poison (fff#6)

bigup sweet trini for spurring creativity. sorry to be late with my fff again. i know breaking the rules isn't fair... the rules are part of the exercise afterall. i won't let it happen again.

anyway, i have no idea how i feel about this piece. the trigger begged it was the eighth deadly... sin, but i just couldn't go that route, even though i kinda did. this seems to me like a spewing of loaded words grouped into phrase, but i'll be really interested to hear what people think, even if you tell me i suck and should stop writing. enjoy. or not.

it was the eighth deadly concoction in as many days; each more potent than the last. lies and betrayal finally constructing a poison of pain and sorrow and misery that could probably kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. love, the original poison, turned heads and stomachs, blurred vision and minds, loosened legs and lips and thoughts, and prevented preventative action. it was beautifully painful, torturing victims and leaving them scarred and sick, but not dead. complacency poisoned next and brought with it occasional self-pity and doubt, but worse, brought most dreadfully worrisome silence. the silence isolates but doesn't kill; though for most isolation is more painful than death. isolation is merely an incubator of poison. leave anything to stew long enough and it will rot. it brews rancid loneliness festering in a broth of hollow despair and if left long enough, suddenly there's contempt.

contempt is perhaps the most dangerous of poison because contempt breeds contempt and carries with it all the concoctions that came before. it allows lies and betrayal to spin their way into hate and love and life; one seamless lie woven so simply into the next blanketing whatever must remain hidden. if it hadn't already, self-preservation now takes complete control. pride and lust mask self-loathing and melancholy, convincing the foolish that what is good is best. surreal secrets compress and layer like thousands of years of compacted bedrock; too hard to breakup. they can only be stood upon, buried beneath feet where they can't be seen like preserved past ancestors. they are there but are only thought of, never seen. sands of betrayal become the bed to lie on and even the waters can no longer clean the distain. reflections are lost among the ripples and muck of water that used to be so clear, so calm, so blue; leaving liars to gasp for air in a whirlpool of misinformation and distrust until eventually there are only lies and betrayal. the truth, too complicated to explain and hidden so thoroughly that it is lost beyond even knowing eyes that are too exhausted from watching behind them and studying mirrors for a glimpse of familiarity. 

there is no antidote for contempt. it poisons until it destroys. leaving behind the shell of who used to be. and so i find myself concocting the eighth potion with hands i can't recognise as my own; my own voice unfamiliar as i talk myself through the process. the eighth poison mixed with pain and sorrow and misery; set for destruction. it could possibly kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. 

i drink.

quick fff#5

so i know i'm late with this fff, but i wanted to write anyway. my weekend proved to be extremely grueling and anything but restful. forgiveness please.
flake rake break stake snake
the alarm rang.
3minutes.
we all knew what was at stake. our rake. my 20per cent upped to 25; leave it to ronden to flake out. 8times we had ran this same scheme and 8times successful. why ronden flake out now was beyond me. but i didn't care. he was one hell of a wheel man, but i wasn't completely foreign to the stick shift or the getaway and was prepared to get us away with haste.
"everybody on the ground." they always listened. not a hero among them in 8attempts. pathetic really. we could have been using water pistols; they wouldn't have known the difference.
"relinquish your wallets+purses." we filled pillow cases like it was halloween, except this was faster+easier than going door to door.
1:30.
the real loot; the safe and safety deposit boxes were emptied into a pillow cases too. had become typical to break bossman's nose to get in, so now it just happened. we had our hands full of pillows.
documentation of the event had been recorded and the copy came with us too; added to our collection. we watched those tapes with pride like game film before our next football match; studied+analyzed.
2:30.
"shut up.. shut the fuck up," suddenly yelled over the tears+screams.
a gunshot.
into the air.
silence.
2:52.
:53.
"we gotta go."
out the front to the car.
where was the car?
where was the fucking car? that fucking snake, ronden!
3minutes.
cops surrounded.

read about reading

you gotta read about (and then read) the holy grail of the unconscious - the red book. you may need to register with nytimes to read the article but i think it worthwhile. enjoy.

fff#4

freakishly large hands reached out toward her, flowers in tow, knuckles smacking pavement as she pulled back in disgust. her friends behind her screamed and then continued snickering about the deformity in front of them. he looked down his long lanky arms to his giant mitts, calloused and dry from always dragging the ground, and let out a roar which silenced the audience in time for them to all hear his anger turn to whimper. snickers turned to laughter. he felt the entire neighbourhood watching him. her brother stepped across the street and grabbed her by the hand to escort her the rest of the trip home leaving him to sulk on the corner, but the girl resisted. his gaze still stuck on his hands, her feet walked into view and he slowly looked all the way up to meet her gaze. she smiled. and then he smiled. she knelt to lift his monstrous left hand off the ground and held it a moment before accepting the flowers and offering her book strap as if to say, 'will you walk me home?' the books (like the flowers) nearly disappeared in his grasp. she pulled his other hand off the ground and down the street as she slowly led the way to her house; her brother and his friends staying close enough behind them that he could see their towering shadows at his feet. as they approached her house, his short frame couldn't climb the steps, having to return her book strap so he could monkey up them and onto the porch. she awaited him at the top, her brother and company at the bottom. she thanked him for the walk home and propositioned it becoming a routine. he obliged, unable to contain his joy. as she concluded her goodbye she dropped to her knees and kissed him on the cheek. his arms wrapped all the way around them both, fingers interlocking on his back. as he released and she stood her huge clumsy feet got caught among her incredibly long thin legs and she kneed him in the head, knocking him down the giant steps where her brother and friends had been watching. he was quickly surrounded by huge feet and long legs, each friend or brother looking like a two-trunked-tree against the sky. 'lemme help you up,' said the brother. his hands shot up from the ground. the brother lifted him to his feet and said 'you best treat her well.' he nodded in agreement, knowing he would. the brother nodded in return and he ran home, dragging knuckles all the way, excited for tomorrow's walk home from school.

run children, run for your life (fff#3)

bigup fff foreman. complete with title track - great video. they never could get that right, now fleeing yet again to another unknown destination. they had been on wanted posters for sometime; branded fugitives in their own city. a family of five, used to be six, chased from their home on carondelet street by a demolition crew so the city could have another set of condominiums. already jobless among the failing economy, the family fled their home on carondelet for a place in the garden district. they were chased from there to the 7th ward when moving trucks mysteriously appeared out front one hot summer morning. they had found themselves part of a village beneath the highway in mid-city a while until the cops busted that up and had finally become accustomed to sleeping atop the levee in the park at the river bend. they broke the law when they must and the parents spent countless hours instructing their children on how to remain inconspicuous and keep out of trouble; though it seemed they never could get that right. the taught theory was simply the less they were seen the safer they would be and parents would still occasionally have to drag children back out of public eye by the neck. picnicking pedestrians arrived at the levee early this morning and while steak+ribs sizzled people took to the field to kick ball. the family would wait for the footballers to have their fill before sneaking over to steal a meal. they sat at levee's peak, enticed by scents of savory, tummies grumbling. the footballers eat, drink and lethargically return to the pitch, more juggling now than playing. with parents okay, the family beginnings their approach toward the picnic; slowly at first but with increasing speed as they reach the bottom of the levee and break for the field. mother+father reach first, children follow. they rush the blanket of food and begin to scarf ribs+steak+potato. after only a couple of minutes a football viciously slams one of the children in the head and to the ground, followed by the yells of angry footballers who were coming toward them, not chasing their football. the family would make due with what food was already in their mouths and sprinted back to the levee's peak. the father, stopping to make sure all his children were close behind, looked to see his son still eating at the blanket. with footballers surrounding the youth he ran back to protect his own biting the first person who reached toward his son; locking jaw and tearing flesh. snarling+teeth showing, he snapped at anyone who came near his son until a sudden kick to his head knocked him down. forced+held to the ground, he watched through dazed eyes as his son was helplessly placed in the backseat of a car. his head was still spinning when the footballers let him up and chased him back up the levee. he and his family watched in tears as the car holding his son and the picnickers drove off. the dogcatcher arrived hours later, tipped off to their location. the father led his family of four, used to be five, as they fled; thinking how his children never could to get that right.