Dali Dolly

The room wasn't nearly as spartan as I had expected. Punctuated by fine carpets and vivacious plant life there was a sink, dressers, a bed, and even a drum set in the far corner. No sticks though. I imagined that the Ghosts didn't appreciate loud noises.

When She entered the room I was surprised by Her appearance. Her face was covered by a white mask, eyeholes cut almost crudely in a piece of bleached cloth that hung with ragged edges, as if torn from its home. The rest of Her pale body was, barring a brief loincloth, completely naked and resembled a man's entirely. If I hadn't known better I would have thought She was a man, but when She spoke I recognized the silky-smoothness of Her voice.

"They said that you wished to become a Ghost." I ignored Her for a moment, still wondering at her transformation. Even Her body was an unusual color, and when she turned in the light shed by the window it became even more pronounced. It was like a marble statue, or bones scarred white by the sun's rays. She stared, unblinking, from behind Her mask.

"Is this true, or are you just trying to get closer to the Door?" This time I responded.

"You know me well."

"It is impossible for a man to enter The Door without a key." I snorted with derision.

"The Door is not an entrance, but an exit."

"Who would want to leave this place?" She gestured, presumably referring to the tennis or basketball courts, the opulent swimming pools shrouded by magnificent waterfalls, and the other Ghosts who frequented those places. I stared at Her and refused Her advance - She hated this the most. With reluctance in Her eyes, She spoke.

"Well, They have decided to give you a chance. Tomorrow." She turned and appeared to float out the door, shutting it firmly behind her until the lock clicked. I returned to a prone position on the bed, begging the fates for a confirmation of my righteousness. I heard only silence.

Perhaps . . .

What if
Famine?

What if
Drought?

What if
Hunger?

What if
Doubt?

What of
People

Who scream and
Shout?

What if
Dreams?

What if
Glide?

What if
Streams?

What if
Tides?


What if . . .

What if regicide?

Swimming

Dream of bubbles,
Unsettling troubles,
Coalesce into a predefined space,
While zombies beat upon your windows,
And cry out in agony.
Do you feed them?

A Good Kisser

I destroyed her!

I sacrificed the one most dear to me for the sake of tasting the forbidden fruit; furthermore, others less stealthy than I have followed my example, rendering my rebellion meaningless. I feel myself succumbing to the bloodlust. It drives me to my knees, my frothing face upturned while my body writhes in the dust of the street. Others have hidden from the evil ones that prepare to terminate me for my insolence, but I cannot move while I am overcome by this dissonant euphoria. Closer, closer they come. My movements are sluggish, my mind even slower, but I can feel the grip of the drug-like stupor beginning to release, one finger at a time. Perhaps...no, it is too late, for the enemy moves with the speed of blackened lightning, a blight upon the very air itself.

It is with great suddenness that I see four of them emerge - churning through the air like arrows they intercept my enemy, and I recognize them. They are my friends.

Who am I to deserve this favor? What have I done? I killed her, and I will never forgive myself. Even should she forgive me, I am a betrayer and a fool. The forbidden fruit was never so useful as I thought it would be...and I have lost something much greater.

Museum

They want to destroy what I have collected. Creations culminate in a collation of those things most precious and beautiful, but the evil ones do not appreciate this. They who are invisible to my mind desire destruction thereof. I can run, and I do; I flee for hours and hours, but no matter how far I propel myself I am strung back by the spawn of my psyche, a boomerang that vacillates between distance and sensation. How can I save my loved ones, how can I preserve my prizes? Indeed my subconscious is altruistic in the extreme, though my armies fight for me whilst my back is turned. Oh I do long to return to the time of peace, when I wandered the halls of my vast mausoleum and exhibited the existential enterprise as a matter of philosophy. Of pride.

Here we are, suspended together
Literally
I hold your body in mine, protecting you
Loving you
There is no first move, there is no advance
We move as one
I kiss you, gently
I move across your face with mine
Gently
Oh, so gently
My face moves across yours
I'm not even thinking
Simply doing
Loving
Gently
We stop, but there is no screeching halt
Our love continues
Even as we drop
Maneuver
To the ground
I can't let go of you
I can't
I've always been capable,
Always able,
Until now
I am at the mercy of my own love for you
And love is unmerciful
Still I hold you, not by the hand like some mere facade of love
But around the waist
Like conjoined twins,
Like the cores of two peaches
Unlikely, but oh
So
True

Where are they all? I can't find them, no matter how far I am driven, even if I search where I am told. They seem to be gone. I'm helpless, lonely. Sure some have offered to help, but what help is it if I am still lost?

Now I am secure in my actions, in a place surrounded by people, in the company of one of my closest friends. We're playing video games, but I can't understand how she knows all this. It's crazy, this is something that I'm very knowledgeable about, she can't take that away from me! Still . . . it's strangely comforting. I feel safe in her knowledge, in my own ignorance. My skill grows as I realize this, although we cannot defeat each other. I cannot really say that I know for certain that was our initial intention anyway.

Now I am trapped. The video game, her, and myself have all meshed together into a conglomerate of confusion, exercising its entrapment on me. But I can come and go as I please! Why then do I feel so trapped? Perhaps I have allowed my own entrapment . . . perhaps she will rescue me. My feelings have taken control of me and it is as if I am careening down a highway on a unicycle, unsure even of how to juggle.

There are others, the ones who have captured me and held me prisoner. They are . . . hard to explain. They are worms; they are disgust; they are a vile, gritty, goo, steaming with fell evil and foul contempt. They are so frightening. They could consume me if they wanted, but instead they choose to keep me bound. Am I a lure, am I bait for her? Who can truly say? Still . . . their presence is everywhere, like a film of grease over the walls, and the doorknob, and my hands.

Will I ever be free?

There they are, those blackhearted ghouls. They're still circling, high above me, while I drown. Just a bloated mass of fishy flesh, they squirm and wiggle their way through the now-turbid water, searching for me. I must be nothing, an insignificant speck in comparison, for they cannot see me. We are still conversing, a jaunty, but simultaneously deadly conversation. One verbal mis-step and Davey Jones will have to share his already-cramped apartment with yet another unwelcome visitor. I'm swimming towards the surface now, careful to aim my body so that I can slip past these massive fishes, these carnivores of the mind. I come dangerously close to one, so close that I can see those over-sized scales, those massive teeth, those big, blubbery, foolish lips. Still, he is distracted by my conversation, and I escape to the surface, madly scrambling onto the feeble land, hoping they will not see my exit. Others around me look down and say "my those are some big fish."

"You have no idea."