"Returning Home on a Sunday Drive" By Brian Paul Dunlop I have always thought people can communicate better through social networking - they were more themselves, behind a shield of mechanical sexurity; no sarcasm denoted, most of the time. I remember my younger days; I've always liked dark soda - my mom was a hippie nut - a nudist, and a savage beast at times; the downfall of estrogen for ome or was it because of being raised in an oppressive environment? Many dreams provoke me upon this Sunday drive to mother. Such a sweet, sweet lady. She didn't mean a thing. It was her father. It was her mother. It was the whole world. And now, here, I return to her - back her son, her light, her guard. And father, he will pester her no more; that sick devil of a man. His dictatorship rein shall come to an end. And even in his death, does he haunt the house - as my mother shakes, alone in bed. Now, I have come home to protect her. I know most would deem the woman mad, but not me. I remember the day, my father fell through the wheat thresher - such a day, so far in the past that it lays upon my brain, a gray haze - I can't remember much about that day, but I do remember what my mom alwys use to tell me, "Secrets are better kept within."
"School is Hard" By Brian Paul Dunlop I The day sent shivers down my spine. Waking up is so pointless; another day, another meaningless mental trip. And the kids at the school - who needs them? I got my drugs and I hang out with older kids. That's way cooler than what they do. So why should I get up? What will today bring that tomorrow hasn't? What does anything really even mean? Just everything - why is everything so fucked? Or at least needs to get fucked. I like punk music and wrestling on TV; this chaos seems more reasonable - more logical for a reasoning against the logic of the tilted world, always spinning on an axis; never even, yet never the same. II The day turned to night as the morning glories closed and the spirits of the realm of the dead, encased the sunken shadowy Autumn sky. Flows of silk, amber and rain eclipsed a full moon, glowing in an intoxicating flame. Arnold sat upright in bed, staring at a scary night full of dangerous curiousity and peril. He turned his head to the left, away from the half-way opened window that blew win and casted figures upon the shadowy tint of his midnight room. "Just close your eyes and it will be okay. Just close your eyes and it will be, okay" said Arnold to console himself as he felt the cool errie breeze wrap its way around his neck and lower back. Arnold closed his eyes tightly shut as he felt, what felt like a warm breath, breathing gently into his ear. "This can't be real. This isn't real. This is not real" said Arnold to himself as he drew back in bed. Then from the far corner of the room, a low voice whispered, "Come play with me. I hated school. Let's go. I like to play in the attic, but only with you, alright? I think I like you..."
"The Perverse Artist" By Brian Paul Dunlop I think I’ve got the psychosis. It all started after I got locked in the psych ward. What a strange day. What strange events. They told me without a reasonable doubt that I am insane because of how I was acting. I told them I smoked marijuana and drank alcohol that day and I had also stayed up, late into the night, thinking of change, thinking about progression. I said to them that I was a “political prisoner” and that I shouldn’t be here. I yelled. Screamed at the top of my lungs, but they just thought I was insane and by the large amounts of THC in my system, they labeled me as having “marijuana-induced psychosis.” I just had one bad day and everyone there thought I had lost my mind. Alcohol. Marijuana. Staying awake for over twenty-four hours. Stress. School. Aggravation. No. The reason I flipped out was because I had lost my mind. That’s what they said. And I stayed there for almost a month and was studied because I was a defective human being in there eyes - just another lab rat, just another scientific experiment. I tried to plead my case to them everyday that I wasn’t insane, but they wouldn’t believe me - they’re logic and judgment was far superior than I - I told them that I was an actor and had an HBO audition to go to within the week and that they were ruining my life, but they thought this to be just another paranoid delusional thought. I was just another dreamer to them - another endless seeker, broken in a world shattered within. Believe me or don’t believe me. I hate you if you don’t believe me. The time spent in that ward was a time worse than when my mother passed on in 2004. It truly was, the worst three and a half weeks I’ve ever spent as anti-psychotic drugs were pumped into my brain. I remember when I signed up to be a test subject out of fear to comply. Those scientists. They frightened me like no one has ever frightened me. And took me out of my life and had me live amongst the mentally inadequate, even though their scientific tests showed that I had the highest intelligence out of anyone that ever stepped foot in that psych ward as a patient. All they did was patronize and label. Those sick cowards. And now here I am, outside of one of their houses. Dr. Harmond Lieberson - I know where you live, I know where your children go to school and you’re all mine now. The other doctors, I have locked away in my cellar. And the cold witch of a therapist who sent me to that dreaded medical center, I now use for sexual relaxation. Oh, how she screams and toils, but no one can hear her. My house is completely sound proof. You know what’s funny? I didn’t hear any voices in my head until after I was sent out with a good bill of health from the Hordstein University Medical Center. What a crock of an existence - this science of ours, what do they know? I think they learned their lesson as I cut all their children’s throats in front of them as they cowered in the corners like the rats they really are. Then I send them back to their hamster cages and tie the chains around their necks. Soon the chains will come off, but if any of them try to rebel - I will have that person decapitated in front of everyone - to remind them who’s in charge - who’s their master. But truly their life isn’t all that bad - they have a wheel in which to run upon and they have all the pellets and water to drink. Some of the female doctors look cute - I wonder if they’ll allow me to have sex with them even though I murdered their children in front of them. Probably not the biggest turn on for them. Ha! But I do it, anyway, as they cry, and cry and cry because now they know how much I hurt. How much pain I felt when they locked me away for a shade under a month and told me I had lost my mind. Now, they are my slaves. And the male doctors I have sex with from behind with a strap-on dildo just to remind them on how they will spend the rest of their lives. They aren’t men, anymore. They never treated me like a man. They never treated me like an individual. And some of them, particularly, Dr. Neil Larmon - I make squeal like a pig because I remember how he use to laugh at me for being overweight and eating my food before everyone else at my lunch table. Now he’s the little piggy. Before I went to the psych ward, I was a great writer of many genres because writing gave me pleasure - now all I do is torment my subjects because that’s all that gives me great ecstasy that I could never get in any pill or drug. Wait, I think I can see him. The rat bastard. Now it is time for me to introduce him to all of his friends - oh, his children…that will be the best part, and his wife - oh, love is but a game, love is but a game.
“Straight Outta Pysch Ward” By Brian Paul Dunlop The psych ward was a cold and lonely place. I remember the walls. The deep dark walls that stared back at you in a hollow room of steel and furniture. Day 1 My back hurts. It’s such an awful place where I am, I hope someone can hear me. “It’s a rat! A rat! Schew! Schew!” cried out Ms. Willington - the head female security guard. “A rat?” asked the chubby red-headed boy who’s name I can not remember. “You’re the rat! Hahaha! Back in the hole with you.” “But I don’t want to go in the hole…” whimpered the boy, as tears started forming around his bight brown eyes. “It does what it’s told. Now go in the hole, young scallywag. You know what we do with big penis boys like yourself. Go in the hole with Dr. Adam and Dr. Audrey and you’ll find out.” Day 2 Crazy. Crazy. I’m crazy. They told me I have psychosis induced by pot. What the hell? I wish I was dead. What the fuck is Dr. Adam’s problem - what an uptight asshole. He says because of my penis size that I am less of a man. Who knew about Henry. He didn’t look like the type to be carrying that. Day 3 Perverseness encountered my mind and enclosed it in a deep humbling feeling. Life is good. These medications are good. Day 4 After large moments of hallucinations, I realized these pills weren’t for me. Was I crazy? Or just another mental mind trip, losing grip on all reality and life was slowly slipping away. Day 5 When I watching Monday Night Raw I became so bored that I thought about suicide. Just the thought that I was too small and weak, dismissed any possibility of ever making it in that business and this made me very sad. Day 6 While giving Dr. Adam oral sex, I bit off the tip of his penis and spit it in his face. The voices have finally come, doctor. Oh, doctor of mine. Hahahahahaha. And Dr. Audrey. What happened to your pussy. Oh, I won’t include that in this journal. Day 7 “I’m a genius, I say! Let me out of here! Let me out of here!” “Shut up nut job, you bit off somebody’s dick” said the fat security guard, eating a donuts while wiping the sweat off his greasy brow and forehead. “You’re a freak. You’re an absolute freak, do you know that?” “Well…” I replied, cleverly eyeing the man with such precision that it reputed his attention like a baby fox’s instinct when being chased down by a middle-aged hound on the age of his life - still hunting, still dreaming. “Well what?” asked the man, rudely. “Well, I’m pretty sure I can read your future” I said, bashfully. “I gotta see this” said the fat man, eagerly walking over to my padded cell. Day 8 I’ve escaped. I escaped! Well after eating the guys liver, I decided to wear his face and clothes and just walk out the front door of the hospital. What a great day for science it is! What a lovely day. Pip pip. Cheerio. Day 9 There’s a cottage over the way. It is dark. Lost. Starving. Empty. I think it’s abandoned. I think I should stalk it out in the bush in front of my house and if no one is there. I will make my move! Day 10 Time to make my move. This is my shot. My new home. It is mine, now. “Get the fuck out of my house, you fucking crazy ass kid.” said an older man wearing a stained wife beater, with khakis and overalls. “Wha-……” Day 11 The Easter Bunny! It’s always been about the Easter Bunny! Why Easter Bunny? Why you try to do me in? What’s wrong with you Easter Bunny? What is it like you got mental problems or something? What’s wrong with you Easter Bunny? Easter Bunny? And Santa Claws, he fucked up, too. Mad fucked dude. Like he’s like really fucked up. So many Christmas’. So many socks and out of style pants under the tree. Fuck you! And the tooth fairy, that’s the real bitch. That bitch is a fucking cunt, if you ask me. Fucking quarters every time I lost a tooth. She ripped me, hard bodied. That mean, ‘big time.’ And what about my opinions, anyway? I mean I do go to community college, so I’m smart, so get a life. You’re South Park’s definition of a “fag.” So fuck you, fag. Hahahahahahahahaha Now, I’ll drink my tea and play my verisnatchit, all night long. No psych ward could hold me. Yeah, and thrill season be up. And the village is mine….all mine….. Day 12 Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Day 13 Oh my God….I can rap…. Day 14 **Attention** Crazed White Rapper on rampage in downtown Harlem. “He look like the devil. Just look in his eyes…it was so scary. The horror…it was terrible. My god. I never saw a white man act the way he did. It made me shake in the core of my bones.” “Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow Straight Out Tha Psych Ward Mudda fucka named Disco I go hard, but bleed raw Crisco New life, a rave in the mist yo A new wife, this game make my wrist glow-” Back in the psych ward with my crazy ass. END.
“An Expatriation” By Brian Paul Dunlop I cast myself amongst a new dawn. Betrayed by those hollow figures that walk amongst my home land. Night was to its self like a string of threaded fiber - hanging low, blowing in the window. Monday’s were new days about freedom of expression. Freedom of character. Being alone. Individuality. A causality to the public. A blind eye and a sunken ear. This fear. This tyranny. I have no fear. Nothing bothers me. Mother. She was a nice woman. Very demanding, yet very loving. Fire and ice, all at the same. But who was father? Oh no, screw father. Who was father? No one was father, that’s who. He was a shy, shell, mouse of a man. That who father was. So I killed him as mother laughed and all was right, again. I know what mother wants and what mother likes. And that is a real man. And a real man takes what he wants and oh, the sex we had that night - the angels of Heaven and Hell were looking on in awe as we fornicated a labyrinth of peace and wonder. And oh how I love her. Mother, if you only knew the thoughts I had as you drift off, deep into a dark slumber. A slumber of beauty. A slumber of peace. One that drags on a peasant and looks to the east. We are good people; mother and I. People in a new age generation that’s not stuck in a cage. We were once blinded non-believers, now we can see thoughts and dreams that none could ever see. I beat my chest, now, to a new rhythm. A new dawn. A new rise to an animalistic distinction that has flooded amass on a ship called, “Progression.” And in Spalwin’s theories of economy; “New Age Progression” usually tends to lean to the east. Japan. China. They know what they’re doing. And what a man that Spalwin is; so modern, so individualistic, so in-sync with an always changing world. Like my father had to see; it either kill or be killed in this world - it’s always been that way and until we can all hold onto one solid grip of logic than it will always be like that. But now, I have fled my state to a small apartment with my mother in France. A place where no one knows me. Something very different, yet very the same as my former home. But who cares? There’s still no love. Just a cold street. Just an empty alleyway. Devoid of reason. Devoid of peace. There will be no end until the end has come to be. All hail the New Age Revolution. A time that’s right for me. END.
"Costly Wisdom" By Brian Paul Dunlop This world is a confusing one - not too confusing, though; just enough to keep one settled as sweet delusions sweep their mind. And all is the same in Langdon County; a far cry from a civilization once thought to be man. And nature coils like a venomous snake; one point flourishing with magnificent beauty, and the other point, casting you aside and letting you see the true dark depths of the human soul. And so, I move onward; past Langdon County. Always seeking. Always. I walked onward; past the cradle of light that lined those quiet suburban streets. Empty streets. Very barren. Up ahead, a man was working. Very curiously, this man worked. Very suspicious. And everyone approached this man. For he had goodies and kept everyone in line and made everyone happy. This man was well protected. Truly, he was of a higher ranking than I. "Excuse me, sir" I asked, interrupting him as he argued on with the scantily dressed woman, standing at the stop light. "What do you want?" asked the man, with a less than pleasant demeanor, told by his sunken, yet intersecting eyebrows. "I don't mean to bother you. It's just that I'd like to pay to spend some quality time with the lady you were talking to." "What? Are you a cop or something?" asked the man, once again, defensively. "No. I'm not a cop. I have money. So-" "Alright, fifty bucks" said the man, not even letting me finish my sentence. But I didn't care. And neither did anyone else. I lead her back to my motel room. At that point, I was going from motel to motel, all across the country, trying to capture the true dying essence of American life, and all was the same; all dirty, all spoiled, all poor and lonely. And though many have companions, they are just as lost and deprived as someone living out in the wilderness as a hermit, except only then, would you be truly distant from the madness that is civilization. So sometimes in these motel rooms, I'm all alone. And I knew that was the best company I could ever afford or really even want for that matter. And that was the reason I turned to prostitutes. "Can I ask you something?" "Sure. What is it?" replied the lady, as she pulled her stocking up in position on her right leg. "What made you have sex for money? Is it the loneliness? Poverty? Sexual fulfillment? "I don't really know, exactly. It's sort of a strange thing, really. Maybe it's because I don't care about my body. Or maybe it's because I don't care about anything, at all. Why do you ask? What you did wasn't all that better." "I don't know why I ask. I guess it's sort of in my nature. I'm just lonely; sometimes I feel as if this world was not meant for me. Sometimes I just hate everything." "Yeah, the world is a cruel, crazy place. Tell me about it" said the lady, looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting her earrings. "Sometimes feeling pain is better than feeling nothing at all." "Is that partially why you're a prostitute?" "I guess you could say that. You could also say a lot of things. You know nothing about me, kid. You'll never know anything about me. And trust me, you don't want to know" answered the lady, giving me a look, telling me to change the subject. "Well, are you going anywhere you need to be? We could talk. I think it could help both of us." The lady looked at me and smiled then walked over to me, and gently pressed her index finger against my lips. "Quiet. I don't help people like that. You'll figure something out. We all do, somehow" said the lady, now patting my head, in comfort. "I'm not doing this just to help me, you know?" "I know. I know." And that was all that was said, and that was all that I ever knew.
"Hypocrasy In Action" By Brian Paul Dunlop I Clouded frixation overlaps my mind and all those around me. It is as if the human communication process had been thrown out the window, giving a rise to a more primal nature. Now, I wouldn't consider myself in that line of people. A thinker I was and a thinker I am. And those who contain great thought are usually the one's who are the most shunned and chasated from society. I guess because it isn't following the same invisible ethical code. Humans are much like sheep as they are continously guided and elimated by those in a higher power, all the while, they are oblivious to the face that it is even happening in the first place. That's why through the generations, I have always been spotted conversing with the young people. And everytime they get older, I am met with a new batch to which all dress drastically different, but morally, they were all similar, and all talked about matters to due with anti-establishment. They all spoke negatively about controlling adults and how corporations are evil, all the while, they are in a mall, lunging around countless shopping bags, all containing name brand clothing. Truly, hypocrasy is the inherenit gene, passed on from generation to generation. And honestly, I don't think this gene will ever pass, and the general public feels content with it, so why bother stopping a harmless trend? Is ignorance also a harmless trend? If so then, how will society grow? How will it evolve? But what do I know; I'm just a care-free bum, poverty stricken on the back of a generation, where people wore their hair long and looked at LSD more for a spirtual awakening than just a quick fix. But I guess when it comes down to it, a freak is a freak - well in this world, at least. II The lost art of fiance bleeds heavily through the open wounds of mankind. I can't tell you all the times I spent bent over on the curb of the street, face down in my own vomit filled with alcohol and cocaine. Everyone thinks I'm a nut. All because I wear ragged clothes and like to associate myself with the teenagers of my burrow. They understand me. Unlike all these suits I see gracing Wall Street with their money and stroke of power that leaves the poor man in the gutter for their mistakes while they book first class trips to Honolouulu and Byramida. And this government - if we disagree with this immoral act, they label us as communist? Communist?! I love democracy and freedom - I just hate being broke. III Billy was fifth-teen; a boy half way making it and the other half; confused, lonely and misguided. Billy was living in a changing community; "The White Flight" they use to call it. And now Billy was left alone; the only caucasian boy left in his side of town, and he felt miserable; nobody would respect him. "Dad, do we live in a segregated community?" asked Billy, sheepishly as he sent his Cheero's a drift in an apethic stroke of a shinny silver spoon. "No son" said Robert, Billy's father - glancing up from his favorite newspaper; "The New York Times." "This community isn't segregated. Segregation is when only one race goes to the same school. Look at your school - it's perfect; it had blacks, Spaniards, Indians, Orientals, and good old white folk like us." "Yeah, but all the white kids go to seperate classrooms. I'm the only white kid there, and the kids pick on me for it." "They do?" "Yeah, and they call me all kinds of names even racial slurs - like little white boy or punk ass cracker, and they say that I can't dance or have a good time and my people act like they have a broom stick up their ass, twenty-four/seven." "Wait a minute" interjected Robert, holding his stomach as he had began to laugh at what his boy was saying. "What they're doing is okay." "It is?" responded Billy, curiously. "Yeah, sure. It's alright because our people oppressed the hell out of them, so now, they're just blowing off some steam because of it. What they are doing is perfectly healthy. They'll get over it, eventually." "I hope so" replied Billy as he directed his focus back on his bowl, and his father looked back at his newspaper and flipped the page. IV "No more oppression! Raise their taxes! Stop corrupt bailouts!" Central Park was in an uproar. If the police continued to interject; there would be all out warfare. "What's this?" quiered Bill aloud, scratching his head, while staggering to keep his balance with a whisky bottle concealed in a black plastic bag in hand. "No more oppression! Fight for the homeless!" "Yeah!" cried out Bill, whistling and hooting with the concealed bottle, high in the air. "No more bailouts! Down with Wall Street!" "That's it...I just got to join this crowd, man." V **FAX News Presents: Marxism in America?!** "Good evening, we're going live to the communist uprising in Central Park. Policemen are dead, cameramen are dead, even newsreporters are dead!" commanded the man with purple skin. "Sick! Evil! Demented! IGNORANT!" "Let me interject for a moment" replied the woman, sitting next to him, with the silk hat. "My college degrees actually tell me that this is socialism, not communism." There was an awkward silence. "Haha, you're a cutie. Whatever is bad for America, is bad for America, is bad for America." The lady then laughs and tips her hat. "We really should do coffee, sometime." VI "Stop this evil social machine! It is time for the people! It is time for everybody!" Buildings burned. The Empire State Building came tumblind to the ground in hellfire and sut. Manhattan gave rise to a new republic, and became its own seperate entity; the Republic of the Peaceful and the Intelligent. And if you are against us; you will all perish. The new regime is in full effect. All hail the New Social Machine! END.
"Kisses for Coffee" By Brian Paul Dunlop I The train moved into the station. It was a cloudy Autumn's day like always. The sun never shined on Locust Manor, and rightfully so. "Honey, did you remember the coffee? You know I can't do anything without it" said William, one of New York's leading architects. "Baby, I'm sorry. I forgot" replied Beverly, one of New York's leading hospital secretaries or at least, she thought so. "You forgot it? Bev - I - why'd you forget it? You know how important it is to me" said Will with a manic in his eye. "It's my medicine. My life blood. My everything." "I thought I was your everything" rebutted Bev, eyes glissening with sadness. "You are - I just can't do anything without it." "You're addicted. Admit it!" replied Bev with a sly grin. "I'm not addicted. Coffee is not a drug. It's a - it's a life enhancer." "Life enhancer?" replied Bev before she broke out in a few short laughs. "You're lucky I love you. Now, let's get off this train before we end up in Arson Heights." "Good idea. Let's go. But still, you should of remembered the coffee. You know how important it is to me." Bev let out a short-winded sigh. "Let's just drop it, okay?" "Fine" answered Will, putting on his blazer with a sour look on his face. "If you want coffee, so badly; we can always go somewhere like a coffee house. I'll have one with you, but I don't need one because I'm not addicted" said Bev with a profound look on her face, demonstrating her proudness from a short, closed smile. "Who calls them coffee houses, anymore, anyway?" replied Will, under his breath, which made Bev laugh and Will shake his head. II As Will and Bev left the train, they had to pass by various people; from panhandlers to uptight business men, who are too important to look anybody in the eye, besides their superiors and other business men. Will knew all about those types, which is one of the reasons he chose life as an architect, instead of being apart of the sub-culture of cocaine snorting, narcissists that occupy Wall Street. "You shouldn't have given any money to that beggar" said Will, out of frustration. "Why not? He seemed like he needed that more than us." "Five dollars, though. You know what he's going to spend it on; drugs and more drugs. Don't be an enabler, sweetie. Uncle John did that to his son, and look where he ended up; six feet under the dirt. "Shut up" replied Bev in a comedic manner. "Enabler? Drugs? You know how stupid you sound? Every time you get coffee, you're doing a drug. You're addicted to it, aren't you?" "Am not" answered Will. "Are to. Stop being a baby. If you need something that bad than you're addicted." "Well at least, I know what I'm doing won't ever kill me." "If you keep acting this way than I'm sure somebody would do it, themself" said Bev, giving Will a playful shove. "I've got to watch you, little missy" replied Will, shaking his index finger, smiling as if he had already gotten his fix. "Come on, you don't need it. Kiss me, then let's see if you still want a drink." Will then leaned over and gave Bev, a short peck on the lips. "What was that?" "A kiss" answered Will. "Just forget it. Let's go get some coffee" said Bev, before letting out a long sigh. III And soon enough, after walking five blocks, Will and Bev came to a stop at a place called, "The Caffeine Palace." "We're here. Happy?" asked Bev in a semi-comedic fashion. "Why wouldn't I be happy? asked Will with a dumbfounded look on his face. "Forget it. Let's just get some coffee." "Now, you're starting to make sense" said Will with a reassuring smile. Bev let out a brief sigh as they both entered the café. IV Inside the café, Bev and Will were met with people of various sub-cultures; some trendy European-like young adults wearing oldly tight clothing, others that look like they're apart of the hip hop community with over-sized clothing that barely hung around their waste and buttocks, and then there were some who looked like they came straight out of Transylvania as one of Dracula's minions. "Hello and welcome to The Caffeine Palace" greeted a man with a pink handkerchief tyed around his neck. "Today, our special is the decadent apple crumb cake topped off with whipped-" "No thanks" interrupted Will. "Today, coffee would be just fine." "Well alright" said the greeter with a bewildered look on his face. "Don't mind him. He's a total addict" said Bev with a face full of smiles. "I am not an addict" replied Will, feeling insulted. "Well, I always say; it's better to be addicted to coffee than to be addicted to anything else" joked the man with the pink handkerchief. Bev began to laugh as Will called out, "Just show us to our table." The man's face drew back as Will said this. "See, he is addicted" diagnosed Bev. Will grunted as the man winked at her. "Right this way, we have a table ready next to the window, if you don't mind." V "Now, that was some good coffee" said Will, slinking back in his chair. "How could you enjoy that? Black coffee is nasty." "Hush up or people will think that you're racist." Bev scoffed. "Black coffee is too bitter. I don't know how you can take it down." "It's easy. It's because I'm a man. A real, big man." "A man, are you?" asked Bev with a sly grin. "I am a man" answered Will, also smiling. "Why don't you prove it then?" "I will, you brought the pills, right?" "I did. Oh Will, I always have the most fun when I'm with you, but what will mom and dad think?" Will then leaned across the table and gently pressed his index finger, vertically across Bev's lips. "Shhhhhhhh, not another word." Bev then smiled and finished the remainder of her coffee, very quickly.
"Sympathy for the Spider" By Brian Paul Dunlop Upon one Sunday night, as I sat in my kitchen, penning another timeless tale about the wretch that has become of humanity, did I feel an irritating sensation within my bladder. I turned to get up from my chair, but suddenly, I became slightly startled because of a large red spider scurrying its way across my kitchen floor towards my brother's sandals. As I rose from my seat, I saw the spider find sanctuary under one of his sandals. My intentions were pure and simple, and that was to kill the spider to which had invaded the sanction of my home. I couldn't allow it to live, and ignore its presence, for it may crawl on me and bite me, at any given moment, if I had put my guard down. Now, I wouldn't say that I am totally arachnophobic, but I have been in my younger years, but at that time, I no longer feared the spider because the spider feared me, and I could tell, as I didn't see the spider go anywhere else; it didn't move, all it did was hide under a sandal, fearing the intentions of the strange giant that stood before it. And without a moment to take any chances, I lifted up the sandal to see a startled spider trying to move its eight legs as fast it could, as to avoid my most judging and biased hand. But it was to no avail as I brought the sandal down hard on the spider, leaving it twitching and lingering on the agony of life. When I saw this, I knew of the pain to which it was experiencing, but choose not to finish it off, as who was I to decline this creature, its last few moments of life? And I knew, I already had prior engagements within the bathroom, upstairs, so I decided that if it’s not dead before I came back then I would finish it off, once and for all, myself. As I left the bright glow of the kitchen, I was met with the dark, errie persence of my dining room. Besides spiders, darkness was another phobia of mine that tormented my thoughts during my childhood, and even at that point, though significantly lessened, these phobias were still present, which caused me to turn on the hallways light as I descended the staircase to the bathroom. When I entered the bathroom, I turned on the small mirror light and rushed towards the light switch at the end of the hall, but it was too late as my brother awoke and complained in a grouchy manner as his door was missing as a result of many aggressive bi-polar mood swings that gradually caused the door to fall off its hinges. And just as he had arisen from bed, trifling about the bright glare of the hallway light, did I turn off this light, all the while, walking towards the bathroom, apologizing to my brother for disturbing his rest in such a late hour, during the night. While I used the toilet, I forgot all about the spider, downstairs. It was as if it had been flushed away with my waste; both useless objects that burdened me, greatly, now gone and forgotten, as if they had never existed at all. When I returned to the kitchen, the memory of the injured spider fled back to my mind, and I returned to the very spot where I had first began to inflict pain upon it. And this time, as I looked down at the spider, it lay motionless, and I realized that its suffering was over. So I grabbed for a tissue from off the table and gently poked the spider with it, as a way to make sure that it was really dead. And then suddenly, the spider sprang to life, and in a dying effort, quickly wobbled across the kitchen floor with most of its working legs. And when I saw this, I picked up the sandal that lay beside the tortured spider, and quickly slammed it down on its body. When I lifted the sandal up, I saw that the spider was still alive, as it lay with its legs and body, compacted together, but still flailing about in every given direction, in immense pain. When I saw this, I made it my duty to kill the inflicted spider and end its suffering, for good. So I took the tissue, still in my hand, and brought it down on the morbidly injured spider to a point to where I heard a loud crunch, and I knew that the deed was done. After this, I picked up the remains of the spider with my tissue, and threw it in the waste basket, then washed my hands with soap and water, and thought of the true significance of the deed I had just done. Because deep within my conscience, I felt a lingering presence of guilt, and with this came with much thought as every time I killed a spider or insect, it felt trivial or necessary, or at some point, during my earlier years of my childhood, fun and enjoyable, as if me, killing these creatures was, but a game. But killing this particular spider felt much different than any other spider I had killed, previously. For in this spider, I saw such raw and pure emotion, to a point that whenever I thought of such an occasion, my eyes would become moist and glossy with tears. And all I could think about was its never-ending will to cling on to the very essence of life, even though, this essence proved to be painful and unrewarding.
"In Anticipation of Adam Farwell" By Brian Paul Dunlop The clock in the hall ticked frantically. So methodically. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. My nerves clenched. The hair follicles on my neck rose like the quills on a frightened porcupine. What is to become of me? Those men earlier had said that they would ring my neck if I didn't have their money by three o'clock and it is already a quarter past four. Where are they? Were they bluffing? No way, they can't be bluffing. Not those guys, especially considering the man who sent them to retrieve the money. That man is Adam Farwell. Adam Farwell is known all over town as a take no prisoners type of guy and there will be no exception when dealing with me. I heard, one time, some guy owed him money and he coaxed the guy into letting his guard down and believing everything was all fine and dandy, until bam! He stuck a hypodermic needle filled with a high dose of GHB into his neck and then dumped his passed out body onto train tracks to get run over by the A-train and that A-train came and didn't leave a good impression on that guy's sprawled out body, I'll tell you that and now, that crazy fuck is coming after me! What am I going to do? What is there to do? Nothing...I guess, but pray. The minutes went by like months, the hours went by like years and all that stood between me and my demise was a knock on the door by a couple of hench men. Sweat rolled down my face and neck like a raging river somewhere in the Midwest and my heart palpated in my chest like a pendulum in a therapist's office being played with by an energetic, immature child. What is taking these guys so long? Sometimes, I feel like the pure anticipation of it all is a fate worse than death. Sometimes, I wish that they would just come here and kill me, already and stop playing these mind games. Keeping me on my toes; telling me that they're coming at one point of time and then come at a completely different time to scare me, to make me nervous, to send me to the edge. I don't think that's such a wise move on their part to send a man like me to the edge because when I go off the edge...there is no coming back and it will not be beneficial to them, not one bit. Fuck...what am I thinking? I can't take him or his men, never in a thousand years, even if I do go batshit crazy, they will find me and they will kill me, but the only question is...when? When will they finally come to my doorstep, bust open my door and put an end to my pain ridden life? I think they'll be doing us all favors because everybody has to go, someday and I just can't take this anticipation, anymore. What do they think I am? Some type of animal? To play with my emotions as such to make me a complete mental wreck and have me laid out at the corner of my kitchen, lying against the wall. I don't have much energy. I could get up, but I choose not to. Why should I? All I would do if I got up would be to pace, but maybe I should. Maybe I should get up, plop myself in front of the television set and welcome the end of existence...the end of my existence, at least. Yeah, I might as well be entertained before those thugs come and snuff me out for good. It took me a while to get up out of the oddly comfortable position I maintained on the floor, but I did and hastily made my way into the living room, where I sat down on my sofa to watch TV for what may be the last time ever for yours truly. I turned on the television set and got greeted by a lovely brunette anchorwoman who appeared to be in a great deal of stress. "I'll take you to a live feed straight from Manhattan, in what would appear to be one of the biggest crisis' in our state's or even our country's history", said the anchorwoman with a look of distress draped across her delicate face. "What is this about?", I queried aloud to myself. The television then showed camera angles taken from a helicopter of Downtown Manhattan, where people ran frantically down the city streets, but why? Who or what were they running from? The television then went back to the anchorwoman in her safe recording studio. "We don't have much information, but we believe the problems stem from-..." Then all power went off in my house. And just like that, my house became just as dark as the heart of Adam Farwell. What was that anchorwoman going to say? Is that the reason Adam Farwell and his goons haven't made their presence known in my home? Is that the reason that I am still alive? And what could have been out there that made all those people run? They all seemed scared like they were, also, about to face their doom like I had felt, just hours ago. Could whatever had made all those people run have killed Adam Farwell and his goons because he does have all his operations set up in Manhattan, to my knowledge, at least. And how long will it be until whatever was making those people run, reach Brooklyn, where I'm staying? Oh God, now I have something even worse to worry about because Adam Farwell couldn't make all those people flee like that, even in his heyday of being a ruthless criminal. Whatever is making these people flee like that must be big and must be incredibly hard to stop. The only thing that I wish now is for that piece of shit Adam Farwell and the rest of his scum bag goons to die by the hands of whatever's in Downtown Manhattan causing destruction and for that thing to spare Brooklyn and most importantly, me. God, I know I may have done some unfavorable things in my life, but come on, I'm an alright guy, I don't deserve to go, just not yet. If you let me live, I'll promise, you can have my word on it, I promise I will change my life around and stop making all these bets with money that I can't afford and have scum bags coming after me, wanting to break my legs or worse. I promise, I'll stop doing all that and give to the church and attend mass like I use to do when I was a little boy. Please, let my sins slide this time and I promise that I will make things better and you know I will because you know everything, so please protect me from the evil in Manhattan or any evil, thereafter. God never came, well at least, I don't think he did. All I felt as I sat on my sofa in the dark was paranoia, nervousness, and guilt. Maybe the reason this is all happening to me, now is because of the terrible thing that I did. I know what I did and sure as Hell, God knows what I did. Now, there was this high school girl and she didn't know me and I didn't really know her, but this high school girl had like a magnetic force like attraction to me and I couldn't help it, I knew that I would get into serious trouble if I got caught doing anything with this girl, but I didn't care. It was just like I had to do it, it was just like, it had to be done, I don't know, it's just that she reminded me of my babysitter when I was a kid. I knew at ten years old, I couldn't do anything with her; she wouldn't let me if I tried. At nights when she got drunk and passed out, I would feel her up, but I never had the courage or was man enough and literally speaking, too because I had no seamen or pubic hair of the sort, to penetrate this teenage girl, but I wanted to, I wanted to, so badly. And when I saw this girl, all alone, one night walking down the road, I couldn't help myself. She looked just like the babysitter I had when I was ten. The babysitter, I had so sorely lusted after. The babysitter that was the forbidden fruit of the Garden of Eden in my mind. And I couldn't help myself. I stopped my van, right next to the girl; exited my vehicle as fast as I could and I tackled the girl. Her head hit hard against a stone lying on the grass, so it made the process that much easier and all I had to do was dump her in my van and take her home. She made little noise on the ride home, besides the noise of her body slightly moving about because of bumps in the road. When I got her to my home, I noticed that she wasn't breathing and it made me terribly upset. Not only did I murder a person, but now, I will never know how it felt like to have sex with my babysitter; one of my all time sexual fantasies, and that affected me more than knowing I had just killed a person. I don't even think that this would be considered murder, I mean, I never wanted to kill the girl. I just wanted to rape her and then dump her off to a secluded area to find her way back. I never thought that I would ever kill anybody, but you know what? I think I kind of liked it. The rush I felt when I tackled this teenage girl to the ground was a rush I had never previously felt before and that rush felt good...damn good. And I mean, I already went through all the work getting her here and most of the memories I had with my babysitter, she was already in a state like the girl I killed; unresponsive with her eyes closed. So, then and there, I decided that I must fulfill the fantasy I had since I was a child and that was to have sex with my babysitter and this girl looked enough like my babysitter to be a fitting replacement for her to enact my deep, sexual childhood fantasy. So, I had sex with the girl's cold, lifeless body and had the most euphoric orgasm I ever had in my life, with time to spare to dump her in the East River, that very night. I know God must look down on me with a great deal of contempt for doing such a deed, but he knew I couldn't help myself. If God wants this world of ours to be free of evil, than why does he instill flaws such as these into his men? It is truly he, who is the evil one, if you really think about it. I couldn't help myself even if I tried, that girl set off a trigger in my brain that caused me to do those wretched acts. God could have stopped me. He may not be able to change my will, but he could have done something that could of prevented it. Like he could have cut my brakes, so, I wouldn't have stopped my van and none of this would have occurred in the first place. Fuck it...who am I kidding? I'm as sick and twisted as Adam Farwell, maybe...
"Flowers in New York" By Brian Paul Dunlop The day was savage. The sun was cruel. My mind continued in a race. Thoughts of the great unknown struck upon my mind like glue on a mouse trap. What will happen when I die? Will I go out like a roaring flame; at one moment, sparking in a mighty inferno and then snuffed out, never again to burn, never again to think. My mom was a strange woman. A woman molested by the man who was meant to guide her, to show her mercy, to let her have life. I can't remember his name, but I know he died, long ago. Cancer of the heart, he possessed. Cruel irony knocked at his doorsteps like so many beggars, crying out for food, pleading for money. An old miser, he was. Not many had the nerve to attend his funeral, knowing what he did to his daughter, my mother. What a strange day; March 14th. I shuddered as the wind grew upon my nerves an eerie core of a dark nature. And I was a dark man. There was no humbling or curing me; just another nobody wrapped up in the social American mind frame. Perfection? Only a fool thinks of such a venture. Oh, but my mind did toss and turn. Never hiding upon any shadow of light. Always searching for that one final answer. Always dreaming. Always looking. And I can remember mother now; smiling, laughing, crying, dying from the inside-out. And the day they took her away was the day that I died. Such a cold Autumn's day, such a cool Winter's night.
"The Men on Top of the Grey Hills" By Brian Paul Dunlop I I remembered it all started after the prohibition of the pompinlini fruit. I don't know why they got rid of it, and made it illegal. I remember fondly of days past sitting around campfires with my friends, seeing great tales of our past adventures; project right in front of our very eyes as they inter-twined together, making a mixed adventure of epic detail. Why, those were the best days of my life, but I guess everything changes, one time or another. But now, everything is different, so different that I must take up arms to defend myself and all those I hold dear to my heart. There is a terrible giant that reeks havoc upon this land. He had laid waste to my home village, killing many, many people - even my own parents and both of my beloved brothers. This beast must die for what it did to me. And now, I can not sleep, I can not eat, I can't anything else before I confront this wretched ogre, and make it feel the pain I felt upon returning home after a brisk walk through the forrest to find my town in ruins; my people, my entire family, all wiped out and slaughtered. What did we ever do to deserve such a fate? What? Why did they have to die? It's evil! EVIL! So now, I journey; past the high manors of the segregated youth, past the markets and business distristricks, and even past the forbidden land beyond the Grey Hills that houses our interim ruler, and other government officials and workers. Now I; the last remaining survivor of my destroyed village, am seeking out this demon, and will lay waste to this terrible, evil monster, once and for all. I can kill it. I have its weakness, right here, in my pocket. II I journed on; past the green hills of moss and tigerlilies, into the mist of the high mountain fog, past the Canyon of No Tomorrow, and into the light; where I came upon a vast, sandy desert. And I walked for miles, and miles and miles; aloft to a barren wasteland, lost of hope and understanding, and odd resemblance to the country, I once held high and true to my beating heart. And then in the distance, I saw the beast, but I didn't see it as the horrible monster, I once imagined it as - it was laying on its stomach, crawling weakly and cursing out to the sky as if it felt betrayed. "MONSTER!" I screamed as I jetted towards the beast, as it started to cry and crawl anxiously to a lost cause. "Now, it is time for you die! Now, it is time for you to feel my suffering! And the suffering of my entire village!" I ran up to the giant's huge vulnerable neck and pulled out my syringe filled of a purple liquid called "Semon Asen," which is harmless to my people, but deadly to giants. "Stop!" the demon booms before I went to strike the needle down on its coraid ortery. "Please don't kill me. You are lost. Please. Before you kill me, please let me convert you. You are lost, misguided and desperately need my help. I assume you are the last of your people - I'll die happily in knowing that I died converting a musguided Arzameic to the right path." I drew back my needle. "You are the one who is on the wrong path; you murder - no, you genocide an entire people. How am I the lost one? I lived in a happy, forfilling life before you and our dead dictator, Fenino Azpet was extinguished like the evil sorcerer, he was; he lead many a people down a lost, barren existence of sin, and lack of communication and natural Arzameic sexuality. There was a reason why we killed him like we did and we wanted to the whole sphere to see it." "But you don't get it. He was the prophet, the leader, the messiah, what he said goed, and I had a beautiful, lavish life, even as a hideous giant, and he loved me - loved me like your people never did, and you people never loved me because you are all lost sinner who needed to be exterminated. But that's alright now, if I can show you the error of your people and let you go off; back into our land - than I will let you kill me and I would die, peacefully with no struggle." "I don't get it," I said as I capped the syringe and put it back in my pocket. "Are you asking me to kill you?" "YES!" cried the giant. "This desert! This sun! All it does is give me pain! Why Azmuhuk? I was always a good giant. I always did what you asked and what you wanted. Why do you let me fall and let this evil Arzameic live? Why Azmuhuk? Why?" "Silence evil ogre!" I boomed. "Azmuhuk is not here. He left right when your leaders and followers started to kill the innocents. In your philosophy, how have the babies been evil? How have our women been evil - the very women who conceal their physical beauity and sexual urges just to satisfy our most holy Azmuhuk." "Please Azmuhuk, show this lost soul the light. Please Azmuhuk, show this evil infidel, the brightness and warmth of your true holiness" prayed the dying giant. "You know what?" I asked in revelation. "I'm not going to kill you." "What do you mean you're not going to kill me? I was foretold of these very events and our very same conversation in a dream; you spiked my neck with purple poison then I was sent to the Promiseland of Peacefule Giants; living in a happy, equal society." "A Promiseland for Peaceful Giants?" I asked, before laughing hysterically. "What's so funny? Why do you laugh?" "Who told you this lie?" "Fenino Azpet and this isn't a lie. It is in print, he speaks of these prophecies, himself." "Yes, in books he wrote, himself," I interjected. "Yes, books written by the prophet." "Prophet?" I asked, starting to laugh, again. "This prophet of yours is a false prophet, brought to this world by Befoir of the Underworld, and that is where he went to and that is where you will go to, also." "Please Azmuhuk, this soul is truly blinded, lead him to the light, where it is good. Please Azmuhuk, rapture me and send him to Before; in the land of the trapped infidels," prayed the giant as it spat and gasped for air under the drying heat of the noon sun. "You see, on your last few hours of life, Azmuhuk will show you how wrong, you and your false philosophies and prophets really are. Now I will leave you, and let you die - you sick, evil, devil of a giant." I then turned and started to walk in the direction of Asmeicba; a more liberated nation. "Wait! Please kill me! Take me away from this pain! Please!" And these were the last words I could coherently hear as I walked westward in a lost, unforgiving desert under the tremedous heat of an oppressive orange sun.
A Late Night Dream (1172) I I remember the days rolled by like a hamster wheel -forever turning, never stopping to realize the harsh reality of life. Forever spinning, again, again and again - the cruel mistress of a world foreboding for some and collapsing for others. Randy was a boy unlike most; he played well into the night when most of the children his age were away in bed - away into their own little worlds of play and mischief. And many nights, Randy's mind would go dreamless; distant from cold realities into a blackness - one in itself, one in the same. II Randy awoke. Breath heavy, back arched, head low. Today was a day, he so fondly regretted. It was his sister's birthday. That selfish little snot. He didn't want any part of this pagan-themed holiday enthralled in selfish desires with a gluttonous spirit. Randy hated his birthday. It was always the same. Surrounded by an endless sea of friends and family members who on one day, sit in celebration for his existence after all the other days of drifting through life acting as if they didn't know his name. So in light of the harsh reality of circumstances deriving in social-based hierarchy systems - Randy chose to be the "black sheep." He chose to be a rebel because when all else fails around you, the only thing you really have is your own wits and moral judgments. And in a crazy world like Apalache County, you need to have thick skin or else you might fall off the face of the Earth. III Steam from the kitchen broke through the air with a sharp annoying whistle that aroused Randy from bed like the cold furry of an ice storm - unexpected, but still unwanted. "Woman!" boomed Randy, as he stood on his feet, shaking because of the loud, ear-splitting noise that drove him away from a mid-afternoon slumber, just moments prior. "Woman, turn off that stove! I hate that noise!" continued Randy as he could hear a shuffle in the kitchen, making way to best suit his demands. Randy was somewhat of the aggressive type after his father passed away in 2002. And ever since then, he likes to think of himself as more of the "man of the house," which in his mind, gives him the right to assert his authority in what he thought to be a responsible manner. So in doing so, he thought of himself as "the leader of the pack" at his house, even though his mother made all the money, his sister was very well-liked in school and head of her dance squad, while he mostly stayed at home, drinking alcohol and popping any pill he could get his hands on. Many people never really sympathized with his anti-socially, morally skewed personality - it was 'because of the drugs,' they would say. It was always because of the drugs. "Where's my xanax?" asked Randy, scratching his head while going towards his mirror. The mirror was far - it seemed to stretch on for miles from where he stood. So nauseous. He stopped as the world seemed to be getting the best of him as a sickness crept upon his body. Back into bed, he thought. Another day. Another nothing. IV Catherine's party raged on in the house as Randy lay in his bed, stuck in a long dark room. There was a scent in the air - a rotting scent resonating from the nether-regions of Randy's mouth and gums. But the room was different; geo-metric patterns and characters from past Saturday morning cartoons pass-by amongst the darkness of the room - all patterns, following an endless trend, forever seeking, forever giving Randy additional entertainment during waking periods of immense boredom. He couldn't sleep. He promised he would go cold turkey on all types of drugs as a present for his sister, even though they could no longer look at each other in the eye on most occasions - they were still related, but what did she matter to him? She lost faith in him when he started using. Randy tossed and turned in bed as flashbacks from years past became displayed by his bedside. The pains of withdrawal wriggled through his psych, making his body shake as vast spirals of color encased the once darkened room followed by a hypnotizing musical number that grew faster and faster as time went on. Then time stopped as did the patterns, and so did Randy as he fell into a lost, dreamless sleep. V Randy awoke several hours later as large beads of sweat soaked his pillowcase and his long, maggie hair that looked as if it had a life of its own. As he adapted to reality, a burning sensation erupted within the left portion of his cranium. "Medicine!" he yelled out as he stormed aimlessly through a dark room, cluttered with beer bottles and an eerie silence that caused him to dart towards the light switch. The lights went on, but this didn't stop the troubling feeling within his head. "Jesus" said Randy, covering his eyes from the bright glare of his room. He turned around towards the direction of his bed, but stopped suddenly. There was a little boy, sitting down at the edge of his bed, looking down at his lap with his palms pressed into his cheeks. "Are you from Cathy's party? What are you doing in my room?" asked Randy in the nicest tone he could possibly use. The boy looked young. He didn't know what he was doing. But the boy didn't look up. "Hello, little boy. Are you okay?" There was no response, except low sobs coming from the boy, which seemed to increase more and more as the seconds past. "No one loves me. No one loves me. No one loves me" whimpered the boy. Obviously, this boy needed a counselor, and in knowing this, Randy rushed over to the boy and put his arm around his shoulder. "It's okay. People do love you. I'm here" consoled Randy, making the most of a delicate situation. The boy then looked up with tears in his eyes, as his breathing seemed to go down slightly, and a smile began to form on his face. Randy then froze in morbid horror as he recognized the face of the young boy in his room from a photo album of his family, many years ago. "I'm sorry I had to die, Randy. I'm sorry it had to be this way." The boy then slowly faded into the light, until he disappeared completely. "I should have never stopped using drugs" joked Randy to himself as he grabbed at his rapidly beating heart with his right hand. "Life is way too messed up to deal with on a sober mind." Randy then grabbed for his nightstand that held up his pills, his bottled water and small mirrors crusted over in a residue caused by late-night partying with rich, pretty girls from the harbor. Randy grabbed the pills and bottle, and made short work of them as he shut off the lights and slowly slithered back into bed. And there were no more hallucinations. No more supposed ghosts. No more geo-metric patterns or music - just sweet happiness; all from a pill, all from a dream.