1
1 0 1

Fracking for Soul

Fracking for Soul


...so we turned to extreme methods to achieve our goal

Having first exhausted conventional philosophical attempts

To tease out the potential of soul.

 

We concluded, after exploratory scanning 

Of our mother's skull,

That rigorously monitored multiple trepanning,

 

Giving access to the hypothalamus,

Occipital lobe, pineal gland,

Pons, pallium and hippocampus,

 

Would facilitate the injection of solution under pressure

With the aim of fracturing soul-bearing cortical tissue

Thus releasing from each resultant fissure

 

Her quintessence to tap at the head of the well.

Of course, this was an invasive procedure,

But howsoever we may extract a soul, rejoice, for there's a soul to sell. 

 

 

0
0 0 0

Circle All That Apply

image

She/He figured this was as good a time as any…

...to write that novel/novella/short story/poem/goodbye they'd been dreaming about. I mean, there's a time in a/an boy/girl/androgyne 's life when one must nut up/vag out/none of your damned business and put pen to paper/kisses to keys/touch to tablets. She/he might as well.

...to fall in/out of love. She/He had been meaning to do it for so long. She/He is a different person and regrets the person she/he might still become if she/he doesn't do it soon...or now. She/He doesn't want to die alone and a full bed's not the same as a fulfilling one. Why not?

...to give up/find God. There is a sort of comfort in surrender, in acknowledging the bottom of the barrel against your back. There is a sort of comfort in seeing the stars and understanding just what they've always had to say to you. There is a sort of comfort in knowing who you really are.

...to quit/take/create this job. It's not what she/he expected. It's not what she/he thought that she/he wanted, but it's a mark on her/his/hir permanent record stored in a database too close to the Sun to last forever. She/He is ready to learn new lessons, lose too much sleep, and struggle.

...to struggle. After all, it's not like She/He has a choice.

Not like you.

Prompt: yeahwriters, via chaiivee

Start a piece with, “She/He figured this was as good a time as any…”

Daily Prompts in Your Inbox | Submit Your Story | Yeah Write!

If this doesn't speak to you, I'm sorry. Let me know why. I'll do my best to do better.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, review requests, questions and feedback.

0
0 0 0

An Odd Entrance, and Odder Exit

At high noon, a twenty three year old is strolling down the road of the old theater district. His hands in his pocket, headsets in his ears, his glance directed straight down, he was trying to be inconspicuous and for the most part was succeeding although that was largely due to no one being around rather than his concerted effort, although it was considerable.

            But it fell apart rather quickly once one actually assessed the situation.

            Considering the summer heat, an outfit of jeans and a jacket already seemed out of place, yet it is further compounded by the fact that instead of denim the jeans were lined with cloth and underneath the jacket was a thermal undershirt.

            His pupils are diluted to four times the normal size. His heart rate alternates between deathly still and deathly quick every five minutes or so. His left hand is fiddling with a lighter inside the jacket pocket, while his right hand is fiddling with a bottle of pepper spray. The lack of sweating also is cause for concern, but for someone reason that seems to the last thing off about him. What the vast majority of people would find unsettling is the playlist of bubblegum pop blasting in his ears. It is arguable that the music choice was driving his odd heart rate, but that is not something that has been empirically proven so it is conjecture.

            He’s been wandering about the district for only about thirty minutes. He’s looked at the currently functional venues and hasn’t found any indication that is where he needs to be later tonight. He always liked the live venues more so than the abandoned ones, regardless of the audience size because those tended to be cleaner and more structurally sound. But it wasn’t up to him. He gives up once he reaches the last theater and starts going into the ghost part of the town.

            He breezes by the recently shut down. Very rarely does one go for the middle ground of venue, no it is either kept or rundown. Recently condemned buildings lack the excitement of the other options, especially in the theater district.

            Eventually, he finds the sigil on the side of an old warehouse. He takes a look through the vacant windows and notices the walk way lining the second story. He thinks to himself that it is a clean venue. Not that it isn’t covered with layers of dust, rust, and other pleasantries; it is just empty. Not a lot of environmental factors to take into consideration which makes a lot of mental decisions easier. He’s glad about his choices he made beforehand. He makes a mental note about his route before finding a café to rest in before the festivities begin.

            A few hours pass. The street lights flicker on outside and he feels reckoned. He takes his phone off the charger and puts his headsets back in. He doubles check he everything in his pockets: lighter and pepper spray. He fiddles around and finds the amplifier. He attaches it to the charger of the phone. He cranks his neck. He hears it crack and begins making his way back to the warehouse.

            He stands a few yards back to see the turnout. No one is standing outside, but the lights are blaring inside. It’s a constant stream rather than a strobe which is nice. The shadows dance around, but it is quite. More so than anything, he is thankful for the quite. This was not something he could have ever influenced. But he would not be there for the quite. For the focus exclusively on the music he gets to pick. Thankful for the origins in silent ravings, it almost makes him thankful for the marital law.

            This is the strangest urban fight you will ever see: two fighters, weapons of their choice, one venue, and an audience to watch the ensuing battle. All of this, with a self-provided soundtrack, albeit tailored.

            He approaches the warehouse. Shows the sigil on the inside of his jacket and the bouncer lets him in. There is a decent showing of two hundred or so. Some are on the catwalk, already anticipating the coming bout, but a fair amount is on the ground floor. He skirts around the edge, looking for his opponent. He’s never seen him before, and wants to take stock before boosting the advantages.

            He gave up normally crucial factors to assure the smaller edges. He forfeited venue for the music track, maximum weapon size for not needing to inform the other of their choices beforehand, the size of the audience for a lack of uniform. These seemingly inconsequential things mean significantly more to him. They don’t keep records, but he’s never actually lost a fight after deciding to prioritize those three. Only the most compulsive researchers try to prevent him from getting his lineup.

            He started choosing music when he started realizing that a rock soundtrack messed with his internal attack rhythm.  He never could carry too large of a weapon, so the ability to conceal what he was bringing provided a much more solid advantage. And the ability to tailor outfits to a particular set of weapons was crucial at least for him.

            He had a reputation on the circuit for crazy innovations and combinations of weapons. He never was considered that much of a threat to the experienced fighters because they swore up and down his flash bang tactics would never work on them.

            He is hoping to prove them wrong with this bout.

            He spots his opponent at the center of the warehouse. Two giant sledgehammers by his side, headsets are only in one ear. He takes a deep breath and no longer can make any adjustments.

            He reaches into his pocket and boosts the signal. The effect is delayed by a few seconds, but suddenly, the music cuts from all the headsets and a single note is played.

            People hear the note and begin moving to the outskirts of the warehouse. The man with the sledgehammers is looking around to see his opponent.

            The man eyes slowly return to normal.  He is the only one left in the middle of the floor. The first track plays.

            Hey, I just met you

            And this is crazy

            But here’s my number…
            That’s the cue. Both reveal the sigil burnt into their clothing. Sledgehammer by rolling up his sleeves, revealing it on his shoulder. Once again, the man opens his jacket. They lock eyes and nod once.

            And this is how the fight begins. This is how you live when you’re told you can’t. These types of fight didn’t exist before they imposed martial law. These types of fights weren’t even thought up martial law. But they exist now and he lives for.

            The sledgehammer starts the fight with a great horizontal swing arcing towards that man. He takes a step back and avoids the attack with ease. Even with the heavier clothes, he is more nimble.

            He tries thinking back to some of the notes giving in the email. Low tier experienced fighter. A few steps above a stepping, he will be a decent entry into the next grouping of fights.

            The back and forth goes on before he realizes that sledgehammer isn’t tiring from all of the swings. He’s also noting that he’s not aiming to strike. The follow through in his swing is different than a finishing blow.

            At that moment, he gets caught in shoulder. The pain isn’t what gets him, but the unexpected shock is the problem. He spins around and feels both hammers crush his sides.

            “Ow.”

            The utterance isn’t audible, but it doesn’t stop him for saying. He loses his fleet wording and suddenly feels the tug. He is dragged into the arms of sledgehammer and he realizes the hammers aren’t cudgels, at least not primarily. They are there for reach.

            The song on the next track begins.

            I hear your heart beat to the beat of the drums

            Oh what a shame that you came here with someone

            So while you’re here in my arms

            Sledgehammer takes this as a cue of his victory. His hammers raise and ready to swing downward to take out the knees and end the fight cleanly.

            Let’s make the most of the night like we’re gonna die young…

            This is the man’s cue. With the limited mobility of his arms, he reaches into his pocket and grabs the lighter and pepper spray, ignites and a small fireball bursts outward. This gives him the opportunity to break out of the hold. This is why he wore layers, wore winter clothing, not for cushion, but protection

            He isn’t crazed. His heartbeat is steady, his pupils appropriate to the darkness, and his mind more lucid than ever. The only time he ever felt proper was when he was fighting.

            Sledgehammer resets his stance, while the man restarts the lighter and brings the pepper spray to the flame. He draws a line creating an arc of fire.

            While it doesn’t seem like it goes too far, the hammers catches. He stares at them for a moment, which gives the man the only cue he needs.

            Like we’re going to die young…

            A direct fireball to the face. Sledgehammer drops to his knees and submits.

            The track ends. He talks to the commissioners inside to confirm his entrance to the next tier of the fighters.

            He leaves the building smiling. Someone, ignorant to what just happened, passes by him a few blocks down the road. Unbeknownst to either of them, she to is going to the fight, thinking there is no way it could have been over. Wanting to address his watery eyes she asks “You got something in your eyes?”

            He sees her mouth move, but doesn’t hear her. He takes off his headsets and asks “could you come again?” in an eerily polite way.

She asks again “You got something in your eyes?”

The answer of course is a smoke, a collection of ash clouding his vision, and that he can barely walk in a straight line.

He smiles and simply responds, “Nah, I’m just really happy.”

1
0 0 0

Home Dog Silly Winkers (A Love Poem for Buttholes)

all these home dogs,
these silly winkers.
there is so much more
then finding your way
to the bottom of a quarry.

Like being behind a girl
when her butthole winks at you
and you put your hands up to your head
like moose antlers.

more simplicity in the way
a butthole winks at you
than an eye does, I think.

More love in it.

Like in the bottom of the rain
when all resisters become transistors
and you feel the weight
of your dead grandmother
as you carry her coffin.

My grandmother was a big woman.

always ate my Chinese leftovers,
not much love in when you're hungry
and your dead grandmother has eaten
your leftovers.

But surely there is love in V-shaped
migrations of hooded teenagers
and how you wish all of life
was a musical so you could hear them
sing instead of the awry wink.

I still get urges to reinstall from time to time,
you know,
the deathly ills in imaginary responses
to the winking butthole,

how full of philosophy this poem is
blew my mind as I wrote it
and my grandmother haunts me still.

0
1 0 1

The Second Day of the World's Trek (when it trod upon a pilgrim)

I placed a foot on the throat,
and beneath me, heard a gurgling sound, like tepid water
when its emotions are brought to boil.

So I lifted my knee slightly,
and from below, came heaves of sputtering oil.


This new road, the one I’d signed for, has brought me here,
and little before have I known of such things as laughter or slaughter,
which can both bring to my heart such a stimulating climax,
even though it may seem unsightly.


I laughed as the one beneath me squirmed;
for I knew he had prayed so hard to find his way,
and now his paradise will surely be found
as slowly, I find it for him
and he will pass through to it, with none around.


The oil from him is crude and old,
as will be the ones who will later say they saw,
and I’ll not call my own children liars-
no; for my life is their whim,
because for this one beneath, I could burn.

My name is “World” and with thoughtless steps I swing
to catch all hopeless pilgrims by the clip of their wings,
and standing on this hill, the everyday,
I’ll end this one to keep my own demonic kin at bay.

0
1 0 1

The Legacy of Thatcher and her roofs: why I no longer care about the Right, but simply make puns instead.

In twenty years, as we digest our last lasagne pill and get into our flying car, they will ask, where were you when it happened? Where were you when it happened? Where were you, when, it, happened. To me and my ancarcho-communist, crust punk mates, it was like all our dreams had come true; if you, like me, often dream of old woman dying as their brains turn into wet cake and comically leak out of their ears like in an old episode of Looneytoons. The left and the right picked sides straight away, down party lines as straight and as long as the doll-queue circa 1982. But, at first, as I sat and thought about the news, lil old me didn’t know how to react; like a dog in the headlights of the starship enterprise. Then, as I went for a walk outside where I live and took in the brisk, evening wind, slowly walking around by myself kicking up leaves, as I like to do often, it dawned on me that, however human Margaret Thatcher may have seemed, the legacy of some of her worst policies still linger worse than David Beckham.

Amongst her most heinous policies, one stands out above all others, seared into the mind of the public more than the char marks on a particularly well pan-fried salmon, and that is one of the chief reasons I think the public will not forgive her. The worst thing that Lord Lady Darth Baroness Thatchington Rocky IV ever did was to institute a series of measures towards implementing an “Andy Cole” tax, which would see homes taxed on a sliding scale depending on how many Andy Cole’s were occupying the household. More than none would constitute an automatic flat levy of 30% on all household income. No one would be spared. Teams of crack investigators were hired to snoop around people’s homes to see if they were hiding an Andy Cole.

Well of course, the footballer Andy Cole was devastated. In-fact, Andy Cole, taking time out from being 18 at the time the policy was implemented, released a statement on the matter.

This strange and hitherto unforeseen change to the tax code put in place by the Government of Margaret Thatcher seems to be entirely aimed at me and my family. Such a policy could only have been initiated by a leader who has clearly shown a Liverpool FC bias in her policies thus far. You don’t see the Tories clamouring for a ban on all properties containing more than 45% Ian Rush do you? There is currently no limit on the number of Alan Hansen’s you’re allowed to keep as pets. And what’s her stance on Bruce Grobbelaar? Unfortunately, we may never know. What we DO know, is that the people of Andy Cole’s household will never be free of this wicked and unjust tax on Andy Coles until Thatcher and her cronies have been replaced by Alex Ferguson and Steve Bruce at the helm of the nation, with a vision of Britain that puts the purse-strings of Andy Cole at the heart of it’s agenda.” he said.“Outstanding,”he added.

And many people from towns and cities will never forget the riots that ensured. Eventually public outrage over the perceived slight to one of England’s greatest forwards provoked what would become known as “The Andy Cole Tax Riots.” Fans of both Manchester United and Liverpool Football Club came together as one, under the leadership of Andy Cole in full body armour and hoodie, wearing a guy Fawkes mask, screaming something about how a fixed, one off payment was much fairer, only to get their heads kicked in by the police, who were notorious arsenal supporters and thus were cold to the views and ideologies of the rioters, instead preferring to smash them with feet and fist.

A little part of our collective soul as living creatures, as human beings, godammit; as premier league football fans, died that night. Andy Cole and his rag tag band of shirtless, drunken rioters were hung out to dry like cold-smoked bacon. Unfortunately, renaming the Andy Cole tax to the Community funded levy on people called Andy Cole charge was enough to satisfy most of the public, and, disastrously, Andy Cole was forced to submit his last three years of earnings to the Inland Revenue, subject to a pending review on re-evaluating his current tax bracket. Cole was so distressed by this that he took extreme measures to try and circumvent the new tax, going so far as to try and legally change his name by Andy Reid poll; unfortunately, to no avail.

So flashforward to the present day, like a particularly infuriating episode of Lost, and as I wander around in the cold and the dark with all bits of leaves flying up and hitting me in my cold face, I remember Andy Cole. I remember him, and his battle against the Tories, that briefly united both Liverpool fans and Manchester United fans against something, not simply against each other. And so that’s why, when people ask me for my opinion on the death of Thatchbot9000, I’ll simply smile and say “Andy Cole was forced to pay back £400, due to his changing tax status.” And they will understand.

1
0 0 0

Love is like a bird,
like a dove, gliding over you--
you want to be a part of the flock,
and after all, flying isn't really all that bad...
So you walk, wandering through the doors,
and frolic up the flights--
you creep up to the ledge and leap.
and for a split second it feels amazing,
a rush of emotion--
but you feel nothing but the empty air beneath your feet.


Splat

2
10 0 10

All Things Return Home

All things return home,
    ashes to ashes,
        foam to foam.
Apples become apple seeds,
    in the shadow of trees,
        buried beneath swaying reeds.
The ocean becomes the air,
    only to fall from the clouds,
        to caress Neptune's hair.
Sheep eat grass and wolves eat sheep,
    nature brings sheep home
        for the ground to keep.
Kings are born and die on their thrones,
    nothing remains,
        not even their bones.
Yes, all things return home,
    ashes to ashes,
        foam to foam,
            all things return home,
                except for Styrofoam.

1
6 0 6

In Case of Cliche

I'll split an ocean

with this verse

(raining tears

it's sad to say)

too many views

are so cliche,

and we should just

not think that way,

but oh, the pain

that spreads that way

if I cannot

seek these mundane

petals of hope-sprained flowers

broken at the stem

from hours of

social anxieties

pulling love-me-nots.

They drain in sighs

that chill our spines

with cold oppressive eyes

deprived from words

that can't be fine

even if they're customized,

to ride the track

that trains would

claim their own,

but not allow

the chariots

to follow them

vengefully.

There's a traitor

inside everyone.

So why don't you

just shut up and listen?