NEW !! Ritual NEW !!
by thedeadseraph
NEW !! Alone NEW !!
by thedeadseraph
NEW !! Higher NEW !!
by thedeadseraph
NEW !! Like I En Svarte Kiste NEW !!
by James McLachlan
NEW !! Treasures NEW !!
by Kerry Whittle
NEW !! The Artist NEW !!
by Kerry Whittle
(Contemplating the Siren)
On a dreary mid-winter evening
collect up old coins and go to the pub
where I’ll sit and watch
all the other drunks perform their nightly dance
And you are there.
We drink, laugh, smoke, touch
the whole night away.
But now all our money is gone and we sober up
So I’ll drive you home
and let you slip through my fingers
like the finest grains of sand
Again.
"You look like you’re in need of cheering up, stranger. Sit down, I’ll get you a beer. Want a smoke? There you go, bet you’re feeling better already. Take Robbo’s stool, yes it’s that one there, he won’t be back today, gone off to see his kids. Anyway, what’s up? You look decidedly sour. Got lady trouble, have you? Well, wet your lips and I’ll tell you a story - we’ve all been there, through the meat grinder the more poetic of us call love.
"I still remember the first time I saw her. It was in a dirty little place called the Punters Club Hotel, in Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. I was instantly struck by her beauty, thought that I might love her, and wanted nothing more at that moment than for her to let me try. I say ‘beauty’, but I suppose she wasn’t covergirl beautiful. I had friends who made jokes about the size of her behind (‘It’s just too big for the rest of her!’) and others who thought that her ever morphing hairstyle was frequently appalling (‘The colour never matches her skin tone!’), but I believed her beautiful in her way, and for the purpose of this reminiscence that is all that matters. Let me just state unequivocally that I certainly never once heard her referred to as ugly.
"Of course, I told myself that she was just another beautiful girl who would never be interested in me. The type of girl that seems within your reach, and this makes you want her all the more, but you know in the end she’ll always slip through your clutching hands, leave you a little boy alone on the beach with so much sand in your ears, eyes and pants, but none in your hands. Oh, but listen to his woeful rhetoric! I have, of course, had more than my share of ‘those’ girls, used them up and thrown them away. Still, it’s only the lonely times and the failures that creeps like us allow ourselves to reflect upon; it has to be that way, else there would be no need for any more conquests!
"Just between you and me, I don’t believe that there are any winners in the game of love; I don’t care who you are, or how long you’ve ‘been together’, you’ve got doubts, secret desires, and memories that you’ll never share with that ‘special someone’. We are all solitary, in a fashion, alone with our past, waiting for the present to sour, whilst being scared shitless of the future.
"Eh, what’s that you say? Well, yes, I suppose you could call me cynical, dear fellow. Or you could call me realist. Regardless, I was feeling terribly alone in the past of which I am speaking. Alone with fantasies of that girl who I chased around that pub like a lost dog looking for its Master, or a starving child hungry for his Mother’s tit.
"It’s strange, but now, so long after the fact, I still get stuck on my first impressions of her, before I discovered all of her flaws. She had plenty of them, have no doubt about that: and like a fool I still loved her when I knew them all! But before then, back at the beginning, I just wanted her to throw everything away like I had, say fuck you to all her problems, leave them and everything else behind. I wanted her to run away to nowhere, to a self-styled oblivion, with me. All this after staring across the pub at her for only five minutes.
"What did she when she looked at me? Probably just a bitter man, with a Peter Stuyvesant cigarette stapled to his lips and glass of beer and stones superglued to his grubby hand. Reckon she still liked me though, in her perverted way.
"Well look, you don’t need self doubt when it is so obvious that you’re utterly pathetic, not when there is no doubt. And it didn’t matter, because she was utterly pathetic too, couldn’t face more than three days without a drink, typically all smiles one minute, tears that would sink Noah the next. I didn’t care. I needed her from the moment I laid my eyes upon her.
"And I couldn’t take my eyes off her! I must of mentally undressed that girl a million times, and probably got more enjoyment from that than the couple of awkward times I undressed her for real. Some fantasies are too perfect to ever descend to reality.
"God I loved to look at her. I didn’t need the discovery channel; all the nature I wanted was right there before me, and I planned on getting a renewable subscription. I loved the way she moved, the way she smoked, the way she stood, sat, laughed: she oozed sexuality. Her presence demanded that I desire her. I couldn’t fight it, didn’t stand a chance. I was just like one of those cracked old pool balls on the old Punters Club table, rolling around on a surface with a unmistakable camber, inevitably being sucked into an over-sized pocket.
"The thing is, I don’t think she knew how powerful she was. But perhaps that is naivety on my behalf, maybe she knew exactly what she was doing to me. Maybe that was how she played the game. I don’t suppose that there is any way to be sure of that. Anyway, I tried so hard to get that girl over the months after that first, chance meeting. A couple of tantalizing, wonderful moments I thought I had her, but it was always just a lie. She was a good liar. She could lie like no one I’ve ever known, without even opening her damn mouth. Every path that I took towards her heart just turned out to have a dead end lurking around the corner, but I was fooled every time.
"Love can be like that; a trick of some cosmic light, that shines irregularly on prize fools like us who are prone to bouts of lovesickness. Still, I wonder about what I could have done differently, about any paths that I didn’t find the time to explore. Even so, my first instincts were probably right: she was too good for me and I never stood a chance.
"Yet words cannot explain the way that she looked at me sometimes, at least no words that I might conjure. There in that pub, where we spent most of our time together, she would look at me in a manner that would cause my heart to beat out of my chest, like a dog that had been straining for an age against its chain, finally released it bounded away with mad ecstasy. Paradoxically she melted that very same heart every single time I dared to place it into her pretty hands.
"She needed my help! But she always refused it, and I, like a fatal hero, kept offering myself as her salvation. I wrote a poem, entitled Hell is Where the Heart is, and I believe conveys my feelings on this matter superbly.
I have fallen into the deepest abyss
learnt that hell is just a state of mind
a place that I’ve been so often
but then who’s counting the number of times
that I have burnt myself
imagining a future with you.
Like a sickly servant I just aim to please
and I am so used to lying face down in the dirt
that now when I pick myself up
I just throw myself back down
without any help
self massacre is so much easier
Some believe that when they die they will go to heaven
all I know is that I’m living through hell
Yes it’s true
like the damnedest fool I have learnt how to love.
"So you can see, that I was as useless as her. We were sinking together, yet were doomed to be apart. It was as if we were drowning, facing each other, just out of touch, in separate puddles of shitty-alcoholic-quicksand, manufactured by our respective self pity. I just kept reaching out to her, even though the struggle was making me sink faster. She was like a fucking siren, and if I were Odysseus then I would have drowned a thousand times over in the darkness of the ocean.
"Anyway, I - what’s that? You’ve got to be somewhere? That’s a shame, I’d only just begun, really. But I’m always here, if you need to chat about anything, or if you just want to have a drink and a game of pool. Okay? Well, I very much hope to be seeing again, dear stranger. In the meantime, try not to let her get you down."
by thedeadseraph
th
He thinks that he is alone. He thinks this because he doesn’t know what anyone else is thinking. They won’t tell him what they are thinking. Sometimes he thinks that they don’t want to talk to him at all. He feels very alone, because he doesn’t know what anyone else is feeling.
He feels sure that he could bear his soul to a stranger. Yet, it seems like not even the familiar people in his life offer him the slightest glimpse into their world. It scares him, the possibility that no one wants to share their world with him.
Did you ever feel like you were the last person on Earth? Well, he feels like the only man on an alien world. And did you ever think: I wish I didn’t care; I wish I was simple - or just plain stupid; I wish I could work nine to five without question; I wish I could justify suicide.
He wishes that he could justify suicide. Justify it like the mother lured into final slumber by gin and amphetamines; the father who painted the wall behind his mahogany desk with his brain; the son swaying like a pendulum, tick-tocking from the rafters; the daughter kissed by cold steel, in a bathtub of blood; the boyfriend who chose cocaine over communication; the girlfriend who chose heroin over healing; and the wife; and the husband; and the best friend; and all the rest of those suicidal stereotypes. They justify it, somehow, everyday. Still, he cannot, no matter how hard he tries.
And he thinks that he hates it here. He thinks that no one wants to talk to him at all. He feels as though he has slipped through the cracks of society. He feels that he has spread himself so thin that now none of them can see him. Tells himself he may as well not be here, that nothing would change without him. He wishes that last statement was totally true. He knows that it isn’t, but the fact that in the grand scheme it is so close to the truth is what drives him to disorder. He feels that it has been too long since someone touched him with love, or even said they cared at all. He thinks that it is no wonder he wants to die.
But he is a hypocrite. He hates most people anyway, doesn’t even want to talk to them. He is often touched by love, but he is a fool, and is blind to it. Hypocrisy doesn’t make him any less lonely, though. And if he ever bothered to listen, to really listen, to anyone else he would discover that they do care, though most of them are beginning to wonder why.
Suicide used to perplex him. Now he thinks he understands it, even though he may not have the stomach for it. He used to think that there was just life. Nothing else, no other choice. He could not comprehend that someone would want to end the only existence they were ever going to get. But now he thinks he understands, thinks that he is just like all of them. Now he too wants to blink out of existence. He thinks: life is too hurtful; too painful; too pointless. He thinks there is no reason to be alive if everyone just ignores you. I think ignorance is relative. I think he thinks too much. He thinks that if all your friends stop coming ‘round, if the phone stops ringing, and if people never seem all that pleased to see you, then you should think about killing yourself . . .
But what if there is a spark, a flicker of life left inside? Then savour it. Fuel it. Nurture it. Be gentle with it, coax it back to life. Try moving the television into your bedroom. Maybe the toaster too. Order in pizza every night, and make sure that you eat it in bed. Now roll around in the crumbs like a demented hog. And watch that television. Watch the hell out of it, your beautiful glowing life support system. Stay up all night, every night. The futility of late night TV will soon have you begging for another shot at life. And so you’ll be resurrected, the bastard child of the electric almighty, a microcosmic messiah. Now you’ll crave all the people you hated, but you should make new friends, instead. Ignore the old ones when you see them in the street. This will keep you happier longer, especially when they beg to be in your company. You ride that high. Don’t let anything get you down. Just change your hairstyle, or your facepaint, or your clothes every time you get bored, sad or lonely. Play the pathetic game of life as best you can. Watch as it all comes down, again.
And he thinks that all the happiness he sees around him is fake. And he wants to believe that ignorance is an excuse. But he knows the truth. And he knows that if all else fails, if all his friends stop coming ‘round, if the phone never rings, if people never seem pleased to see him, then he can kill himself. All he has to do is find a way around suicide’s emotional entrapment.
by thedeadseraph
by
He
I am not a memoirs kind of person. I don’t have a lot to tell. I’m not remotely famous - there isn’t a good reason to document my life. No sane publisher would accept such a manuscript, in any case. Yet even aware as I am of the fact that my life has not been eventful enough to merit an autobiography, I feel - like most, I suppose - inclined to have a little something of myself survive after I depart from this world. Being just an ordinary man, nothing seems more befitting of me than a few simple words, and so it is merely words that I shall leave, even if they are destined to dwell unread in the dusty bookshelf of some distant relative.
I have only one thing to tell. It is not a big thing, either. In fact, it may seem especially small and insignificant. You may not think it deserves being written down at all! You may think it a waste of ink and paper altogether. But I am going to write it anyway. This one small thing, I believe, will tell more about me than anything else could.
So what is it? Well, it is not merely an incident, nor a minuscule event, nor a fraction of time frozen in my mind. It is more than that. It is a feeling, a passion that I have carried with me for as long as I can remember. And it is also a dream. A wish, a hope unattainable. It is a fact about me, known just to the few I have ever been close to. It is what makes me who I am to them, I would suppose.
Yes, it is all of this, the simplest of things, really. . .
I like high places. I cannot remember a time when I didn’t, so I just assume that I always have. Whenever I feel the urge I will climb to the highest possible place, I climb up and just sit there, looking out upon the world. I climb hills. I climb trees. I park my car at the lookout above my town and climb up on top of it. I climb onto the roof of my house. In the city, whenever am I there, I climb to the top of the highest skyscraper, then I climb its big antenna that reaches up to the sky.
She will come looking for me, eventually, no matter where it is I am perched. She always smiles at me upon discovery, knows that I like high places and doesn’t seem to mind.
I don’t know why I like high places. It makes me feel safe, when I am ‘up there’, but there is another feeling too, one that I don’t understand. Sometimes I think that it is disappointment, because always I wish to be in a higher place.
It should not surprise you to learn that I hate low places. Nothing scares me more than a hole in the ground. I have nightmares, where the earth swallows me up and never lets me out. But they are of no real concern, my bad dreams, for they cannot compare to my dreams of high places. My dreams of flying are especially dear, filled with such wonderful scenes. In them I soar across the sky, the powerful wings upon my back propelling me effortlessly through the air, while the Seraphim lead a heavenly host in a rapturous hymn.
Such an adventure would be divine, but I am under no delusion. I know that these dreams of higher places are but fond fantasies.
I like high places, along with her they are all that I’ve got. I can’t recall a day when it didn’t feel like enough. Yet I pray that when death claims me I find something to take me higher. . .
SHE
I found them sitting there on the desk, a handful of pages, carefully torn from the notepad. The writing was neat and well thought out, reminding me a little of the way that some suicide notes are written - not those rushed by bedevilled souls, gripped by the throes of madness and dementia, but the type of parting message you would expect from someone with a tired and weary spirit, simply ready to move on, leaving behind them order and closure, not a tangled web of misunderstanding. But it wasn’t a suicide note. It was, in its own bizarre fashion, something much sadder.
I felt instantly guilty. Everything is my fault. I am writing this, a sort of confession, I suppose, so that the truth might one day be read. But it is, I am afraid, a faint hope . . .
He loves high places. He cannot remember a time when he didn’t, and just assumes that he always has. I like always knowing where he’ll be. On a hill or up a tree, sometimes at the lookout, lying on the roof of his car, staring up into the dusk as it turns to night, overseeing the first stars as they begin their journey across the sky. Often he is just on the roof of our house, but wherever, it is of no matter to me.
I always go looking for him, eventually. When I find him he will smile down at me, a shy smile that says, ‘Here I am, my dearest, here I am again.’
I know why he likes high places, and it breaks my heart that they forbid me telling him. I promised because I loved him, and I wanted him. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have let him do it. Now my mouth is disallowed the words that would reveal the truth. They made it impossible.
I know why he has such a fear of low places, of holes in the earth, that to him seem like gaping wounds, dark nasty passages leading to awful places. Well, I suppose that no one who enjoyed such heights could help but detest a hole in the ground.
And I know what he used to be. I remember when I first saw him, that wonderful evening, when I spied him soaring through the sky, frolicking like a creature of my own pure fantasy, on wings too impeccable for any earthly soul. He saw me also, and foolishly, so gracefully foolish, he came down to me. What adventure he saw in loving one such as me, I cannot say, but through time immemorial I doubt that love at first sight was ever so sweet, or so mutual. Yet he was under no delusion, he knew that to love me was to give himself up. He wanted to do so freely, before even laying a hand on me, lest he offend and anger his master.
And that master, with a heavenly host, did appear by his side, only moments after he and I first stood eye to eye. It was as if the vibrations of our very meeting had been felt in even the seventh heaven.
Crazy, his master had called him, insane, bereft of sense. But he would not desist, and so, after no small scene, awoke into my arms, mortal, and with no memory of himself. I still hear the cries, from that retreating horde, from heaven itself, focused on my ears alone, as if I had deliberately stolen him from his kindred. My love for him is vast, stronger than flesh and blood, but regardless, I wonder whether I could have sacrificed as much to be with him. It sickens me, just to think on it. I know that they wondered this also, as they gave him up to me, and their wonder was heavy with accusation.
He likes high places. That was all they left him, and it was still too much. But I can do nothing about that, not now. Oh, how cruel is hindsight! And my words, on this page before my very eyes, may not even exist, forbidden as I am to share this burden of knowledge. God is cruel, do not doubt it! Still, I do not care if no one ever reads this, I just pray that in mortal death they restore him, that they do not punish him for his folly, because even with the power of all my love I cannot take him as high as he yearns to go. . .
by thedeadseraph
I opened my eyes and could see her on the far side of the bed. Sleepily I slid
over and snuggled up.
"God your cold." I said. She really was, something wasn't right. My stomach
dropped as if it were disembowelling its self. I started to shake her. Oh god
why wouldn't she wake up? No, just for a bit longer, a few minutes more.
I shook and shook until I almost through her off the bed, but she wasn't
coming back. The time had come.
I think I stoped thinking, I don't know, I can't remember. Then I must have
past out or something. No, I couldn't have because the next thing I remember,
Pete was shaking me awake.
"God, are you ok?" He said.
"What?" I said. I was in the lounge room. I couldn't remember how I got
there. Then I could feel my wrists starting to hurt. I looked down and could
see a slash on each of them, and blood all over the place. There seemed to be
a small lake of it, washing up flotsam dust against my leg like a great ocean
coming out of the floorboards. Pete didn't quite know what was best for me.
He squatted there trying to work out if stepping away to towards me was the
right thing to do, and I'm sure I could even sense him wondering if he should
try and do both. In the end he just sat down on the spot. My wrists stung and
I started to feel ashamed for scaring him.
"I mustn't have even been able to do that right." I said. He didn't say
anything. I think he was just relieved that I wasn't going anywhere, but I
could be mistaken about most of this, as I seemed to be in a daze.
"I'm sorry." I said.
"It's ok man." He said. "Just as long as you're not popping off now."
"No. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Elinor, I." I couldn't speak and I
started to cry. "Oh why didn't I just ask her when I had the chance. We could
have had years together. We only had two weeks. She's been miserable for all
this time. I could have been making her happy. I don't even have a right to
feel so bad. If we'd been together for that amount of time, no one would blame
me for feeling like this. God, what right do I even have to go to her funeral.
But I loved her. I'm the only one who did. No one in that fucked family of
hers ever treated her right."
"What's happened to Elinor?" Pete asked.
I couldn't tell him. "In my room." He went off. I know he knew what he was
going to find. He wasn't gone for very long.
"What happened?" He asked when he came back.
"I'm sorry." I said. "I should have told you in case it happened here. But
she didn't want anyone else to know."
I'd let her down for so long, how could I refuse her? But now I felt bad
for how I'd ended up treating him, he shouldn't have had to put up with this.
"We'll have to have the Police round and... Oh god, things are so fucked. I
don't know what I'm going to do?"
"Don't worry about the Police or anything else." He said. "I'll take care
of everything. You want me to call them now?"
"No, give me a bit longer. I…I want to see her again, before her parents get
their hands on her. God the law is so fucked.
***
I stood at the back and watched as they lower her into the ground. She'd
wanted to be cremated, I knew they wouldn't get it right.
The pallbearers you could almost call 'funny', 'humorous', as they strained
to carry her over to the hole. They appeared to be cousins, but I doubt they'd
ever met her. Their faces were as callous as the strips across my wrists.
But at least I was here. No one knew who I was, so I stood at the back.
Everything was being done wrong, but who was I to criticise? Hardly a saint
gazes out of these eyes. I'd hardly done anything more for her than they had.
No, I'm being unfair on myself; I gave love. She had died with me, and she had
wanted that. I hadn't flinched at the request, well not outwardly.
So I stand here, hoping to catch a glimpse from between the morning
shoulders. The black coats beaded with drops of water, umbrellas jostling
amongst themselves for a place in the crowd. I couldn't help but think I
deserved more, maybe not. What ever, it would be all over soon, one more muddy
rectangle on the manicured lawn, watched over by these yews.
As it all draws to a close, I give a little shudder and leave. I'm not sure
why, about the shudder, though it is chilly. This was always her favourite
weather. She had once told me that if you're cold, you can always put on more
cloths, but if it's too hot, there's only so much you can take off.
Maybe it's the ice in my blood, or something in the atmosphere I can't
quite comprehend, only feel with some unknown sense. Maybe I shouldn't have
filled the coffin with so many bricks. The cousins would hardly thank me with
a beer down the pub afterwards, but they don't know, and they don't know me
either.
I steel one final look, it's quite a sickening spectacle and I'm glade to
finally leave and be away. I really do feel like a thief. It's time for a
change. From these damp cloths, from this weather, and from this glorified
knacker's yard, designed for those left behind, rather than the unexpectant
travellers themselves. But better things await me now, and someone very
special indeed awaits me at home this very minute.
James McLachlan © 2000
by Kerry Whittle
The children stare at him as he passes. But he never cares, he just keeps on going, all the time with that funny grin on his face. Momma says he looks like weirdo. His eyes are surrounded by colourful smudges, a different colour for everyday. He says that it’s in fashion, but I know it’s not. He keeps his hair long, like sleek waves of liquid gold; I wonder if that is in his fashion too. He often tells me things, strange stories full of gore and desire, but they don’t scare me. Tyr. That’s what he calls himself. I like him, but Momma doesn’t like him like I do. She says to stay away from him, but I’m not going to.
He’s always bringing me things, treasures he says, but its always just bits of old lace and ribbons. Momma says that its junk and that he’s dirty, that I shouldn’t talk to beggars let alone accept gifts from them. But I know that Tyr’s no beggar, sure he’s not rich, but he’s always got nice clothes on and looking pretty. He even taught me how to plait my hair once; he said I looked like an angel. Momma doesn’t think so though; she says I’m queer. Destined for the gutter. Tyr says I’m not, but I don’t even know what it means.
He’s always taking me for walks. Missions he says, to all sorts of places. He took me to a beach once, and even a cemetery. Told me not to tell Momma about it though. He had this smile on his face, he always does when he says Momma’s name, it’s a funny smile, not the one he does when he’s happy, a different one. He even said he’d take me to the church one day. When I’m ready he says.
I told him once that he was pretty. He smiled when I said that. He says he’s my boyfriend, but Momma doesn’t like it when I say that. It’s not right, she says. Him being a man of his age and all. Should know better. But when I told Tyr he just smiled and said that twenty-four was hardly old age. He says Momma’s an old witch and giggles, so I laugh too.
He gave me a present once. Said it was better that treasure, and when I saw it, it was. She was lying face down with nothing on. Left arm on an angle. Resting in a pool of shadows. Sleeping he said, just resting in the deep red shadows – the type that clot the hair and stiffen cloth. She was beautiful, all pale like Tyr, but her body was different, more like Momma’s. He let me play with her a while, but we didn’t stay long. He said we shouldn’t wake her. Told me not to tell Momma. Said that men should stick together.
I didn’t tell Momma either. I said we could keep it a secret. Tyr smiled when I said this. He liked the idea of our secret. Proud of me, he says. I love Tyr.
by Kerry Whittle
As I placed the dripping object onto the stick I giggled uncontrollably to myself. It was perfectly set-up, like some hellish artwork crafted for Satan himself. No matter how many times I do this it is still such a high point of amusement, just the look on their small innocent faces. Priceless! A fucking Kodak moment if I ever did see one.
I remember the first one, a puppy. It’s little head propped up and grinning in a skinless way. I’d started that one too early though. Had to sit in the bushes for hours waiting first for sunrise, then for nine o’clock when the children came. It’d all been worth it though, I was still laughing for days afterwards. They certainly didn’t want to take that one home, didn’t think that one was so cute.
I’m much better now, gotten it all down to a fine art. After many more nights, and countless pussies I’ve perfected it. An artist. So as I watch the pole, with its gory adornment I know this will be a classic. This is my best effort yet, and I’ve really out-done myself.
The children start to arrive, but they don’t see it yet; I’ve planned this well, and that won’t happen until a bit later. I know that it’s assembly day, and slowly the hall begins to fill up. No one has noticed yet, and I’m almost convulsing with anticipation. Then, with a high-pitched scream a little girl spots it, my little gift out the window, and with that everyone sees it. The whole school is in chaos, kids crying and screaming, one teacher vomiting from the horror. I begin to laugh crazily. I can’t stop, it’s hilarious. People are starting to run now, exiting the small building in every direction, trying to escape the sight of the stick. I make a huge effort to control myself, so as not to be seen, nor heard.
The kitten looks great, it’s skinless corpse silently watching from its centre-stage upon the pole top. It’s even better than I could have imagined. Due to the intense heat of the mid-summer morning the exposed meat of the cadaver is already beginning to decay, letting off the familiar scent of rot and death. I want to stay for longer, because the whole scene is so marvellous, but I can’t risk being found by the R.S.P.C.A fuckers. Slowly I get up and walk away, leaving behind me hundreds of traumatised children.
It’s nice to know that you’ve made an impact on someone’s life, even if it is only through thousands of dollars of therapy bills. God damn it was funny.
