[Poem] Strange Dream with a Scent of Apple Sauce

I had a dream the other night

Where the god of trees said to me

“I don’t like what Apple and Google are doing”

I wondered what this strange being was rueing

While wood nymphs watered his golden bark

“Will you help me? He asked

I gave no answer, unsure of with what I was tasked

While the wood nymphs watered his golden bark

What did Apple and Google do to displease him?

I wondered when I woke up

Why had he specified the two?

This needed looking into

But what can little old me do?

Edit: Addendum, I did not mention

The orgies in the passage room

Nymphs beckoned invitingly

Which I ignored, perhaps they were testing me?

Omitted this part to keep poem PG friendly

[Short Story] Thomas Wasn’t Alone (OR) How Abstinence Saved Mankind from an Alien Invasion

“You don’t socialize enough,” his father said as he buttoned his coat.

Ah! If only he knew! “It’s not the fashion to button up suits any more,” Thomas said. There was no stopping his father when he was on one of his tirades.

His father snorted, ignoring Thomas’ laudable effort to change the subject, “Why can’t you act like a normal person for once? You should get a job that actually involves you stepping out of your apartment. Meet new people, talk to them face-to-face instead of all this newfangled skype bull. Go out on dates, and marry a nice woman, have some kids that I can bounce on my knee and tell stories to of ‘the good old days’.”

Seventeen voices guffawed within Thomas’ head in unison, ‘preferably in that order, I suppose.‘ The ‘B’ group voices were always snarky, their posh accents oozing disdain.

The kind and understanding tones of eight of the ‘A’ rose up within the recesses of his mind, ‘Hush now, that sweet old mind is just trying to help.’

The guttural monotones of forty ‘H’ voices harrumphed, ‘He’s an idiot. Let’s go back home, Thomas.’

Thomas sighed, “Umm Dad, I have to go. I’ll see you during the weekend, all right?”

His father nodded, “Don’t come back without a girlfriend and an engagement ring.”

“Sure thing,” Thomas shouted before shutting the front door, “I’ll just order them both off e-bay.”

L(23): Male chauvinist pig

The Ls always took offence at the slightest thing.

Thomas sighed, and mounted his motorcycle, and old Honda RC that stubbornly refused to start for several minutes.

T(42): Just like your…

He revved the engine, focussing on the Honda’s roar to drown out the voices and calm himself. He hated it when they insulted his dad. Thomas had been tempted to ride off a cliff and get rid of the little assholes in his head once and for all, but the thought of how Dad would cope with the aftermath always stopped his hand. Losing his son as suddenly as he had lost his wife would be too much for that old bear to handle.

Q(454): We need a cuppa!

Thomas rode down Central Street and chose the loudest coffee shop he could find. The loud squawks of Axl Rose coming from the coffee shop’s speakers gave him almost ecstatic relief.

G(500): Hehe! That’s not going to work any more. There are more of us in here now. Not even Amon Amarth and an army of Valkyrie sopranos can quiet us down now.

He ordered a cup of tea and concentrated on the music and the chatter of people around him during the lulls. He tried not to giggle as he remembered his father advising him to socialize more. Thomas would have paid any price to be left alone.

He remembered the peace he’d had during his childhood. If only he’d known how happy he had been throughout those years. He’d spent his entire childhood longing for company. His wishes had been more than answered seven years ago. The Universe had sneezed into some unfathomable dimension and expelled millions of these strange and loud creatures into Thomas’ brain, or so the creatures claimed. Oh damn! He’d been thinking too loudly. They’d heard him.

B(691), C(759), S(63): What do you mean ‘claim?’ It really happened.

Well, either they were right or he was crazy. Thomas preferred the former explanation. It was easier fighting an alien civilization than your own mind.

A(50): You’re not crazy, Thomas.

The waitress came with his tea and said, “You know, I haven’t seen you here for a while. Everything all right?”

G(53): Her name’s Kathy. She told us last time. You didn’t have the guts to ask her for her number, remember?

Thomas remembered. The Gs had been relentless in trying to get Thomas to flirt with her.

G(53): Looks like you’re going to have a second chance, you lucky stud, you! Let’s bone her.

L(16): Bah! He’s more likely to get us thrown out of here if he relies on his charm. You Gs should take over for a while.

G(515): Yeah, Thomas. Give us control, you stupid nerd. You must be the only guy in the world who doesn’t think with his…

Thomas grimaced, “Hey Kathy. Everything’s fine, thanks,” he said through the cacophony in his head.

Kathy smiled, “You used to come here almost every day and sit there nursing your cup of tea for hours. A couple of us had a bet going, wondering what you did for a living. Priya there thinks you’re planning to open your own coffee shop; That you come here to scope out the competition.”

G(1500): And what do you think?

Thomas said, “And what do you think?”

She chuckled, “I’m pretty sure it’s something artsy, because you’re eyes always seem lost in a world of your own; Writer maybe, or musician.”

G(1830): Tell her you’re a screenwriter.

B(420): Pianist

S(250): Marine

L(730): Environmental activist.

Q(430): Arab prince who pissed off ISIS and is now living here disguised as an arts student.

T(316): A muppet in search of a new home.

G(5400): All of you, shut the hell up before he messes this up!

Thomas shook his head, “Nothing as exciting as that. I’m a freelance software designer.”

Kathy sighed with exaggerated sadness, “Aw, I guess I just lost ten dollars.”

G(7300): Guess you didn’t screw up too bad. She’s coming onto you. Tell her not to worry, that you’ll tip well.

Thomas ignored the Gs, which wasn’t easy. “What do you do when you aren’t here?”

“Studying medicine. Gonna start my internship soon.”

“Wow, that’s great. This country needs more doctors. What are you specializing in?”

“General surgery and then Neurosurgery.”

“Really?”

The roars of the Gs turned to silence and Thomas could feel the silent tension building within the colony in his brain. They were scared, but why? Maybe they were scared of getting cut out of his brain. Wait, it couldn’t be that easy, could it?

Two million voices screamed in Thomas’ head: Don’t talk to her Thomas. Pay your bill and leave.

Thomas began to grin. He thought as loudly as he could, making sure that every single one of them heard him: Dad was right. He should socialize more. Kathy would know people who could help him.

He tried to subdue his smile. He must have looked like a mad man with his wide grin. “What are you doing after your shift’s ended? Would you like to have a beer with me in that bar next door?” The future of millions hinged on her answer.

“Sure. I’ll be done in half an hour.”

L(46): Relax everyone, and think. She isn’t going to cut open his head right here and now. Besides, even if he does get his head scanned they aren’t going to find the tumours for a couple more years at least. We can find a new host in the mean time.

But Thomas knew a secret. The As had told him about it a long time ago. The aliens had messed up when they’d chosen a thirteen year old virgin as their primary colony a decade ago. They could only be transmitted to another person sexually. A few more years of abstinence would be a cheap price to pay for world peace.

END

A/N: This is a short story I wrote many many years ago. I came across it while exploring my old hard drive.

[Short Prose Collab] Falling Short of Perfection

A/N: This was written in collaboration with Nitin. We had great fun writing this, and I hope that you’ll have even greater fun reading it. You can find more of Nitin’s work at https://fightingthedyinglight.com/ He’s an extremely talented poet, but don’t just take my word for it. Visit his site, and support his work if you like it.

******

When I stumbled upon her blog, I didn’t know the path Fate had envisioned for me. There were six love letters, and somewhere in the now sordid, littered alleys of my mind, I felt the need, the urge to write the seventh. Six falls short of perfection, and I needed closure, and felt that she needed it too. She hadn’t written for five years, and I didn’t want it all to end on uneven surfaces or blotchy pastures riddled with ash and cinder. I felt this insatiable need to finish her project and envisaged her lying on her sickbed, her now gnarly arms infected by disease and catastrophe, reaching out though she was dying, anesthetized by circumstance and hard ground. So, here’s my story and my truth. I’ve written each part according to my subjective interpretation of each letter, of each paper boat floating on the thin stream of lucidity towards nirvana. But what did I gain in the end: Catharsis or dysfunctionality? Pain or pleasure? A hackneyed mind or a blissful, creative soul? I’ll let you decide.

The first letter brought to my mind a series of innocent images; naïve but possessing depth. It embarked on a journey towards redemption, despite the ashen sky and craggy surfaces that embodied and personified her. I was drawn instantly, partly because somewhere in this labyrinth we call life, I’d tossed away my childlikeness and charm. The piece suddenly echoed in my mind, both chastising me and gently warming my soul, questioning where I stood before the omniscient jury: Am I innocent or guilty? Does each crime, however trivial it seems, make me a partaker of the pleasures of the flesh?

The second letter drew me in further with its connotations: Words symbolizing a deeper semantic, a throes of pain and pleasure, making me an archetypal anti-hero. A symbol of both hate and sacrifice, of both selfishness and surrender, and I wished I’d stopped there. I wish I hadn’t gone further, but the desire to hopefully find more substance in this trite façade we call life, with actors playing their roles, and society fiercely and furiously suppressing the anarchist, made me rebel and read the next, hoping for redemption in a postmodern world where reality bends fiction, and fiction envelopes reality, thoroughly and wholly.

III

The next letter plucked out my heartstrings because I could resonate with it then completely. It forcefully yanked my heart out and placed it on a platter where people who thrive on misery could eat it bit by bit, part by part with the raw red drooling from their lips and staining their chins. It was then that transcendence reprobated himself and I was left with guttural shrieks and cries for freedom. I wish I hadn’t read further. I wish I hadn’t known what I had, and I guess that’s the psychopathic tendency of someone who pries too deep, who can’t help himself because his impulsivity reigns.

Another tiring day of work, another night of finding solace in her six letters. In Nabokov’s afterword to Lolita he says that ‘reality is one of the few words which means nothing without quotes’. The letter I read tonight sings of her reality. Her quotation marks are filled with an intangible feeling that sends shivers down my spine. It is in her last line that her letters take a strange departure from her previous posts. She cries to her lover, ‘you are not vicious, or demented. Your mind is wonderful, and your treasures are priced beyond measure. Please speak to me once more, my Yellow King.’

The passion and mystery of her writing draws me ever deeper. I have studied these letters for years, felt every drop of her passion, felt the psychic induction of her words on me, the palpable effect of her heart, soul and spirit on my neurotransmitters. I’ve tried cocaine, heroin and meth to break away from her siren song, but her words never lose allure. The drugs have no effect on me, apart from a short bout of diarrhea. I see her in my dreams, dancing in a masquerade with the Yellow King, their faces hidden, their forms encased by the mysteries of the Regency. The Yellow King gazes at me sometimes, his eyes beaming amusement. ‘Fool,’ I think I can hear him laugh, ‘to become ensnared by my plaything.’ My dreams turn crimson and I wake up to another dreary day behind my desk.

Her last letter is filled with manic joy. She says she has found a way to her Yellow King. She will soon be with her lover. I must find her, and rescue her from him before she succeeds. ‘My life is yours during the day as long as you give me the first dance of the night,’ she says in her letter. What does this mean? Why is she giving this despicable creature her life? Can’t she see how dark and twisted he is? ‘In Carcosa we dance beneath the black stars,’ she says. The more she dances with him the more she fades from reality. The Yellow King’s heart is ice, and her fire is slowly being consumed. Her quotation marks are losing their shape. I must slay this dragon, rescue her. She will write the seventh letter as a funeral dirge, after I slay that pantomime horror and rescue her from his diabolic dance. A .45 might come in handy.

VII

Carcosa lies too far away for the world of man to touch. I now know what I must do. This letter will be written in crimson ink. It must begin with my own death and end with the death of the Yellow King. My beloved, may my death buy you your life.

“We need more A positive,” he heard a voice shout frantically. “I think he’s going to make it.”

Many years later, the letters were forgotten. When he tried to remember this period of his life he drew nothing. His amnesia was a mystery that an inner voice warned him was best left unsolved. In his nightmares though, one scene constantly plagued him, a crowned jester roaring with laughter and gleaming with malice as he waltzed with the corpse of a woman through the barren desert under black stars and twin suns.

THE END

A/N: IV,V,VI and VII inspired by the King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers