Do you feel that?
That's the ground.
In your life the ground will change.
It will be Wooden. It will be Muddy. It will be Grassy.
It will Curve. It will Raise. It will Drop.
Just keep walking.
I was going to write a story about a guy that is in love with this girl that only comes in the summer and how each year he tries to improve and each year he fails and realizes no matter how good he looks, how fit he is, how(more) smart and social he becomes, he hasn't changed a bit. It was going to reflect life's insecurities and the theme was that improvement shouldn't be the real goal and only for insecure people. But then I realized nobody cares and I don't care about my own writing and that this was just me trying to improve my writing, and become better than myself like the guy in the story.
I realized it doesn't matter and doesn't bring me joy. I would only be happy if others would recognize me for my skill and that means I'm not doing this for me I'm doing it for my pathetic image. That means I have to stop writing. I'm done. Whatever. (less)
I wish I had hands that could write stories. But I don't.
I wish I had a mind that could show truth. But I don't.
I wish I had a heart that could be beautiful. But I don't.
I wasn't lucky enough.
I've never been to a bakery. I thought they were in farietales and Europe. But a Bakery. The smell of cooking yeast. The flour that dusts the floor. The sound of crunching freash bread.
(more) This could be a nice start. And maybe a nice finish, down the road. A new twist. Ben, the Baker. Kind of a nice ring to it. The kids will love it. We would never go hungry again. And it's not like anyone's gonna use it. It'll be only ours. Our little secret. Something to do, other than remembering.
I would bake it. Samantha would make the dough. Little Robert could deliver it. People from all over town would come for some of our goods. For frosted cakes, and salty pretzels. For plain donuts and plain bagels.
We could move past the war together. Look at the sky and for once not think of the planes, but think of the clouds. See a valley and not think of a crash, but of a stream that dances through it. See a family and not think of the homes burnt, but of the mouths fed. That would be a blessing.
Samantha sees me struggling to hold it together and takes my hand. She tells me it will be alright. She slows the car down. She stops in front of a small shop, with the windows borded up and the walls green and a sign that says a name, but I can't read it, and the big bold letters that spell Bakery.
It's the next step. The next hope. And I think I'm ready.
I slam the cover open and stare. My eyes are burning, but I keep looking until they adjust and see the green, far beneath. It's beautiful.
"Now it will be home."
It's Catherine. That's right. I remember. It's home. A place to be happy. It will be safe?
"Yes. Don't forget your box. You left it in the seat flap."
That's right. I open the flap. Stuck in between Skymall and What-to-do-in-an-Emergency is the thin black box. In the thin black box is the Mary's necklace. In the necklace is nothing, other than some sort of self-identity I have left.
"Excuse me Mr.Baker, please bring your seat to the upright position for landing." Spoken like a true stewardess, with the false smile, false breasts and the false words, there to distract you from the idea that you are in a metal coffin 1000s of feet above land. How did she know my name? Is that a new airline practice?
"You're a regular, Mr.Baker. Even the pilot knows your name," says the stewardess, with the long pink fingernails and the name-tag that says Lily. That's not her real name.
I've never been to South Africa though.
"No, you've never made it. At least not yet." She leaves promptly. The seatbelt sign goes flash. The microphone says that the descent will have some turbulence, so please remain seated.
Catherine looks at me coolly. Her hair is dark, like her suit. I look out the window again. The ground's getting closer. Here, I will start a new life. A happy one.
The plane starts shaking. Little plastic masks fall from the ceiling. It reminds me of h- (less)
"So I know where to put the pointy end, Jesus. Its like carving a pumpkin. If pumpkins bled. A sharpie's somewhere over there."
"Scalpel. Marker. Action."
"We'll need a ham(more)mer to break the rib cage."
"Talk about playing it close to the chest."
"Leon, one more bad joke out of you, and I'll make your face a bad joke. Go get the fucking hammer from the shed."
"Is that different from a normal hammer, or does specifically have to be fucking?"
"Here ya go, one fucking hammer. How long is this gonna take?"
"Well, let me check the schedule. First, steal the body of some teen that died this morning from a morgue. We finished that up, didn't we? We were almost not seen dragging a body around in the middle of the night. Second, take the kid's whole heart, solo, without extensive anatomical knowledge, or even good materials. Oh, also make sure it's in perfect condition, or you're not being paid, and might disappoint whichever international mafia you were hired by."
"You'll do fine. You're just what the doctor ordered."
"Michael Jackson face? I can do that. You want that? 'Cause I'm literally starting to consider it. Be glad you get me my money, which brings us to step three, sell it on EBay."
"No, not like that. We got an old fart who doesn't feel like waiting in line for a new heart. He'll get it, and is willing to pay anything for it. We can get quite a number from him."
"Good, I'll need it to pay my therapist to treat the PTSD I get from this. Hammer. Christ, what a sound. Scalpel. Wait, what the fuck is this?"
There lies Sam Carver.
Husband. Father. Psychopathic killer.
Don't RIP, you motherfucker.
(more) I told Jack that Carver was in the freezer, all bundled up, and ready for shipment. I dressed him in brown packaging, tied up in strings, humming to my iPod. The Grinders would come for him and the rest of the stock meat tommorow, and they'd be none the wiser. I hope Carver gets fed to the orphans he made. Maybe that would be some sort of justice.
The police shouldn't be much of a problem, they'd be happy to have him gone. Another crime stopped. Another life saved.
They wouldn't care how it happened, and be just be glad it did. But just in case I better leave town, and find a new community to purify.
Journal Entry 4/11/13
Didn't expect so much resistance. I save these people from murderers and rapists, and they hunt me down like I'm one of them. All I do is help, but now the police are warning towns of a "Fanatic." A "blood-thirsty lunatic." People never know how to be thankful.
If it wasn't for me, the Washington Warrior would still be killing drunks with his gaint, stupid sword. Nearly took my arm off. If I hadn't stopped the Nursery Nightmare, those infants wouldn't have seen the light of day. I am a hero, just like my father. It doesn't matter if I'm missunderstood, but it's still painful to be called such terrible things.
"These passages are sure evidence that my client was not completely aware of his actions," said Jack. "In fact, it shows that he only acknowledged the murders of the victims as "evildoers" and that he was "saving" communities from their harm. These are perfectly good grounds for an insanity plead" (less)
I once knew a company that specialized in space exploration.
They're apparently not in business anymore.
People stopped wishing on stars long ago. We failed the upgrade to a type 2 humanity. Turns out we aren't ready for a better world. When people don't have anything to (more)be angry about, they go a bit crazy, and start stuffing their frustration into anything they can.
The frenzy, likes most great things, started small. People began complaining about things that didn't matter. Cell phone coverage, jaywalkers, loud Mexicans. Anything that caused the slightest disturbance or change was tabooed.
In Sweden, once one of the worlds most peaceful countries, turned into a violent hell-hole. It started with people screaming out of their windows because of how small they felt. It ended with riots on every corner. Fresh babies ripped from the spooning arms of mothers. Government shut down. The drop that started the ripple. The rest is history.
Maybe once we could have done it. Could have become of people that had no borders, no labels. Like that John Lennon song. When the Internet first destroyed the idea of a physical identity. When rockets were planning to take us to mars. But now we're back where we started. Man eating man. Level 0.
Nobody knows who started it, or even when it happened. The world in chaos had no solution, except another chance. All earth did was push the big red restart button, and the blinding lights exploded in the sky and all that was, was now gone. So lets hope the rest of us won't disappoint her again.
Sometimes, when I try to forget what is life was like before. When I find myself looking at another dead village. I get a feeling that this isn't our first "cycle." Or our last. (less)
"The sink is running."
"Hey, we're talking to you!"
"The sink is running, I have to fix it."
"Your house is bye-bye. No more. Do you understand?"
"Yes, but I have to fix the sink before it floods. Lily wouldn't like that."
"Maybe we hit hi(more)m too hard," says the big man with the feminine hands, but is obviously on steroids. You hear a lot of stories of men having sex changes, but not so much women. I have to fix the sink. He's talking to the short man with a big beard to make up for his bald head. He looks tired. That reminds me that I need to fix the sink from running.
"Mr. Hill, we are in great need of you. We are in desperate need for your profession opinion. Please, stop talking about the god damn sink."
"Okay, but I have to fix it. It has a leak you see. Not the vegetable kind either."
"That's okay, we already sent of man to take care of it. He'll fix it right up, but now I need to know who started that fire-"
"Don't let him fix the leak, that's my job! Only I fix it, no one else can go into the house. I'll get in trouble."
"No one is getting into trouble! What happened in that house? You're the only one who was alive. The only one that can tell us what caused it. Under Federal Law, you must tell us what you know." He pulls out a police ID. Fake. Like his left eye. The faucet is still going. Still spilling water on the floor. Lily's already crying. Already angry at me. Already dead. Thank god. Fire cleans up. But I didn't know she had ties to the mob. Holdup. Thinking out loud. Fuck. (less)
Pitch black. Just the way I like it. I hook in and slowly start to drop. The wall is moist, lots of moss too. This place must be thousands of years old. My headlight doesn't hit the other side. The whole place sounds like a(more) giant breathing. Plop. My feet finally hit solid ground.
Plop. Plop. Plop. I hear the rest of the team drop down. I get out my flashlight. Still can't see 4 feet in front of me.
"This is our big break, guys. Never again will we have to fight for another funding. A place virgin of light. We should be able to find a few new species here, and we can name them after ourselves. The cave itself, we'll name it something special. Didn't the natives call it "Rena Da'ovi"? But I guess that's too long. These people don't know the treasure they have here. Told us there was nothing, no one even bothered exploring it. Not the brightest when it comes to natural wonders, eh?"
The cave mocks me with my echo.
Did they lose me? I grab my safety whistle and blow as hard as I can. Nothing. I couldn't have gone to far, they were right behind me. They dropped down with me. I heard them, right?
I can't tell where it's coming from. The left, the right? Plop. Something hits me. It's sticky, where's my flashlight?
Plop. Plop. Plop. Coming from the ceiling, I think. My headlight is gone. Now there are more of them on me. They feel almost warm. I try to pull one off, and something gives off a very small hiss. Then a very big bite.
I think I will call this species "Giant Cave Leaches". Perhaps not creative, but instead rather appropriate. (less)
When the heart stops beating, it drains till there's nothing.
When people undergo surgery, they come out a bit different. They walk funny for a while. We often have to remind them of why they are there. I like to think that while the amnesia put them under(more), some wandering ghost took up the body, and I'm helping them get used to it. Telling them how to pretend to be alive again.
This new town smells tacky. Too many fake smiles from strangers, too many churches, too few hospitals. Good place for business.
I can say that my trade is rather uncommon. But because of that, there's plenty of work. Most girls want to be fashion models or photographers or men. But I wanted to be a doctor. I liked the idea of taking a human being, and see what makes them tick inside.
The most important thing I've learned in 8 years of college, is that if there was a god, she was a terrible engineer. Our job is simply to correct her mistakes.
That's what Dr.Frankenstein did, made the perfect man. Intelligent, strong, huge. But ignorance called the god a monster, and threw Frankenstein out of society.
And here I am, in the middle of nowhere. Without a degree, and probably wanted in at least 6 states. The thing is, I'm still the best doctor out there, and there are always people willing to pay money for under the freezing metal table operations. Teenage girls want abortions. Immigrants want whiter skin. Murderers masks.
I would be lying if I said I hadn't tweaked my face quite a bit. It was nessary to find... Solitude.
A baby blue blanket. Must be used.
Locks of the to-be-parents. At least 3 inches long. Must be from both partners.
For the best results, use another human infant. If unavailable, exchange with a piglet, or another infant animal roughly(more) the size of the late child. Must still be alive.
6 gallons of water. Pure. Must not be holy water.
A cauldron, or other very large pot.
Priest/exorcist should be present in case of any outside entity sabotaging the ritual.
FOLLOW THE RECIPE.
The red letters spell out "On the Air." Alison is clicking her fingers on the table. The headphones are uncomfortable. The bald radio man is accusing her of something about the bible, of the morality, and other useless things. She interrupts him.
"People call us all the time, telling us we work for the devil. Tell us we are giving out faulty information. Saying we are evil people. But I don't think so. We are giving parents who have lost everything the chance to return to being happy. What could be a kinder deed?"
"You are not helping anyone. Let's get that strait. You are taking advantage of desperate and vulnerable people and convincing them that their pet pig or pet cat is a... a capsule of their child's soul. Couples going around, dressing their dogs in human clothing, dropping them off in school, in pure denial that they've been tricked. Your spell doesn't work, it just sells. "
"Thats where you're wrong. It does work. It's an ancient spell, used since the Egyptians. There no charge, no possible motivation for us to be dishonest. At Second Chance, a non-profit organization, we unite families together again."
"I'm going to have to end there. Thanks for coming. That was today's podcast of Clark's Controversies." (less)
Door slam. High heels clink the marble floor. The rhythm gets the song "Another one Bites the Dust" stuck in my head. Maybe I aught to stop correcting her all the time. Maybe I won't get the chance too. That's unfortunate.
Behind me the Eiffel Tower glows beautifully, but I decide to stay on the couch and watch tv instead. She'll be back to check out the hotel first.
Unemotional. Lack of sympathy. I don't believe that. I'm very emotional. Put on Beethoven and I weep. It's just everything else I don't care for. I just don't understand why people get so angry. At the new fumbling grocer. At the guy talking in the theatre. I guess I can understand the cat incident. It was very close to her heart. I suppose I could've been a bit more... Tactful. But I hate tact. It's always this falseness. This pretending to care. This mask of lookI'magoodperson.
Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe I missing some part in my brain that tells normal people how to act. Maybe I am just a cold-heated dick. I'm not too upset by that. I can live with that. It's just that others can't.
I can already begin to feel like I'm forgetting her. I know I'll forget the time she sat in my lap and laughed with me on the couch. Her warm smile will soon be replaced with her harsh words, but I'm okay with that. I move on. Find something you love and let it go. All angels turn to devils over time.