The Tower

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           Its dirt-faced mask revealing hints of pale grey surface, stretched high towards the blue yonder, and merely scraping the sky, assumed itself a spear bursting from the earth. Crawling with vines of veridian-bled veins and rock softened to the pulp of disgrace, it is no wonder this tower isolates itself from the concrete jungle by which it was misplaced. It rather undermines than embraces the beauty that surrounds it. Silences the colours that scream so loudly to be heard. Attracts merely the dust along the wind and the waste vegetation of the earth. A canvas for elements that aren’t so lucky as to be granted exposure in status, and the only thing that would ever bow down at its feet is the dirt, the same dirt walked over by the feet of a vagabond.

One who dwelled within its diadem would find themselves next door to the celestial heavens. And that lucky one presented much, much worthy than a vagabond.

Geneva propped herself on two blackened elbows, as she did every morning, on the balcony fencing, palms cupping her face for the 3 hours she spends watching the sunrise. Then. at exactly lunchtime, or what lunchtime was perceived to be when one didn’t have a clock, she would venture out. Timing her journey, she’d follow a strict schedule that objectified she be back before noon, not a minute after. She’d run-not walk-down to the stream, where everything grew around the water; her supermarket. Once she had met her standard supply for the night; this included a basket of non-poisonous berries, a tin can of fresh stream water, two fists of yellowing wheat grass, and whatever game came lurking in broad daylight. Some times she was so lucky as to find a pit of worms out there in the open, still freshly viscous, not yet crisped by the scorch. She would head back the same way she came, and in the same manner-maybe even more so.

By the time she’d get back, the sun would have fallen behind the tower. For her to see it once more was the tower’s purgatory.

Safe in her haven of 50 feet above the ground, anxious Geneva prepped her nighttime meal. She placed it on the floor and squatted before it against the wall, beneath the window. It called her to ravage, yet she refrained in uncertainty. When her hunger outgrew her delay, she’d ravish in her meagre feast while the sun grew weary. By the time she’d picked at the last few berries, slurped their juices from her fingers, the night would have fallen, and so would have her heart.

Her arms would obediently embrace her knees, and the walls, though flat, seemed to embrace her. The silence would hang in the air, and the air would press against her ears. Geneva despised the silence, its mockery prolonging the moment of its break.

That moment provoked the worst of her fears. In that moment, survival became rather a luxury than an instinct. A moment in which her human form was of no superiority to the animals. When she was indecisive about life, as now it was suddenly a curse much rather than a blessing. This was decided by the hours that separated day from night. During day, she exercised power, the badlands at her service. But by night, her reign eroded to beggar. The night degraded her to the perfect fit of the victim. Her predator, the carnivorous terrain.

The land mutated into a savage beast, its tongue a bed of grass. A walk among those taste buds was a walk among the tombstones. A mass of forsaken flesh and bone would dissolve to petty ruin if her feet were to ever fall upon this Earth’s defying proportion.

The only mass withstanding the beastly hunger amidst its very floor was the tower to which Geneva called “Friend”. But even rock may be defeated. Though it not be devoured by beast, rock erodes by time. And with rock consumes the sweet, strayed soul of Geneva.







My hair whips back as the train enters my range of view. I feel the rush. This machine that massacres the air and shoves it my way. The recoil; utter empowerment. Yet I move towards it. The Servant Girl grabs me and scolds, “No! No! Not too close.” But I’m not close enough.

Everything happens so fast when you’re so near to such turbulence. I’m staring at the mixture of pigments of the passengers faces, merged by speed, blurred with the background. So many colors. The Servant Girl’s grip slowly loosens on my arm, more and more until it is no longer there. I am free. One with the train.

Until I’m not. And then I am one with fear.

My whereabouts revolt in an instance. I mistake it for the passing of the train. That my eyes have now seen the scene hidden all this time on the other side of the tracks. But it’s not that at all.

I see the palm trees, only they’re still moving-I’m still moving. I’m still with the train. In a way that I am not supposed to be.

I remember what I felt just a few seconds ago; the hands had salvaged my arms, my feet had left the ground. I felt my smile contort with pain when my body collided with the train’s crimson exterior. Hard metal clanging my bones like a wind chime. My legs flailing in the wind behind me. And just beyond my feet, the Servant Girl.

Why is she distancing from me? She’s chasing the train, and I’m going with it. Only I’m faster.

I cannot register that look in her eyes. They suddenly glaze over. Her mouth quivers and her skin turns pale as she stops running after me. I like her eyes better than I like her because they never leave mine. Even when I cannot see them anymore, I know they’re still with me.

I begin to scream when I turn my eyes to the source of the despicable discomfort around my neck. It’s an arm, groped around me like a snake. It reels me into the train. I shriek and plunge my fist into whatever surrounds me. Until the pain of beaten flesh submits from punching the bolted train walls. A trace amount of daylight catches me before I am pulled away from a world familiar to me. I am then blanketed by unfamiliar darkness. A hand, cold and larger than the relative circumference of my face, is forced against my lips until I scream no more. The hand is pushed so hard against my mouth that I can taste the surface; it tastes of salt, from sweat-engrossed skin; it reeks of the metal of the train’s exterior. I force my throat to make noise, but this hand will not give way.


What If? :: A Parallelistic, Totally Contradictory Account On the Two Possible Realities of A Single Choice that I Made At Some Random Point Within My Day.

There are an infinite number of consequences to the countless choices you make amongst your day. In the end, there are only two options to the basic question; yes or no. You either do it or you don’t. In reality, whatever you choose will have a result of its own, and you will not experience the same circumstances as one whom may have chosen differently. You will never know the other side of the question once you have chosen your answer. That is why people always use the wise-worded phrase, “choose carefully”.

But what if you could know the parallel reflex sequence of your very actions, before you even carried them out? What if you could bear witness to the counteractive nature of a decision; see for yourself what the opposition had in mind? What if you were given the answer to every breaking question; the answer simply lying in your two-faced perception by which permitted you to experience both prospects endowed by a made choice, defying the principal that one cause has one effect. And if you are not pleased by the outcome, the alternative choice remain at your service. Who wouldn’t choose the “what if” scenario granting you the power to make the right decision every time? After all, a single choice possesses the power to direct what happens next.

The following depicts a world that grants two possible futures that purely depend on each of the two sides of a choice. In the real world, time would never allow of this phenomenon to take place. On the contrary…


Scenario 1 :: [real life]

Date: sometime in August

Time: 9:27 pm

Dear WIC (What If Column),

Today I was crossed by a very deceiving decision. There was this new ice cream shop that opened up in Downtown  this morning called “Cherry-On-Top”; named by it’s manufacturer, Jerry. I’m sure that among his search for the name that brands his shop, he was faced with the misfortune of not being able to replace the word “cherry” with his own name to incorporate himself into the title of his creation, seeing as that would be an inappropriately deceiving name for a company. Anyways, I made plans to go for sure after work. But that changed by the end of the day.

I was assigned a bunch of additional paperwork due by the late hour of closing time, 6pm. I was originally suppose to get off at 4 but that was no longer a possibility. I wanted to leave for COT’s a little bit earlier than when work allowed; since COT’s just opened up, I anticipated there would certainly be a lineup.

I had anticipated correctly. The line ran around the entire block and a little into a local neighborhood! There were people snacking while seated on foldable chairs, as though waiting to be let into a stadium for a concert. I contemplated whether or not to join the endless conga line; was it really that worth it? I figured it must’ve been if there was that much of a lineup for something as available as fast food. So I claimed my place at the very back of the landscape-bound skyscraper.

2 hours later…

My knees were buckling, my posture felt faked as though I had to actually try in order to stand up straight. I scavenged the single-filed crowd before me for a distraction from the causeless pain. I noticed something peculiar. There was a blind man. He was feeling the sidewalk barely even a centimeter ahead of him with the tip of a white feeler stick. I assumed he was refraining from reaching too far and risking poking someone from behind. And then I noticed something even more peculiar. At approximately every five-minute interval, groups of two to three people were peeling off the line from behind him and replacing themselves in the line directly in front of him.

He was obviously helpless in this situation. And how I despised those despicable civilians for taking advantage of the man’s imparity. But I can’t say that-for at least a split second-I didn’t consider budging the man myself. The line was barely moving, and it brought out the worst in people. Especially the people that had arrived even later to me; if I didn’t move for so much as a second when the person before me had stepped forward just a bit, the impatient couple preceding behind me in the line would either say it to my face to “move up!”-because I was the one clearly holding up the line-or otherwise, they would intentionally clear their throat very loudly and aggressively.

I hated the experience that came before the reward. But I wasn’t about to throw away my moral humanity over a huge lineup that happened to have stood between me and what I wanted.

Scenario 1 :: [what if]

Date: sometime in August

Time: 9:27 pm

Dear WIC,

I budged a blind man in a lineup today. Before all you readers go ahead and judge me, I must say the lineup was endless-a 3-hour wait was all that stood between me and COT’s critically-appraised ice cream! I don’t know why I did it, I just knew I had to. The act cut me 1 and a half hours from what would’ve otherwise been a 3-hour long waste of time. I mean, the man still got his ice cream-I presume. Although, when I left after redeeming my wrongfully-earned reward, the lineup had barely changed. I guess I influenced others to budge him as well. In that case, he was never going to get his ice cream. But I wasn’t the one who initiated the budging method, it was an impatient gang of teenage boys whom, prior to budging the blind man, had actually originally stood well behind me in the line.

I would normally never resort to such a petty crime such as taking advantage of a civilian’s disability. However, my legs were buckling after an extended shift at work, and my stance was killing me. The pain was getting worse by the unbearable hour for which I had been waiting in line for. This is no excuse, I am well aware of that, but I wasn’t a lone criminal today. There were others before me, and I took on after them.

I don’t know how to feel about this, but it sure effected the happiness I was suppose to feel when finally attaining my long-awaited reward.




Short Story


Possibility; My Greatest Fear

The night secretes the sky in a cimmerian mask. This mask, faceless. But imagining it, I see it has only one distinctive feature; a grotesque grimace, ready to haunt.
I am afraid of the dark. I guess that has already been established. It used to be a theory of mine, what darkness really is. But now I am as sure as hell that it is truly a matter of fact…
The darkness bares a certain power. A power that any villain, any criminal, any monster can possess. It’s basically handed to them. They want to go unseen, want the next best thing from invisibility? Access granted. They seize the night, because it of all things conceals. Anything can happen in the night that you won’t know of. And it will leave you with the question of “who?”-or what.
So when they say “things go bump in the night”, they are telling the truth! I stay in my closest through the night only to eliminate that common conviction of monsters and closets. I keep the windows shut and locked, gated on the outsides with bars of iron, even on the steamiest of nights. Hell-no to see-threw curtains; can’t imagine what kind of creatures cast those terrible, contorted shadows. Titanium chain locks on the doors-no peepholes of course! My pantry is stalked to the ceiling with pepper spray. My blanket is bulletproof, and so are my pyjamas. I haven’t seen my reflection in 24 years because I am terrified of even just the thought of looking in a mirror. How could someone do such a thing as to look into a reflective piece of glass and find someone standing behind you, even if it were just your shadow. Don’t even get me started on my shadow. I despise the retched thing, following me all day, casting out what little light I have left in my life. Scary things don’t just happen in the movies, they are all possibilities. And I am gravely afraid of possibility.

I live by myself. My mother tells me to get married soon, and that I have a problem. That I have nothing to be afraid of but myself. And that is why I’ve never been able to be close to her-or anyone really. Never close enough to tell them that I keep a 12-inch rifle in my underwear drawer.
You never know what the night could bring to your 20th-floor apartment.

The Rose


Between my finger, between my thumb,

rests a deep veridian stem.

A few inches up, bursts into a rose,

your radiant diadem.

My fingers have found,

a haven between two thorns.

The angel’s pilot,

among the devil’s horns.

My thumb bares the burden,

by which the rose forms.

Curled-edged lapels,

of paper-thin swarms.

My index freighted affectionate,

upon the goblin staff.

Beheld a crimson ruby,

of pain, of love unmasked.

The petals play twistly,

illutional vastness.

This hurricane, it bleeds,

beauty within madness.

My prize, I win,

my piece, I treasure.

Oh rose of velvet proportion,

oh stem of love’s measure.




It isn’t all too bad,

I may still feel between your bars.

There’s that freedom,

so close, yet so far.


I slip my arm often through,

to a perspective only my arm will ever see.

My perspective’s striped,

all it’ll ever be.


My fingers have touched freedom,

my mind has only known steel.

My bones obey my barriers,

and my heart can’t even feel.


I breathe the cold-cuts of oxygen,

that roll in through these gates.

Though slices of air are better than none,

I tend to somehow suffocate.


There is so much more out there than in here,

though my horizon arrives quite soon.

I have one wish that I already know is bullshit,

I know I’ll never see the moon.


On Purity


I kept my eyes closed,

when I removed my clothes.

Never dared look at my own body,

never dared to be “naughty”.

It crossed me as a sin,

and now every part of me is a virgin.

My heart, my soul,

my eyes, no toll.

But I don’t believe that means I am inexperienced-I’ve done things.

Stolen things that good couldn’t bring.

Broken glass with screams I sing.

When told to be quiet,

I whispered the curses.

Beneath my breath,

I blew away these urges.

I’ve overeaten my desire to be thin.

Feast on image, is that a sin?

Heaven on earth,

can’t find the light.

Tell me I’ve wronged,

when I can no longer fight.

Don’t tell me I’m wrong,

when I can still bear.

The pain you inflict,

it will always be there.

Eat me alive,

with words of your own rage.

Fight your battles,

and leave me the graves.

How long you’ve told me,

what you perceive “right”.

I’ll hold hands to my ears,

and find slumber at night.

Bags of salted humility,

hoard under my eyes.

Lift up these sags,

high into a smile.

The rising sun,

no longer is warm.

See what you’ve done,

nowhere to me is home.

But now regret not,

your bias of “the wild”.

As now I do not fall short,

from purity’s child.


Spoken Word

Dear Cousin,

I never met you.

I only met you after you died.

And I am sorry for the way I knew you.

When I lacked perception of-

well perception,

I walked around carrying your story like a trophy.

Showing it off to my friends.

Twisting it to sound like your brutal experience belonged to me.

I mutilated the event to utter extinction.

Until there was no truth left,

but that of what I’d preferred to hear.

I treated your story as though I had created it, and therefore,

had the right to create it some more.

I emphasized the parts that most affected me.

Spared no regard for you; your lost soul.

Screamed words of mistaken glory,


As if I had the right to make your death my prize.

As if I had the power to author up the words to decree that death,

is not the worst it could get.

As if I had been through a lot.

You had been through a lot.

Your family had been through a lot.

The vehicle by which you bestowed your last fatal grip,

had been through a lot.

Yet I told that story to its depletion.

Lessening its worth with my worthless words.

It took me 10 years of blundering and 5 after that,

to finally realize that your story,

wasn’t really “your story”.

Just the abrupt ending,

missing a beginning that was just a hollow void to me.

Short and sweet,

your story may be a children’s book-

that doesn’t get a happy ending.

Your story could be a nightlong dream,

told in your wake with so little words it is deemed oblivious.

False oblivion, I assure.

Unintentional ignorance, I promise.

My deferment of empathy lies forever in your favour.

Had I been older,

I’d surely have shed the tears grief calls on before your coffin.

Knelt down at your side,

fists with fingers intertwined,

holding prayers for your soul to find.

For the years your story was tucked away in the forgotten shelf of my memory,

I apologize for pulling it out now.

And not before it lost meaning.

Not before I could still grieve this loss,

send it away with a proper goodbye.

Not before the shelf became overpopulated with new stories,

and yours became old.

Not before the fallen dust could ever mock your ashes,

Not before your pages bore ages of tainted folds and carless holds.

A bitter injustice,

how you were not given enough pages to turn.

An infernal chagrin,

how my ears could have never welcomed the unpolished gospel of your words,

accustomed to muffled truths and pardoned lies,

about who you were and how you died.

A tragic casualty,

how my eyes grazed the verse “The End” way too soon.

The end.

There is no more story to listen,

the rest is still unwritten…


Tug of War

A simple piece of rope,

strikes a mutual hunger to rend.

Who can guess the winning odds,

before we reach this war’s end?

I acquire abundance,

and you take it away,

Greed feeds us strength,

impairing our giving grace.

There may be no resolving balance,

in this cruel, unbending game.

Cannot promise it won’t change us,

as now we cannot be tame.

This rope we share is only so strong,

knot and cross-composed lifeline.

Tug and pull hard enough,

and what’s yours will no longer be mine.


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