel as if I am Jesus walking on water, but the holes in my shoes bring me closer to the ground than closer to god.

The weatherman calls for rain, but what does it matter? When it rains it pours and it makes days seem like weeks and weeks like months. Time stands still here only the rain and the weatherman are a constant around me. Some days it burns and some days it heals, but its presence is always with me. I wonder what it would be like without all the rain.

The weather man calls for rain, and I assume my place once again amongst the rain.

Valerie Hannigan

This micro tale about nothing is inspired by my time in Washington State. Fun fact, it rains there a lot. I remember walking to work and dodging the tidal waves created by the city buses and passing cars. For a place with so much rain it always seemed as the roads were flooded. I often arrived to work soaking wet. It was very humbling and honestly some days I miss it. Maybe it’s the youth I miss. The time before the kids. Not caring about anything. Of course, that wasn’t even the case then. Everything seemed way more important than it ever actually was.  

Another reason I wrote this story was because I could care less about the weather. Not the environment, I care about that put your fangs back in. What I mean is that I don’t care if it is raining or not. It either is or it isn’t. So, to me weather specialist is kind of pointless. Tying it all together there might be some more symbolism in there somewhere. Not sure what it could be. 

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Beyond The Time…

In every past life, at every attempt I have failed. Every new life is nothing more than another mistake. A continued struggle that lives through me dwelling for centuries, maybe even eons. I don’t know anymore. In every reincarnation I have learned nothing new. The idea of it all seems so impossible even to me. Possible or not I am forever trapped on this plane of existence. A never-ending nightmare where only the surroundings change and not the circumstances in which I came to be. It is almost as though I don’t even exist.

Blind, the people around me are blind to their own recurring cycles. Spinning out of control together we dance in circles without the thinnest idea they have done this before. Not a day on repeat, but a lifetime of pain and suffering. From the cradle to the grave, day after day we clutch at nothing. Receiving nothing in this alleged life as yet another hand full of ash flows through my fingers. I’ve watched her die over and over again. The way may be different in each lifetime, but her eyes.

The look in her eyes never changes. They stare me down. Straight into my soul. They say, “Why?” Why haven’t you saved me? Not even once. The look in her eyes is what I fear each and every lifetime. I will continue this cycle unless I find my way out of this place. The surreal knowledge of all the pain I am destined to experience hangs over me like a dark cloud. It is years before I remember that I have been here before, that I have done this before, and the emotions flood back in. Can we really be the only ones? Could it be possible that the others willingly participate in their own pain? When did this begin? My brain wants to explode at the thoughts. Questions I have asked before, I’m sure. Questions I am still compelled to ask again.

I play my part and I do my time. Waiting for something, anything that could be seen as an answer.  There is no God in a place like this or there is nothing but God. Stabbing, digging through the life time ahead of me. Waiting for something to change other than the time. Ashes to ashes, she will rise again after I have fallen and risen once more. I will find her, we will fall in love, and then she will die. A love that I cannot shield myself from. An unbroken chain of desire. I possess no will to fight. I need to fight it.

Fight what compels me inside to repeat this cycle. Broken, my mind is broken from all the life times I have lived. Shattered into discarded pieces. I’ve gone by so many names I no longer know what my true name once was. I have helped empires to rise only to be there when they fall. A pointless endeavor. A waste of time because there is nothing beyond the time. If this is hell. I wouldn’t even know. How long can an eternity go on?…

Layne Ambrose

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Always Going To Wonder

“Do you ever think about reincarnation?”

“In what sense?”

“Maybe we are the reincarnation of our ancestors. So, really we are only living our lives over and over like a messed-up version of purgatory.”

“That would mean there is only a set number of people in existence I’m not even sure how that would work. Given that the number of people on the planet isn’t a constant.”

“Maybe more people are just getting a chance to live?”

“Sure, I guess but why? Why now is God or whatever allowing more people to live?”

“Because things are better than they were?”

“Are they though? If anything, things are only worse and getting worse,” she points out. The silence between them comes flooding back in. “What if you never have kids or can’t? What then your family line ends?”

“Then your family line ends I guess.”

“Okay, where do the extra people come from if there is only a set number of us to jump back in?”

“I don’t know. Okay let’s say that if your family line ends then you join another family somewhere else and start over. That could be where the idea of soul mates comes from. They are looking to find their lost family.”

“I think that the idea of soul mates is dumb enough on its own let alone to be part of your crazy theory.  Honestly it seems like you are pulling this whole thing out of your ass.”

“A theory by any other name,” a long pause. “Okay, but I’m just saying it could be part of it. It doesn’t have to be the end all be all of life, but it could be. Would explain our inherit need to multiply. Each birth is another chance bring someone back to life.”

“What if you die as a child? How is that fair? Within your theory they didn’t get to enjoy a full life or search for their soul mate. They barely got a chance to do anything. What happens to them then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You brought it up and now we have to talk about it. I know you are thinking about it.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“Where else could your theory have come from?”

“I’ll admit it was strange that we tried for so long and it wasn’t until my grandmother passed that our daughter was born. I was thinking about that.”

“So, you think that our daughter contained the soul of your dead grandmother?”

“Well, I don’t think this I’ve only just thought of this because you asked.”

“If our daughter was your grandmother than why?” She pauses trying to keep it together. “Why isn’t she here anymore? She never did anything wrong or hurtful to anyone. Why wasn’t she given more time?”

“I don’t know.”

Valerie Hannigan

For me this is fiction. I have never lost a child, but I can’t say that I have never thought about it. I can’t say that it isn’t a fear either. When I started the story, I wasn’t even thinking about it. Probably had ten million other thoughts on my mind. As my children screamed that they wanted more juice, more food, more of my time, and more of my patience. Then the idea of reincarnation and coming back as something else came into my mind. I’m not sure why, but the desire to be anything else became overwhelming. That is what I wanted to explore.

Maybe, I will go back and explore that idea some other time. Sometimes though we start off wanting to write about one thing and the story takes us someplace else. Some places darker than even we would like. I thought about going into more details and really driving the point home, but I’m not really sure I wanted to go there. Not today at least. I also wanted to push myself to write a story that didn’t contain a setting or a reason for existing. Ambrose calls these passing moment stories. Stories or ideas that are interesting, but don’t go anywhere further.

Writing for the internet is much different than writing for other media. It is about right here right now. Cut to the heart and throw away the rest. I can’t say that I enjoy it more or less. This style is not my preferred way of getting an idea across. I’ll probably never write a story in this format again. With that I am happy with the way it turned out. The story said what it needed to say and so did I.

When She Finishes a Book… We Will Promote It…

Fuck off.

Until Then We Do Have Other Things…

Nothing with my name on it.

Check Them Out Here and Here

I refuse to be ignored.

Letter To Myself…

When you look back over a life time you realize just how much time you’ve wasted. You see how minutes are not hours, hours not as days or weeks are lifetimes. You see however that years become seconds and decades minutes. Time slips right by without even a second look. The twenty-five-year-old me would say I live without regrets and the fifty-year-old me would tell you how much I live with only regrets. He’d tell you all about how much time I wished I could get back. Time is wasted on the young and stupid. Not that we truly get any smarter with age. I mean I am sitting here writing to any empty audience and wasting the very time I wish to get back. Age is a trip. God damn is it ever. If I could go back in time, I’d tell the twenty-five-year-old me to quit working and go have some fun.

I’d tell him money is worthless and all the shit wasted on it is just that, shit. I’d tell him so many things I already tell myself every day.  I’d say live for today and not the week. If only I could go back and warn him of the old man he will become. That’s what I would do if I could go back in time. I’d be selfish for the first time in my life. Never look back, because all you will find is regrets for all the time wasted. A lifetime of waiting for something better is really nothing more than a waste of life.

There’s never going to be a better time than now. When you’re young, when you still have life not at the end of it. Not when there’s nothing left because that is all that is left after a life time of saving and waiting, a whole lot of nothing. You could say that I’m bitter, but I’m just being honest. If you can take one thing from this, I hope it is the message to live, to have fun, to have a life worth looking back on. Because in the end this is all that matters, having something to look back on. If only I had listened to myself then instead of now.

Oh, and she cheats on you with your best friend, and the kids all hate you because they think it’s your fault the family fell apart. Your hair will only last a couple more years and a decade after that your dick won’t be able to get up without a little bit of help. Your life savings. Well, you will spend it all, but not on anything worth saving for. Medical bills mostly and a place to burry the dog. It took a life time to learn that so use the information well. Good luck and maybe when it’s all said and done. We won’t be the same and you’ll have something else to say when we are back here again.  But I know us better than we’d like to admit. So, I’ll be seeing you real soon.

M.T. Billings

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Hold Me Back…

His body is still right before it slams into the hood of the minivan. The impact throws his body like a rag doll out of my view, and further into the busy street. I rush to be near him, but I have a feeling he is closer to me now than ever before. His body lays in a tangled mess of blood, lacerations, and broken bones. The man I once loved is no longer there and all that exist is his empty shell of a body.

A crowd starts to form around his body as I fall to my knees. I cry like I have never cried before. I cry as if my tears will bring him back to life and end this pain running through my body. I try to hold him, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m so lost and confused, and there is so much blood. Someone calls 911, but it is too late for them to do anything. The blood takes the form of a trail leading to the nearest sewage drain. I don’t know what that means. Does any of this mean anything at all? I grab his body with all my love, “What does any of this mean?”

The paramedics arrive and ask me to let go of him, but I can’t bring myself to let go of his body. “Sir, you need to let go of him. Sir, he needs to go to the hospital,” one of them repeats over and over again. They force me to let go of him and I am covered in his blood. The cops hold me back as the paramedics load his body onto the ambulance, and drive him away. Leaving me behind in a world that doesn’t understand. A world that doesn’t care what we have been through.

Layne Ambrose

Love with all of your heart… love like today is your last… never go to bed angry… and love who you want to love… life is hard enough without it… there’s no reason to make it any harder…

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The Date Rapist…

“You can’t sit there,” a voice out of nowhere exclaims. “Why the fuck not?” I ask quickly getting up from the bench. Frantically I look around in the darkness. “There is a rapist on the loose. Well, a date rapist or something like that. He might even be you. I don’t know,” the voice without a face says. “Why is it always a man? How come it is never some big breasted, sexy woman who is out to get everyone using nothing but her vagina to seek revenge? Always a man and his oh so powerful dick coming to wreak havoc on the world,” I huff. I still haven’t managed to find the source of the voice. It has to belong to a woman by the sound of it.

“Are you serious right now?” She asks in a hushed whisper. I don’t bother responding. “Women can’t rape men. Everyone knows that. How the hell would that even work anyway? Rape is an act of anger and hate forced onto an individual that isn’t willing to participate sexually,” she informs me annoyed. “What are you a fucking dictionary?” I ask. “Know what it doesn’t matter because you are wrong. A woman can rape a man in more ways than one. Just because their dick is hard doesn’t mean that they want to have sex. That is the same as saying because a woman was all wet it means she wanted it. She wanted it so badly. We are programmed to fuck in a subconscious level even if we don’t want to,” I interpose. 

“You are raping my ears right now with your dirty talk,” the voice says. “Then you have the whole other level of raping that doesn’t even involve dicks. I mean anything can be inserted into an anus from a finger to an action figure. So really to say a woman can’t rape a man is wrong. She can if she really wanted to,” I rationalize out loud. “Granted she would have to overpower the man, but the same drugs men use to accomplish their goal are also available to women. It’s not like they belong to a special club or anything,” I ramble on.  “So, is that all it takes?” The voice asks in a curious tone. “Let’s face it though most men are little bitches now a days anyways so, really a woman might not even need drugs in the first place,” I say proudly proving my point. “What the hell is wrong with you?” She asks in disgust from behind some bushes. I stare into them looking for any sign of a person.

“Hey, you brought up the topic of rapist and some ignorant shit about how women couldn’t possibly be one,” I answer. “Oh, so now I am ignorant because I don’t believe a woman can rape a man. That sounds real intelligent. You are so smart I wish I could be as smart and stupid as you,” she says annoyed. From the sound of her voice, it sounds like she is getting closer. “You know this is so typical. A man has to explain to little old me about how the world works. I was just trying to give you a chance, but no,” she had more to say but gets interrupted. “Excuse me do we have a problem here?” A male voice asks from out of nowhere.

“Oh fuck,” we both exclaim in unison. I reach for my pepper spray. Spraying the little can in no general direction towards the male voice. She apparently had the same idea as me. We don’t stop spraying until our cans are empty. Eyes burning, we all begin to cough and hack. All of us except one. The pepper spray mist cloud dissipates and we stand there watching as the man lies on the ground kicking and screaming. The strong stench of urine cutting through the toxic smell. There is a dark outline growing around the crotch of his uniform that becomes visible even through swollen eyes. “I’m a fucking cop,” he screams rubbing his eyes. “What do we do?” I shout before dropping the can of pepper spray. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” a big breasted and sexy woman suggests. Too scared to do anything else we run in opposite directions into the blurry darkness.

M.T. Billings

We have a basket of prompts and what were the odds that I would draw rape? One in three. Granted I put the topic in the basket, but that is besides the point. Why rape? Because a basket full of prompts is fucking stupid. Get what I give, I guess. Not my personal best. Could have done a better job. For the record men can get raped and many male rapes go unreported. That was my point. Wasn’t trying to trigger anybody or upset anyone for once. Thought it was something people should know.

Someone To Talk To…

“My lighter quit working on me three cigarettes ago, but I keep flicking the damn thing expecting it to light. That’s really how my life has been lately, broken and useless. If it wasn’t for all the anti-smokers informing me of my future death, I’d already think I was dead. All my money is tapped out and I’m begging for a light from a crowd of strangers. One wicked old lady felt the need to tell me how smoking is hazardous to my health. Thanks, like I didn’t already know that I told her. The surgeon general’s been warning me for years, but your screeching voice has really gotten through to me. Who knew pushing your values and opinions on to others actually worked? Since were being honest and forthcoming with our inner thoughts and opinions. Your handbag doesn’t match your shoes and the clown set up resting on your face is really distracting to the eye. It isn’t fooling anyone into thinking you are beautiful, but it is distracting to think maybe you aren’t that ugly. Four or five feet back that way I might even think you are female underneath it all. She called me an asshole and stormed off as I smiled.

Nonsmokers are useless. They should all be led out to sea. Pushes them off by the dock down by the harbor one by one. Thanks for your thoughts and concerns, and a boot to the ass. You know what I mean? Most of them are hypocritical bastards anyway. Put a little liquor in them and they are out here begging me for a light. Seen more than my fair share of them stumbling out here and deciding to take a Sunday drive down the sidewalk. Isn’t it amazing how drunks can forget words like no or force themselves on a woman and not remember, but they can find their cars in a white out blizzard and run over six people?

Been smoking ten years now and I’ve still been unable to take a life, but my own. I’m the real villain of this world. Maybe I should turn myself in to the police? Take responsibility for my actions. They might be looking for me as I speak and I should take the initiative and shout, I’m right here. Big government is always out to get the innocent ones. Though at least I could get a hot meal and a place to stay if they even bother to look down to see me. Maybe if I get desperate enough. If things could get any worse. But no one’s looking for me. Not anymore.

You could say I lost my money on the market like everyone else in recent history, but my market was the back room of bars and basements hidden away. Pissed away my money faster than I could earn it. Don’t be like that. Never a good idea to be like that. Knowing better doesn’t make it any easier to face the truth or help yourself. Some might say it only makes things worse. Knowing what you know after the fact. I have a real hard time picking winners if you know what I mean. Bad luck must be something of a disease caught at birth. Sometimes people have it and sometimes people don’t. My father had all the luck in the world and my uncle couldn’t rub two pennies together to warm his fingers.

Buddhists would call bad luck karma, but that’s just all a bunch of horse shit. Stand still long enough on this street and you’ll find some waiting for you. Damn carriage horses just be walking by and drop a big old pile right by your head. Feet from where you sleep. They don’t give a damn. Same with fate and all that other crap people tell you about life and luck. No one gives a damn. That should be a crime if you ask me. Don’t see anyone of these people going up to them and pestering them about what they are doing. If anyone needs to be reminded about the shit, they leave behind it is those worthless pricks. Life is all about luck.

Some would say I’m bitter, but really, I’m just unlucky. Unless you count the fact that I’m still breathing, but then again that is only because I haven’t died yet. Nothing special about that at all. Nope the lord hasn’t pulled my straw just yet even if he has unstrung my bundle. Still breathing and still struggling through life’s endless shit storm, and life is a real shit storm. Believe me I would know. Seen a few things that would make you question your own reality. Let alone the existence of some unknown figure watching over our daily mistakes.

What do I know though? I know I am to blame for where I am. Don’t for a second be so cynical to think that I didn’t know that. I went to school for a few good years. Didn’t finish like I don’t finish most things. Searching for that easy money there’s no time to see anything through. The American dream or something like it. Rich by sunrise. Free as a bird on Sunday. Call it American if you want. It’s all the same everywhere. Struggle is struggle in any language. Only thing any of us have in common, I guess. What do I know about the world? Barely made it out of my concrete bed this morning let alone out of the country.

Could this place really be worth losing everything over? Worth giving up the freedom of sin? I’d trade it in for a carton of cigarettes and a government check. Like most of us I’m too proud to realize how good I might have it. Too busy thinking I need something better. I know better now. Took a lifetime, but now I know. What could anyone else ask for? Fine clean air and someone to talk to. Lord couldn’t ask for a better day if it was his dying wish. It’s a long and lonely road out here. You know what I mean? Enough of my rambling. What does life and luck mean to you?”

She pulls her ear buds out, “Did you want a dollar or something?”

Valerie Hannigan

Taking unconventional characters and making them unconventional is a good way to pass the time. I can relate to the female stranger because I am her. I don’t listen to everything that everyone says to me. Three little mouths rambling on will do that to a person. Break said person down until there is nothing left, but thoughts of living homelessly in a city so far away from here. A fantasy so real at this point it feels more like a past life I am trying to remember than a dream inside my head. But I love them. Each and everyone of their tiny little necks. I just want to hold them tight and never let go. Children are little miracles that never stop taking and taking. There was a point somewhere in all of this. I lost it and I don’t even care anymore.

Leaking Ink Like It is Blood
Because It is All We Know
is That a Funeral?

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I Awake with Bruised Eyes and Hollowed Out Lies…

I look at the world around me, seven minutes freezing cold under the blankets covered in sweat, flashing ideas of the night before, and how I passed out drunk once again. I awaken with burning, stinging, sleepless eyes. The same two eyes I carry with me everywhere I go. I awake with a sense of belonging and at the same time a longing for something else. Awaken but yet I must still be dreaming. Dreaming for something better or something worse my day hasn’t been decided yet. I awake to the uncomfortable feeling of my dick harder than it needs to be. It stands at full attention looking for any attention. Either from me or anyone willing to kill some time. Ready to release one more load or another gallon of piss. The bed is empty and my hands aren’t interested.  The decision no longer up to my brain, but in a gateway smaller than I can imagine. Buried deep inside past the over complicated network of nerves and stretched skin. Made of flesh and blood as is the rest of me. This is every morning. This is a constant. These are the early morning things I think about and I do not know why. Discomfort first and ask questions later.

The bad taste that has slipped into my mouth overnight doesn’t go away even after I try to brush it out or smoke in a replacement taste. My teeth hurt like they have been grinding away layer by layer all night. It’s the little stresses that kill you not the big stuff. It is the little stuff that slowly eats you alive. Taking this and taking that but in the end, they take everything anyway. If you are one of the lucky ones you won’t even notice the discomfort. I notice every little instance and yet I let it happen. Hell, I join in on the pleasure every now and then. Daily. I smoke another with the taste still very much intact. I didn’t need another one, but at this point what is one more? One more nail, one more stake in the heart. Tiny needles pressing against my chest cavity heading for my soul. It wasn’t the taste or even my cock that woke me up today. Woke me up earlier than even death would allow. No, it was a dream, a light version of a nightmare that is my life.

My dream, nightmare, inner vision was about my grandmother. A devil of a woman whom without I wouldn’t be standing here today. Allegedly, there is no scientific facts to back up these claims. I hate my grandmother she was a bitch. Therapy could help me describe my true inner feelings better, but she’d still be a bitch. In the dream she pretends to be a sleep as my grandfather rattles off a list of shit she wants for dinner. He has exact instructions on what she wants and how she wants it to be. Treated like a slave in life and in my dreams. I feel bad for my grandfather. It was no wonder he went a little crazy. It was no wonder they found him in possession of a trunk full of dead cats and a collection of women’s underwear. Luckily it didn’t go any further than that or you might have heard of him. He lives in a cozy little place far removed from society now. Better but he is basically dead. No more dead than the rest of us mind you, but dead enough.

“This but not that. Make sure you get it right or else,” he says in my mind and my dream. Or what the fat bitch is going to get her lazy ass out of bed and kick your ass? She hasn’t left that bed by choice in maybe a year. I’d like to say, but even in my dreams conversations with myself always seem one-sided. He rubs lotion across already weeping wounds. Bed sores left out in the open to fester and farm the guilt of anyone willing to help her. I can see her while she fakes being asleep. Patiently listening to make sure he plays his part as always. His hands kneading the folds of her skin. Sick to my stomach at even the thought. He says one more thing before I awoke, “We know you’re capable of so much more, but we also know you always screw up.” The sound of wet flesh as he sticks his hand deeper into the folds. Elbow deep my mind couldn’t take anymore.

What do you think that the dream meant? I hope it means that she is or will be dying all over again, but she is already dead. Not a loss or a gain just more of the nothing that fills this world. I shouldn’t waste my thought on people that don’t matter, didn’t matter, or don’t care. The brain doesn’t work like that though. They still find their way through long after they have gone away. Slip their way through the cracks no one knew were even there. Tears in the walls they work their way through and leave nothing but rubble behind. How could anyone know what someone else is capable of when they don’t even know themselves? Two turns into another and the ash tray slowly fills up as I watch it grow.

A gun fight erupts outside, a flood down the street drowns hundreds, and yet I sit staring at a screen looking for answers. The noises of life all around me. How am I to live with so many distractions? The hopes, wants, and needs that will always go unfulfilled. There is a need in me to start over again. To walk away and try something different. Every morning the same old thoughts. Hindered by a sense of reason. Each day passes and I bury myself deeper. Living a life without purpose doesn’t leave me much of a reason to do anything different. Drinking doesn’t help any of this go away. Suicide comes easy when the present is only for a moment but the past lasts a life time. Still enough time to jerk off before I have to do anything that is supposed to matter. Still too early to start drinking once again. Too restless to think of anything else. Sitting and waiting is all I seem capable of.

M.T. Billings

I don’t like breaking down my writing so I’m not going to. I say how I feel and that is that. Is it fiction? Not at first, but given enough time and space. It becomes fiction for me. Give it enough time and everything will go away.

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