Stolen (part 5) and Wordle 26

Week 26

The wordle poem is below the story, the poem was written from the perspective of the character, by the character if you will.


Some days it seems

The farther I fall

The deeper my roots

My sixteenth birthday came and went without mention. Gone were the frivolities of youth (not that my youth had ever been inclined to frivolity). My mother had died the previous year (on this very day) for reasons I am not at liberty to mention. I can only say that she went kicking and screaming. Whatever she glimpsed in passing frightened her more than the horrors to which she was accustomed. My father kept the body but removed the flesh. My mother had always wanted to be a skeleton and my father loved bones. We staged her burial with a cadaver (method of attainment unknown but a respectable match).

My father became a recluse or I should say that he remained much the same. Without anyone to reign him in he stopped posturing. My mother had always arranged social events on his behalf but never at his behest. Without her the house was empty. Indeed I almost never saw my father because he spent most of his time in the basement eclipsed entirely by his obsession.

He was no longer discreet in the carrying of cadavers to and from his work space, though he was never forthcoming in matters of acquisition. Most of the cadavers were females but whether this was a matter of preference or portability I could not say. The house was as clean as it ever was my father had hired a housekeeper (an elderly matron with an uncompromising disposition).

We spoke sparingly. We dined separately. We labored together only of necessity. I was studious but not entirely dismissive of biological inclinations. I had a girlfriend. We’d been dating six months. We were sexually active. Her name was Thyme.

“Can’t we stay at my place?” Thyme didn’t know as much as she thought about my past although she claimed to be sensitive. She wasn’t. She couldn’t see the other world. A world I’ve come to refer to as Level X. The name is a superficial one. It refers to the X in the closet of my bedroom, that’s where the spirits enter. Half the people I know are already dead.

“Is your dad going to be around…” I didn’t get on with her old man too well. I couldn’t assimilate.

“He doesn’t hate you…if he did he would’ve intervened…” Thyme’s words were partially reassuring but they didn’t sway me.

“I can’t leave the house….” Thyme looked at me sympathetically. My father’s mental health was questionable at best and to the outside world he seemed a man destroyed by grief. She assumed this was my reason for being reluctant and maybe it was but it felt much more complicated than that.

“No ghost stories though…just sex…” She teased. I was quick to agree.


“What’s that X in your closet?” Thyme asked legs dangling over the side of my bed.

“Don’t know…an act of rebellion maybe?” I offered not wanting her to pursue the subject lest I break our agreement.

“Why don’t you paint over it?” She asked oblivious to my tactics. I couldn’t tell her that I’d tried countless times but that the black always bled to the surface. I’d never dared to paint it black because the black seemed to act as a conduit. It was only partially accessible this way, if I painted the whole wall I feared what might come through.

“I like it this way…” I offered stupidly.

“Close the door and get over here…” Thyme had finally caught up and she wasn’t about to press me further.

Thyme wasn’t a pretty girl but an ineffable beauty. Her eyes were nearly too big for her face and of a shade of green so surreal that they contrasted reality itself. Her black hair was thick and chiseled into an unalterable wave. Her skin was porcelain and flawless, without expression she appeared vacant and doll-like. I loved her disciplined breasts and the swan-like curve of her neck. I loved her thighs, which were muscular from dancing, and the subtle accent of her ribs. I was a decent-looking guy by societies’ standards but by my own I was completely unworthy of her.

Your insipid tongue

Filters my persuasion

I evaporate in the captivity

Of your colossal ego

Who am I without you as my shield?

Who am I without the spit of exhausted adrenalin?

I have raged mutely all the days

Of my entitled existence

What does advantage suggest?

From this vantage

I am without filial affection

An unsought propagation

For a future pitilessly stitched

Do not straiten my collar a second time

I cannot be made to present,

Do not predicate your sense of worth

On my infallibility

I fail more acutely than most



orcrypt3Tomorrow I have an appointment with yet another therapist. I find it difficult to write poetry when I am stressed in this way. I can’t very well speak in metaphor during my appointment so I need to get my brain in conversational mode. That is why I have decided to tackle the alternative prompt and discuss my experience with the internet.


As many of you already know I met Sam online. We lived 8000 miles apart, in areas not heavily frequented by tourists. The odds of us meeting without the internet were even slimmer than the nearly improbable circumstances that brought us together in the first place. For that reasons alone I am grateful for technology.


I didn’t have a personal computer until 1999 but I remember when computers were introduced to our school library I suppose we had computers before for typing but I mean computers with internet capabilities. Until then all my research was done using the card catalog. We actually had to scour books for information! Old school research is I imagine something like archeology extremely tedious despite interest (well occasional interest not all research papers are fun). I had a Nintendo and my mom’s old Tandy. I wasn’t exactly cutting edge. My interest escalated when my friend got connected. She was able to talk to people from other parts of the world. More importantly Sweden. I had quite an acute interest in Sweden. I was saving up for money to visit convinced that my soul mate resided there (I was right).


What was my life like before the internet?

High school started out pretty well for me actually. Middle school had been unexpectedly dramatic when I became oddly involved with the most popular boy in school. I was ready to leave that life behind. During the summer I had lost weight and updated my wardrobe (for the weight loss). I was practicing yoga daily and I felt happier and a little more confident than I had ever felt in any of my previous incarnations. You are absolutely mistaken if you think that my improved appearance was in any way a sign that I wanted to become popular. I had my one friend which was all I needed. I didn’t want to date the aforementioned popular boy had put me off romance. Unfortunately the fact that I was the prettiest I had ever been and ever would be was not much of a deterrent to would be suitors. I turned them all down. All I wanted to do was play My Little Ponies lol Seriously my friend and I got together after school and played like little kids. Parties? Drinking? Boyfriends? Pfft. Some time in the 9th grade I discovered Sylvia Plath and I started to read voraciously, a little later I discovered Arthur Rimbaud and I started to write.


When I lost my only friend I became depressed, suicidally depressed. I had always spent all my time at home in my room (even with her we rarely left the house). I even ate meals in my room. Even being happier didn’t make me normally sociable. I talked to the pictures on my wall, I exercised, I rearranged the house regularly, I wrote, I read. That was my life. I can’t imagine that I would go out and seek human interaction if I didn’t have a computer. Truth is I never sought human interaction all that much. People are at times drawn to me but finding people who share an abiding connection is not easy. Online the freaks are out in full force lol I actually mean that in a good way. I started sharing my poetry which had been private outside of school assignments. I believe my writing has grown as a result of increased discipline and exposure. Skype allows me to see and talk with my mom who now lives 8000 miles away. The internet hasn’t been all bad. I don’t think I would be able to produce a book without it!


The internet hasn’t been all good either. I have an avoidant personality and an obsessive one besides. That I have to wrestle with computer addiction shouldn’t be a surprise. I really could stay online all day and have done so. I have had periods where I am so consumed with writing (that is mostly what I do) that I have forgotten to eat, sleep, shower. When I used to chat (on groups for the mentally ill) I neglected my life and marriage. I no longer chat in real time. Even online I suppose I am slightly on the anti-social side but it helps me to stay a little more balanced. Getting caught in a fantasy or alternative world is very easy when you are severely Depressed and desperate for an exit from the pain this is you. I think many of use spend more than 2 hours online myself included. Yesterday Sam, Isadora, and I played Go Fish with actual cards. That’s important. Actual should comprise more of your life than virtual (call me old-fashioned and a hypocrite because I haven’t gotten there yet). The movie Wall-E is hauntingly prophetic.


multiple_personalities_by_schattenkrahe-d3c9o8iArtwork By: schattenkrahe

As a child there must have been a time

When beauty was more state of being

Than degree of starvation

A time when imagination outweighed

Monetary extraction as it ought to do

In any society that professes itself civilized


As a teenager

Graphite hearts ran deeper

Than their messy counterparts

And immortality could only

Be extinguished by fire

Which meant, that in order to die,

One had to live impractically first

Mine was a language capable

Of rescinding and reshaping existence

I was a genius because I suffered

The reverse didn’t necessarily apply


As an adult I find my resignation

Tempered only by discontent

There is red and yellow tape

Beneath which no treasure lies hidden

All my mirrors appear carnival themed

I don’t like the way aging assumes flesh

I am brittle and inflexible

Like an unsuccessful resolution


I wrote this in the bath which is where I find myself whenever I am unable to produce anything suitable on dry land. I have had vertigo for the last 37 hours so if anyone has suggestions I would be grateful.



I swallow the lightning

Of an alien skyline

The hiss

Of unaffiliated tongues


The confetti tears

That smite on admission

I do not want to become

A tragedy unto myself

A shy suicide detonating

Under the gaze

Of an adroit firebrand

My identity is too fragile

To decipher

Without assimilation


Today has been very stressful. Sam has been seriously ill for the last 2 days. Turns out he was allergic to the Christmas tree. Isadora is absolutely devastated about the tree now that we’ve taken it out (were going to give it away). We plan to get a plastic one tomorrow but it doesn’t comfort her much in the meantime. I haven’t had more than 5 minutes of quiet time today, I actually wrote this on a crowded tram on the way to the mall to do some Christmas shopping so forgive me if its gibberish.



The angle of a hip

Never meant to bare

Bends to the pressure

Of a coarse proposal


Youth is fire

And accusation

Indignant tongues

That evade apology

Innominate egos that

Borrow diversion

At the expense

Of their freedom


I claim insomnia and stress. My brain has taken a detour and we’ve not met up in a while now. Ugh I am so unhappy with this one

Polarity #7


Every attempt at departure was met with resistance. Performance might not have been mandatory but attendance was nonnegotiable. He’d arrived in the deep end of an Olympic-sized swimming pool, that remained the most obvious route home. The first attempt was promising, a shimmer of light dancing on the floor of the pool, a vague otherworldly image that imbued him with a sense of hope. Two boys had drug him thrashing from the depths and deposited him roughly on the concrete deck, foiling his plans. Defeat and a week long quarantine in a white room had been his punishment. He’d been forbidden from using the pool. She had returned armed with propaganda but her charisma left him contrary. After her visit he gave up trying, did his best to earn some leeway, it wasn’t his nature to deceive but his words were dismissed as delirium.


“Where do you think you’re going?” The deep voice belonged to his roommate as did the strong grip accosting his descent.

“I’m going home…” He muttered voice violently wrenched from the pit of his stomach where it lay entombed.

“You seriously want to leave over some histrionic chit?” Turning around he faced his former mate head on. The face that greeted him was not the one his imagination conceived. He’d expected a hollow-eyed anger, a mutilated mouth cut into a vicious sneer but the eyes on him were clear and poignant.

“Why did you do it? You knew I liked her…” He said the question falling inelegantly from a pensive mouth. In the days following the breakup he had never sought his roommate’s story, could not even look at the other boy for it pained him to do so.

“She was mine before she was yours…” He could feel the other’s dark eyes burning through layers of protective dermis but it was not a malignant stare but a beseeching one.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked if this was true then wasn’t he also to blame? Perhaps there had been signs?

“We were broken up you seemed like a good guy…I didn’t count on getting jealous…” The admission was coupled with a distraught smile. “She approached me…I missed her you get me?” He did get it and maybe he could even forgive it.

“I am not leaving because of her or you…I don’t belong here…this place is a prison…I might have had to live by certain standards in the past but I knew what they were and the rationale behind them….everyone here spends so much time faking freedom….” He said noting the change in his roommate’s expression and the sudden chill of the water around them.

“I am not like the rest of you…I was born here…my old man used to beat me up…when she offered me a place I accepted…turns out she is a real fucking psycho….you’re lucky she’s not been around much…I used to run away every opportunity I got but she always found me…she owns the whole city…” Though the words were whispered the venom and fear behind them was apparent.

“Why didn’t you take one of the portals?” He asked all rivalry at the moment forgotten.

“You don’t think I’ve tried that? Every portal has a key…she keeps the keys with her…that’s not a problem for you…since you’re a resident…all you have to do is approach the right portal with the intention of returning…” The thought of leaving the other youth here felt cruel though he knew not the depth of their self-proclaimed savior’s tyranny. He didn’t even know if he would be allowed to pass. His roommate was brutishly strong and 6’3 if the other adolescent denied him there was little he could do.

“Seeing as you’re the only one that she hasn’t managed to brainwash…I think I’ll let you go after all…” Relief was overshadowed by concern. No matter what resentment existed between them they had been friends, he could not in good conscious abandon.

“Why don’t you come with me?” His roommate looked surprised by the proposition, apparently the story have been more warning than entreaty.

“I should think you’d be glad to be rid of me…” The laugh that followed was wry but uneasy. “Are you serious?” The other residents were approaching rapidly there was no time for details or disputes they had to act.

“I am totally serious…” To illustrate his point he grabbed his roommate’s wrist and jerked him under the abnormally blue water.

(There is one more installment after this my dreams are monstrous lol)

Polarity #5


He slides a guitar into his lap and begins to stroke out a rhythm. The music comes like heat lightening. He’s got friends back home but they are all based off the same carbon paper sketch. His roommate is different, nonchalance tempered with a vicious musicality. The mysterious blond being absent most days he’s started to bond with the other residents. All teenagers, all victims of the regime. Like wildflowers dipped in vinegar they are beautiful, experimental, and deranged. He doesn’t fit in quite yet but the nascents always struggle or so he’s been assured. He’s already fallen in love, music is his rebellion, a few lessons and he’s proven himself something of a prodigy. Sometimes she stands in his doorway, alabaster thighs hugged together underneath a plaid skirt. He likes her but he doesn’t know enough to assume reciprocation.


Since he’s been here his style of dress has changed. More necessitous than volitional but it suits him just the same. He’s put on a healthy amount of weight and stopped cutting his hair. Sometimes the mirror startles him, as if a ghost wore his increasingly foreign flesh. There are a lot of mind-altering substances circulating but he’s chosen to stay clean, the circumstances, are themselves illuminating. The freedom to do nothing is itself a burden. Sometimes he catches a face in the queer blue glow of a monitor and panics. The vacant expressions imply a fate more terminal, than that of mindful labor. He still cleans his room though not with a militant precision and he still showers in lukewarm water out of deference to others but he’s learned to speak with less reserve. He hasn’t decided on a mind state yet, if this is happiness or just delirium.


(My dreams always start out very clear and organized but then they start to get disjointed. At this point there was so much happening simultaneously that I’ve been unable to pull out the details in the same linear fashion)

Polarity Installment #4


Night came slowly in the assumption of cloaks. He managed to brood through dinner unimpeded. Before bed he stopped his father in the hallway and asked his question again. What difference would the audience make? What difference could the answer make when his course was irrefutable? “How do you do it The same thing day after day?” The man stood in silence turning his son’s words over as if his tongue were a lathe. “No matter how challenging the day in the end I have my family to come home too…there is no greater reward…besides most days I love my job…” There was something comforting about the heavy callused hand on his shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to know…Good night….” The youth said proffering up a smile, which was as much for his own sake as his fathers.


He didn’t dare dream but waited impatiently for the hours to pass. His brother slept soundlessly facing the door. Shafts of moonlight divided the darkness but did not disperse the shadows that resided now in his heart. Why did he struggle with such obvious questions? His life had been so simple as a child. Every action served the highest purpose. Now suddenly that same life seemed a tourniquet. His family held him together, held him too tightly perhaps.


Though she had cited the location in the map he was still surprised to find her standing in his neighbor’s front yard. When she spotted him she waved him over conspiratorially and there they stood hunkered over by a row of meticulous hedges. “Why did you come here” The woman asked her tone bordering on accusatory. Had she forgotten? Had he mistaken her bravado as invitation? “Because you invited me…” He said. “Too obvious…why did you really come here?” She asked tapping his chest in expectation of a depth he was not certain he possessed. “Instinct…” He confessed without elaboration. “You acted on a foreign impulse…not on rules or rationale…but in response to an internal summons…” She elaborated and he, faced with her conviction, could only nod in agreement.


“I know behind that stoic facade that you suffer…you have no outlet…no identity outside of the hive…you want for more but don’t have the experience to identify your desires…” She went on impervious to his reactions, to his agony. “Wouldn’t you rather write your own book? Then live as if embalmed?” She asked eyes on him as if his words now meant everything to her. “Yes…” He spoke the words in a whisper but she heard them as a declaration. “Do you know anyone that is truly happy? Truly free?” She asked. “My parents are usually happy….” She blinked owlishly in surprise before breaking out inappropriately into laughter. “It’s an act…all of this is fake…do you not feel the chains about your wrists…” She said picking up his hands and dropping them as if the weight of his arms were the reason for an earthbound existence.


“The true nature of the universe is chaos…rules are for machines…indulge yourself…live while you can because just like that it’s over…” She snapped her fingers to emphasize brevity. “I think it’s better if I just show you the alternative…then you can decide for yourself…” She said fishing a cosmetic case from her purse. Opening the compact she directed the mirror to the greenery before snapping it abruptly closed. The hedge took on an eerie electrical glow and the youth could do nothing but stare in awe. Here lies the rabbit hole. Here departs sanity. “Now is your chance to be a hero…” She said offering the youth a delicate hand. Her words were exciting and he couldn’t help but be charmed by them. Taking her hand in his strong one, he knew the gentleness of meticulous detail and though he swallowed her wholly he did not crush her.

Polarity Installment #3


Not wanting to walk in her shadow the youth remained at the bar. Silence had fated him to a late night engagement for he could not in good conscious leave the stranger waiting. He would not tell his parents of the event, the moment was too exceptional to share. He did not want for their sensible well-meaning advice, he wanted for his own privacy. He wanted for a moment unmeasured and unmonitored so that he might find to which pole his heart was partial.


When he arrived home his mother was mopping the living room floor. She did not wait blatantly, watching the clock but patiently with her eyes on the floor. “Welcome home…” She said looking up and there was no concealing her relief even though she managed to convey it entirely through nuance. “I stopped at the Smoothie Bar…” He explained closing the door softly behind him. Sympathetic brown eyes regarded him, the same eyes which he himself found on reflection. Such eyes were never angry.


“You needed time to yourself?” She asked and he nodded guiltily. How was it that she always understood? “Do you want to talk about it?” She asked and he didn’t really. “How do you it? The same thing day after day?” He asked watching her cautiously. He wanted the words he knew she could not give, those words that would alter his reckless course and satisfy wholly his existence. “With a smile and sometimes through gritted teeth…” She admitted and he could say no more for he did not wish to seem ungrateful. “I’ll get started on my chores….” He said and though she could sense the exhaustion in his voice it was his resolve she humored. “Moods are like weather…the shadows will pass…no matter how long the night….the light exists comorbid….” Even in death light was a steadfast guide, he knew her words and understood in them truth. Intellectually. Emotionally he hungered and physically he was all but empty. It was the darkness he now pleaded, midnight could not arrive soon enough.


For those just jumping in this is my attempt to recount a dream I had recently

Polarity Installement #2


Inquiry would not have revealed him for even he did not know by what compulsion he entered the cafe. He was expected to return home promptly after school and yet he felt that to return would be a betrayal. But to whom? Surely not his mother and siblings who waited to welcome him as they always did and always would so long as he lived alongside them. Entering the cafe he found it subdued and wholesome. There were only a few costumers and none in his age group which was itself a testament to his breech in contract. If he left now his family would not be the least vexed by his absence for he could still return on time. He would tell them what he’d done, his mother would find it curious perhaps but she would not punish him.


He did not leave. Instead he approached the bar, contemplating the menu, which was through the film of his guilt wholly unappetizing. He ordered a smoothie. All produce was locally grown and organic. The concoction, no matter how elaborate, would arrive without added sugar in a sensibly portioned container.  His was a world that did not cater gluttony, so this simple selfish act was itself a form of indulgence. The smoothie he received was mostly orange so he surmised that he’d ordered something predominately carrot, which was just as well because he doubted he would taste it.


“My aren’t you rebellious….” The teenager jumped nearly sloshing out the contents of his cautiously sipped beverage. Turning in the direction of the voice he was surprised to find the woman seated in the barstool beside him. How could he have missed her? Her clothes were form-fitting, suggestive, and he thought impractical. She smelled of lavender and intrigue. Her features were accented expertly with color, her skin ageless, her lips insufferably red, eyes a treacherous shade of blue. Her golden hair was nearly waist length and it fell in loose voluptuous waves about her slender shoulders and back. He had never seen a woman so beautiful and his face filled up instantaneously with color.


“Are you waiting for someone….a girl perhaps?” The woman asked stirring her strawberry smoothie absently. “No…I’m not waiting for anyone….actually I am expected elsewhere….” He responded staring into the impenetrable orange of his glass. Although he attended a coed school his interactions with the opposite sex were surprisingly few. By prevailing standards he was too young to date and in any case he was so preoccupied that he could scarcely find the time to fantasize. “Then you must have come here for me….” The woman commented taking a sip. “Were you expecting me?” He inquired turning now to look at the disconcertingly smiling visage. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked it how could a stranger expect him? “Ours is a private matter….we will meet again….tonight…” She said fishing in her purse for a sheet of folded paper, which she promptly offered him. “Do you know the location?” She asked as he studied the map. “Yes it’s my neighbor’s house…” He answered quizzically, she most definitely did not live next door to him. “To think you’ve been so close…” She giggled standing up and smoothing out her provocatively short skirt. “I trust you will have no trouble then…12 pm and don’t be a second late…”