ain’t got no love. ;)
where is the love??
come back to Osc. we need you here
haha, you’ll all be leaving soon. don’t worry. everybody leaves.
The setting of the dream was a small village, surrounded by nothing within a visible distance. The village was arranged as a portrait canvas with a large divisive road separating two columns of houses. Each house was primarily white, though adorned with hints of electric blue, like the houses in Mykonos on a particularly bright day in summer. At the end of the village, or top of the canvas, stood a hill that seemed awash in the powdery light that spilled from the eternally semi-veiled sun. The hill boasted a magnificent castle decorated with four evenly proportioned windows and a large portal. The King who lived in the castle was notorious for the parties he threw at the end of each month to celebrate the life of his son. Upon arrival, each guest at the party would be bitten by the King’s half-beast spawn and poisoned, subsequently transforming into the creatures from I Am Legend. They would return to infect the rest of their respective households and once the entire family had fallen victim to the Son’s disease, the King’s garden would extend to incorporate the contaminated family’s land. My house was located near the city entrance, a large door that had been sealed for as long as anyone and their great-grandfather’s fathers could remember. During the past few months I had noticed the town becoming quieter, the bustle in the streets dimming to a hushed whisper from the remaining local vendors and the fleeting noise of rats retreating to their hidden homes. Even the rats were frightened, it seemed. It was Sunday morning in late December and my house’s invitation to the King’s party was due today. I had warned my parents about the party, but they had looked askance and shot my advice down with disdain. They viewed the King’s Invitation as a sign of recognition and respect from village’s highest authority. In their eyes, I was being ungrateful. Their dutiful trust in the village authority and fervent village-ism (village equivalent to nationalism) rendered my efforts futile.
As I began to settle into the dining room’s largest armchair, officially reserved for my father, but mine when he was away, I heard a loud knock on the front door (the electricity did not work as my parents had not paid the bill). I peered through the peephole and saw a burly man, perhaps in his early twenties, staring back at me intently. I opened the door, he handed me a slip of paper, turned around and disappeared without a word. The invitation contained two simple lines typed in cursive script and embellished in gold Victoria Damask. Simple and to the point. Pity the underlying significance of the invitation was not so straightforward. I returned to the house and placed the invitation on the dining table. By eight o’clock that night, my house was as silent as little children on Christmas Eve, eagerly anticipating the arrival of Santa. Each hour crept by tediously as I dreaded the return of my family. It was not until two in the morning I heard several rapid knocks on the front door. I did not move. No more than five seconds later, the front door lay shattered on the floor and I was running for my life. They chased me around the sinuous contours of the house and through the tunnel that ran beneath the village. As I sprinted I had to make a quick decision. Would I stay and become infected or jump over the city walls into entirely alien territory? I jumped. Upon landing I gazed at the infinite stretch of marble floor around me. I was completely and utterly alone.
Jazz in Paris: Chet Baker Quartet Plays Standards
Do you ever think NASA invented thunderstorms to cover up the sounds of space battles?
No, we cannot hear the sound in space.
I connected each piece as I thought it had been
The sharp ridges aligned with the closest of its kin,
Yet there was no synthesis for I did not assume my original shape.
Fumbling over blunt edges, I tried desperately to make the sides click,
Click, like the sound of a lock when opened.
Opened, exposed, a fading deer pierced by the
inert thorns of its own antlers.
Is it cannibalism when the predator is already dead?
As the fragments gathered in their personal purgatory
anticipating the rewards of their entitlements,
rays of light introduced the night,
black as the charred remains of a partially burnt
panther whose ashes serve as the nesting ground
for waxen worms mocking their way through life and death.
A rich trailer mix of cat’s carcass for the crows
to feast upon when feeling inadequate.
The rationale: What better to boost self-esteem than a prey twice your size?
The heart, a swollen bulb of haughty autonomy,
a facetious shell masking the filament inside
alight when ablaze yet the fire turns to ice
In the ravaged chaos of the crow’s feast
A rancid stench emanated from the room.
A labyrinth of timeless injustices,
the cries of the strong crippled under the weight of false mercy,
the silence of the weak sealed the fate of the mistaken route.
Anaemic laughter rattled the dormant pathways,
an acrimonious derision of exposed
veins directing the persecutor through
a rough city plan of human deception.
The impenetrable jigsaw consisted of pieces that did not correspond,
the single solution to defile every piece into
a forced union of incongruous splinters.
Each erosion with the glass file betraying the concealed
malice of the price for a damned perfection.
- Nikhita Mendis