professional-geek

Five years old, adventurous and bold, I would wander: exploring any surrounding I found my small self in. We were staying with my Aunt for the summer, and I had claimed her home as my own (my playground, my private kingdom). I found lost cities in the dining room; magic in the library; submarines in the bathroom (giant squids lurking in the manufactured wave foam), and a soft world of dreams and comfort in my nursery. I approached ogres in the shape of my older siblings and a changeling in the form of the baby; my toys became faithful allies (who battled by my side, emerging victorious) or worthy adversaries (who I conquered every time); and

No, I never said it was easy - being with her. It was just different, and more like living than my real life – my old life – had ever been. I think on some level I always thought my life was going to be more normal than this - not that I would change it. I couldn’t leave her any more than I could stop breathing – she needs me, see? Needs someone sane along for the ride to tell her, 'you need to stop'. I can see why you think she's mad...truth is she isn't really all there, but it's not like she should be committed. You know, I think that would kill her, to be trapped like that. And it's not like she's hurting anyone, she

You should be singing. His voice filtered through to her on the wind, in the grass underfoot and echoing, in the the blood in her head. She looked down at the roughly hewn stone, running her alabaster fingers into the lettered grooves and around their curves. And you should be living.

The skies were sown with stars that night; the final evening for such a view, never again would there be such a sight. The twin mountains rose with timeless garce, moon's glow highlighting their crimson hue as the sky burnt with stars, that night. The jeweled planet span in the depths of space, it's last night alive (no one knew no more would we see such a sight). The war had claimed many, of every race; and worlds, and times... all gone, too. Their stars no longer shone at night. That last turninf of the shining world's face recounted here, my friend, for you; who never did (or will) see such a sight. Snow clung to the mountai

i. (tick-tick-tick-tick) Keep with cadence, keep in time, (tick-tick-tick-tick) let the beat into your mind. (tick-tick-tick-tick) One more measure, one more chime, (tick-tick-tick-tick) one for rhythm, one for rhyme. ii. TICK. TOCK. Measured tedium in each part, stills the mind and rests the heart. Single tap sounds loud and clear, only beat in emoty air. TICK. TOCK. Ticking lulls the room to sleep, into staves we all sink deep. Idolent toll of single note; machine repeats by heart, by rote. iii. Tick-tick tock-tock. Single not, no rise or fall. Tick-tick tock-tock. Becaomes invisible to all. Tick-tick tock-tock.

Blank page awaits the first dash of ink, pen poised over the white expanse, my mind races - finding phrases. Words to show, sentences tell and envelop to hold you in thrall. Page stained, spilt thoughts - now solid.

I await his return from the little death of night, pausing on the soft line of the horizon, needing a glimpse of tawny splendor. I am forever cloaked in dark, a gown of studded beauty and the sky in the folds of my dress, yet all my firmamental finery cannot compare to his honeyed majesty. I ascend; only to catcha sight, a slive of my heart's desire sinking across that sky boundary. Above a sleeping world, I rise to a new zenith. I see him then, fingers slipping on the edge of the earth. Bright and brilliant, his fire burns away my grief, leaving my bone white heart hiung in the sky (for him). I am content, for another end

Young hearts wrought with anger, (protection in denial) unerring voice of concrete teenage reason. Old arguements on new ground, malsculine transgessions fight female agression and fail in the force of a friend. Lie and truths and "maybe he's", each member of this biased bench proclaim sentence. Back and forth; messengers fly with words of retribution (with just cause, just because). She is right, he is wrong and we've known all along. Sentance passed, flick the switch off, hang up the phone. Stone cold bitch. And proud.

A tree is an animal when winter comes (without skin). In the fall, wind sweeps and blows it's veridian fur, whorls of breeze in the motley green. As the warmth leaves land, tree moults. Foliage, like clumps of matted hair, fall and cover the already sleeping ground. Winter comes, and but a few hairs left to cling to the skeleton beast. Cold and yielding, the season bites at mossy heels. Old north claws scratch at bark and tear down the last remnants of tattered hair. Tree is left, brown bone in apathetic earth (not a corpse, but let the sleeper lie).