Cinder and smoke
The snake in the basement
Found the juniper shade
The farmhouse is burning down
“There’s nothing else left here, you know that right?” He put out his cigarette in the ground before looking over at his pale face striking out against the now-coming darkness. It was funny how even masked in the glow of brilliant oranges, reds, and yellows it still seemed so pale, so distant, so sickly. He figured it was just another condition of the way things worked around here; another condition of old age stripping away the once prominent sanity and replacing it with absolute fear. He wondered how that felt though he had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew.
“Yeah…I know.”
“Then why keep coming here and torturing yourself like this?”
He looked out into the overgrown field and considered for a second just walking straight into the field and falling down; letting the weeds grow over and around his body, the ants pick apart one by one, tearing his flesh apart and marching it back to their home to feast for another day or two.
“It’s not torture, it’s memory.”
His pale face hadn’t moved a bit, it was still staring straight ahead to the middle of that field. He wondered what he was thinking about, what he could be considering at this moment and why he was so keen on coming back and revisiting this old hunk of junk, this field that held nothing but horrible memories.
“You’re torturing yourself man, you can’t just keep fucking—” He started walking out into the center of the field, cutting James off before he could finish his thought. When he reached the middle he spread out his arms and fell backwards into the weeds. His body sunk below the tall grass—he was lost.
(Source: scottiehughes)
Please do a graphic that goes along with the series :]
Can I just use the GIF of the seven deadly sins I made forever ago hahahaha.
It’s not that I have anything against law, certainly I’ve known a few people here and there that have tied in a passion for literature with Law and it’s worked splendidly for them. However I think law requires a certain type of person and I don’t exactly fit the bill for that.
My parents are always trying to push me to go into politics though because they believe that just because I get into arguments a lot and have a decent way with words on political issues I’d somehow be suited for the job.
I don’t know, Law’s just one of those things that’s never felt like the right fit for someone like me. Like I believe that people that go into Law have the power to help and change the world in some shape form or fashion and that is what idealistically I’d like to do but I sort of believe I can do that in another way that seems more attuned to me.
Though I’ve for sure thought about it before hahaha.
My tongue lashes out in flickering bouts of irregular fire storms that bring with them the intense heat of our forgotten lore. The old mythology has been thrown out the window, no loner do you or I exist in the state of continual wonder at the past. No we have been transported to the present day, living in the platonic state of the now; never obsessed with the forthcoming of tomorrow. Eternally blessed with this moment in time—frozen—so to speak.
It wraps around the base of the language and with great vigor forces itself across your back. Great lines of red and pink blistered across the small of your back; feverish images of demons running their long-nailed fingers through your pink flesh and ripping it in two. These images stay with me, linger on my tongue, leaving only the bitter taste of iron hanging on the tips. With my tongue I flicker sentence after sentence and fuel the perpetual flame that burns underneath your feet; with my tongue I continue to deceive you; with my tongue I continue to destroy.
Then all at once it is silenced, by the dryness of a tongue out of fluids; deprived of blood to keep it wet it shrivels up and begs with mercy, “please let me feast” before ripping down your body and moving on. The next feast has arrived. My mouth is salivating.
is the absolute opposite of progress, justice, and scientific reasoning.
I’d say the problem with Literature is that we praise those that want to teach it and shun those who wish to make it.
I do a section on my other blog. (if you have the link check it out.)
Where people ask me questions about anything they want and I respond with a little doodle or picture. My brother asked me what it would look like if a coca cola can and a pepsi can got into a boxing match.
YES! this is the single best thing to exist on the internet ever!
Could we ever venture through the woods of uniformity and into the calamity of the open sea which addresses the two of us as envelopes stuffed with love letters; dotted with the picture of skunk and unfortunate cat tales collided in mid-arch, half-and-half together making the whole of cheesy valentines?
I imagine what you’re asking yourself now is what this letter means to you. Or rather why I write to you after it’s been so long and the truth to that answer is I have no clue. Perhaps this is the starting of my most unforgettable battle and tomorrow I will ship of, sword and shield in hand, to battle against the Alba Longa. Perhaps this is my Oath of the Horatii to you, in which I shed my war-mongering facade and pledge true alliance to my one and only king.
Though I don’t believe that king is you Sampson.
No what I wanted to know is how have you been? How has life been treating you? Last I heard you were shipping off to lower Rhode Island to study under an establish artist. I heard the two of you, how could I put this delicately, were the best of friends; that he had granted you space in his gallery and that you had willingly obliged.
I’ve also heard from Charity recently. Do you remember her? Of course you do, the two of you were best of friends were you not? She says it’s been months since she last heard of you; that the last time the two of you met was outside a bar in lower Manhattan while you had been in the city for a spontaneous art showing nearer to down town. She says she was absolutely thrilled to hear that you’ve as she put it, “made it.” in the art world. To be frank, we both were. But she said when she arrived at the gallery at the time you had told her there was no one there; the building was empty, you had burned her.
The whole story’s what prompted me to write you as I know that you’ll be more convinced to answer this letter as you would to read a text message, or reply to me on Facebook. I have a feeling you’re more likely to give this a certain sort of prestige and tear through it as I have the feeling that your isolation from the world is self-imposed and merely a mechanism to distort yourself from the actuality of the situations that transpired over the course of last year.
Sampson my friend, I never left you. That much is clear. I never did anything of the sort. I was surprised to see you even harboring these feelings inside of you—this resentment seemed to spawn from nowhere; I never meant you any harm. Charity feels the same way; she’s been your friend since the two of you met in your freshman year survey course: Classics of World Poetry you remember that don’t you?
What you witnessed that day—Charity was simply confused—as was I, I imagine. It was nothing more than that: a hug and a quick kiss. It meant nothing. We even laughed about it later so I assumed we were good. I can’t fathom what else in life you would feel burdened enough by to run off with some hopped up floozy eccentric artist; I never figured those were your types.
Sampson you were always strong, always someone that made me fear blind rage; someone that made me question the principles by which I had lived for so long. Sampson you were a truly great friend, someone that I’d hate to lose.
So this is my Oath to you: the Oath to Sampson I suppose. You can take it or leave it; you can crumple this paper up and throw it into the trash or out the window but I implore you to read it first. Sampson don’t let your fear of life keep you from living; don’t let your fear of love keep you from loving; but most of all don’t let your fear of you keep you from you.
Sincerely yours,
Henderson.
