Who isn’t lost?
Drowning in their own fretfulness,
Whether concealed with a mask,
Or open like a meadow,
It’s the equivalent,
Can’t you see?
Who isn’t pondering?
Something in their life,
Whether it is the deep lagoon of the mind,
Or the reason why,
One is who they are,
It’s plain to see,
And bland to seek,
Who isn’t shy?
Petrified of being,
Left in the cold,
Of being overlooked,
Thrown to the wind of time,
Burned in the blaze of hatred,
And then left unaided?
Who isn’t afraid?
Of being all alone,
Whether in a crowd,
Or a secluded white room,
It’s rather the same,
Yet fairly different,
Is it not?
Who isn’t alone?
Can one honestly say,
They have not detained any doubts,
Hoping for a clarity in light,
Yet never getting an answer,
From void fields,
In the hearts of others?
So who isn’t?
Such a simple idea,
An unadorned phrase,
That unites yet divides,
That creates a cleft yet restores,
It makes it seem so unpretentious,
That to be alive is to be alive,
Yet isn’t it to some degree much more?(less)
who isn't amazed with the beauty of words? if you are not, i'm afraid to say, you are a stranger to me. who isn't left with their mouth open, gaping, in the awe of a clever poem? if you are not, it's probably the case that i wouldn't take(more) a second look at you. as judgmental as it sounds, it really does take a writer to know a writer and in this case, i am only truly content in the company of other manipulators of words and sculptors of prose. if you are able to take two words and make them into a story, a memoir, hell, even a short non-fiction piece, then we will be friends. we may not be friends today, or tomorrow, maybe not twenty years from now, but we will be sometime throughout our boundless lifetimes, lifetimes that extend beyond this one life we are biased to now. and if you are a writer, you will understand this splendid revelation that i have just come to. you will recognize the truth in all the words i am typing and connect with the vision of what i have for the future. if you are a writer, then you probably would have already known this, because writers are the most intelligible people i have ever met (not in the conventional sense). however, if you are not a writer, you probably are; because if you're still reading this, it's clear that you identify with everything i am saying.
and perhaps those are the best of us all, the writers that don't know they are yet.
Tobias left the corner shop that perched on the edge of the estate. He had spent almost the sum total of his pocket money, all of 1 pound 50. Ripping the crinkly wrapper off the sweet chocolate bar with his teeth, Tobias looked up.
(more) He saw a face he knew looking straight at him, right up close. It was Dennis. Dennis was in Tobias's class at school but Dennis did things, he played football, he had a mini-moto. Tobias only saved up for chocolate bars.
"It's Tubby Toby, stuffing his fat face as usual" said Dennis.
Tobias stood there very still and said nothing.
"What are you doing Tubby? Why do you look like such a mess?" Dennis asked, turning his upper lip.
"Eh...what d'you mean?" asked Tobias.
"It's Emily's birthday party, you know, it's going to be top quality. There's a bucking bronco and everybody is getting McDonalds after" said Dennis who was now visibly getting excited.
Tobias looked away, shifted on to the other foot and didn't know what to say.
"Who's going?" Tobias asked after a painful pause.
Dennis closed his eyes and laughed a sniffing laugh, it was a smug laugh because he had been setting this moment up, like a hunter.
"Who isn't going, Tubby? The whole class is invited you thick idiot."
Tobias just stood there and didn't say anything but clenched his fists at the insult.
"Oh wait that's right" said Dennis pantomiming surprise.
"You aren't coming, and good thing too, you fat shit".
Dennis span on his heel and strode into the estate. Tobias just stood there not moving. He looked at the open chocolate bar in his hand and threw it in a nearby bin. The other bar he bought, he kept. He knew he'd need it later.
Who, in Asgard, isn't a lovely blonde warrior? Who isn't strong and fierce in the heat in battle? Who isn't dying - literally - to have their name sung in songs and tales by skalds for the next millennia?
These questions and more in similar veins ring throug(more)h your mind for centuries, eons. They all boil down to the one, simple question that you know is at the heart of all your problems - who is different?
Everyone says easily "I'm alone". Actually what is the definition of alone itself? You can't be alone every time. You have friends and your family who loves you. Just because there is someone who isn't here with you, you are not alone.
Meliara knew she had made an impossible decision. Seeking solitude, she stood on her balcony, looking out beyond the castle walls into the foreign city.
She took a deep breath. No. She had not messed up. She had chosen her people, her country, like a princess should do.(more)
She made a choice thinking only about her kingdom. She always knew she would have to do it. But Meliara supposed this wasn't the way she had planned to go about it.
"Why'd you do it?" So deep in thought, she hadn't noticed when Nolath, her guard and friend, slipped onto the balcony.
"Who let you into my room?" She asked.
"Kerrota. Who else?" Meliara silently cursed her maid. "Answer my question, Mel."
"Who else? I don't know..." Mel turned back around and kept her eyes on the city.
"Stop fooling around." The icy tone Nolath's voice made her stiffen.
Mel didn't mean it, it was a reflex. 'Head up, shoulders back, and think about killing your enemies." Her tutor's old lesson came back to her. Defensively, she said, "What I have chosen is for the benefit of my kingdom and my people, including you."
Nolath recognized Meliara's 'princess tone', but there was no stopping her now. She was on a role.
"By agreeing to marry Orin, I secure an army, alliances, and the influence to get the other kingdoms to fight the dark forces that have now destroyed Simalo, Izlance, and Almoria, my home. And I like him!"
"You don't love him."
"I don't need to. I'm doing what I need to."
"Who isn't? Who isn't doing what they think best?"
"I won't have you lecturing me. Leave me. Now." It killed Mel to send her best friend away, but she did.
Nick sat on the grass, his legs sprawled out in front of him, with Kennichi laying in wolf form beside him. They were resting, while Takeo and Rian ran laps around the large, circular driveway that ran before the old house and the garage.
(more) "I notice that the cars have been gone a while," Nick said, tossing a piece of gravel at the driveway. It was dark now, just past sunset, and while the porch light and garage light was on, there was little other ambient light to the area.
Kennichi lifted his head and yawned, exposing all the teeth in his mouth. "Yeah, they're off doing whatever the hell it is they do. Save the world, shag some angels, buttsex, whatever."
Nick threw another pebble, as Takeo and Rian trudged past. Takeo was wheezing, he could hear his friend coming a mile away, and Rian, while breathing hard, did not sound like the exercise was nearly as exerting for him. "We should go check out their place while they're gone."
"What?" Kennichi flicked his ears. "You got a death wish, or something?"
"Man, what if they don't come back? We can lay our claim to the sweet garage apartment." The crickets were out in full force, aside from the steady crunching of gravel and Takeo's wheezing, it was the loudest sound in the still night air. "Just imagine it, no more being kept awake by stupidly loud sex."
"You're just a light sleeper." Kennichi flopped over. Nick looked at him, and Kennichi cocked his head. "Aren't you going to rub my belly?"
"No," Nick said. "You're not a dog, why do you do that?" He rubbed his hands on his upper arms. "Is that some sort of sex thing, does it turn you on or something?"
Who isn't having a good time? What's not to like? I know, I know, you want more. You want fulfillment. Well, we don't always get everything; now do we. Isn't the world enough, you need whirled peas too?
I'm the one who isn't having a good time. Too(more) much of what I need to do, and not enough of what I want to do. It's all whirled peas and no crepes. I'm fed up with peas.(less)
"Oh my god," moaned Andy, "we have to get him to a hospital!" Light poles sped by the open window. They had to be going at least 60 miles per hour on residential streets. Thumping noises could be heard from the trunk after they swerved around each corner.
Fidel didn't say(more) anything. His knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel for dear life. "Didn't you hear me?" Andy's voice cracked. "He's dying back there, man!"
Fidel pushed in the cigar lighter. They were coming up on a red light. Cars were crossing the intersection. Andy squeezed his eyes shut. Fidel continued to bear down on the accelerator. Then, all of a sudden, he slammed on the brakes. The suspension lurched forward as the wheels skidded to a stop.
Andy didn't open his eyes. Fidel maintained his death grip on the steering wheel. The thumping noises coming from the trunk had ceased. For a moment, all was quiet.
The cigar lighter popped out with a click. Fidel lit two cigarettes and passed one to Andy. Opening his eyes Andy took the cigarette, holding it in front of him like a snake that might strike at any moment.
"Do you think he's still alive?" Said Andy. He had yet to take a drag. Fidel didn't answer, only cracked the windows. The light turned green. The car's suspension shifted backwards as Fidel hit the gas. A muffled thump came from the back, then silence.
Fifteen minutes passed by. Neither man had said a word. The exit for the hospital was coming up on the right. Andy glanced over at Fidel, then back at the road.
Fidel's knuckles were slowly turning white. (less)
what I want to know is: who isn't sick of what passes for good entertainment these days? I am tired of television, movies, the internet. I want to see live disembowelments of the condemned, just like in Roman times. I want to see unlucky participants in blood sports die in the arena. (more) I want to sit in the stands and click a plastic switch that decides a fighter's fate. I want to see a steamroller run over a man sentenced to die at the hands of the state. I would eat popcorn to this. I would cringe and then laugh watching the gore being squeegeed into the gutters. The stadiums would be voluminous and the games would continue night and day. Such places would be great cauldrons for boiling out our darkest feelings and impulses. We would ban war and try all of our worst controversies out with bloodshed in circuses such as these. Bitter rivals would seek satisfaction on these fields en masse. At high noon you could watch a dozen dualists fire at once. The fallen half would be left for the ravening lions and hyenas. I would smile and flush red in the sun, getting drunk from the spectacle. 30 Jesus impersonators would hang from fiberglass cross-spars. They would be doused with kerosene and lit to the sound of deafening cries. I would vomit then drink some Gatorade to restore me. As the day wore on, a call to the audience would come. I would answer, walking down the hundreds of stairs to the playing field. "Who would fight three komodo lizards bare handed?" I would take the challenge, stripping naked, and run to the designated spot. When the lizard's teeth found me, I would be utterly destroyed.(less)