So You Want To Change The World

Get in line, join the bucket of dreamers and innovators too busy looking at the stars to ignore the train rushing towards them we

Are the disillusioned sort, an optimist writing tragedy, an idealist ruined by pragmatism we

Are told at every junction that we’re not good enough, or sometimes that we are good enough, but there are roadblocks that clog and choke

Us, worming their way into our throats, biting and gnashing, drawing blood, we

Cough and sputter our dreams out of our mouths, brain fluid mixing with prismatic ideals mixing with tears mixing with a scream the

Dream is still there living inside of us, it holds an axe and screams a battlecry over the dark clouds the suffocating depression the fear is chased away with a raw cry I

Can’t remember my dream, I lost it when I woke up


Do You Have A Story?

The Spirit turned to Drum. “Do you have any stories?”

“My people,” said Drum, “are not the story sort.”

“Come now, Drum!” said The Skeleton Lady. “You must know some story!”

Drum looked into the air and flashes his fangs in a smile. “There is one. I’m not sure you’ll like it. It does not carry well between our cultures.”

“Ooh, now I’m interested,” said The Psychic Girl, popping another snail into her mouth. “Let’s hear it.”

Drum looked into the fire. “Two walked in the woods. Death followed them. Thirst and hunger consumed them. Each was the only pack the other had left. Yet they marched on.”

Drum drew a symbol in the dirt. “Eventually, they stumbled upon a man impaled on a jagged piece of metal. Fresh blood ran down it. There was enough for one of them to live. The first said the second should take it; he was older and had less life to live. The second said the first should take it; he was younger and less likely to make it home.”

Drum looked at the Spirit. “The man saw these creatures arguing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of acid. He held it above his head and smashed it. The acid dissolved his flesh and most of his blood. Both of them would starve to death because of this.”

Drum stopped talking.

“And?” said the Spirit.

“That’s it,” said Drum. “That’s the end of the story.”

“That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard,” said the Spirit.

“You were warned,” said Drum.


Do You Want To Hear A Story

 The Skeleton Lady smiled at The Psychic Girl one night and said, “Do you want to hear a story?”

The Psychic Girl stared at her bony grin with apprehension, unaware that this clearly inhuman abomination was able to tell stories.

The Skeleton Lady simply stared at The Psychic Girl. She wanted to tell a story.

“What sort of story,” said The Psychic Girl.

“I remembered a story,” said The Skeleton Lady. “My favourite story. My mother used to tell it to me when I was young. I remember things easier when I’m around you.”

The voice of the Psychic Ghost resounded in her head. Don’t trust Teysla. She shook her head.

“No?” said The Skeleton Lady, frowning. “You don’t want to hear my story?”

“No, no, that’s not why I’m shaking my head,” said The Psychic Girl, rubbing her temples.

“So you do want to hear my story!” said The Skeleton Lady happily.

The Psychic Girl rolled her eyes and sighed. “Why not.”

“Did you know,” said The Skeleton Lady enthusiastically, “that there was a world before ours?”

“What,” said The Psychic Girl, “like another planet?”

“No,” said The Skeleton Lady, “but almost. This world didn’t have psychics in it. Or lizardmen. Or vampires.”

“No?” said The Psychic Girl. She sat down. “Then what did it have?”

“Humans. People, they called themselves,” said The Skeleton Lady.

“People,” repeated The Psychic Girl. “They built all the ruined stuff, then?”

“That’s right,” said The Skeleton Lady, “only when they lived, it wasn’t ruined.”

“I could have guess that,” said The Psychic Girl. She bit her lip. “Go on, though.”

“When they lived, there were so many people. Millions and millions of people, all in one kingdom. They had food, as much as they wanted. They all had homes. And friends. They had technology, too, the kind of things we’re lucky to get running again. They had clothes and they could go where they wanted and do what they wanted. They were free.”

The Psychic Girl frowned. “I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true,” said The Skeleton Lady.

“But what did they do?” said The Psychic Girl. Her stomach rumbled. “If they had food all the time they wouldn’t have problems!”

“Maybe they didn’t,” said The Skeleton Lady.

“Then why are they all dead?!” said The Psychic Girl.

The Skeleton Lady looked around at the rubble. “Maybe they made their own problems.”

The Psychic Girl got up. She pointed a finger at the rubble and shot it with lightning. “Why’d they ruin a world where nobody had to be different? Where nobody had to be a psychic.”

“Sweetie,” said The Skeleton Lady, “are you… sad?”

The Psychic Girl’s mouth jumped into a frown and then a scowl. “No,” she whispered and then fired another blast at the rubble. It exploded in half. “I’m mad. I want that. And I can never have it. They wasted it.”

They Say You Never Forget Your First Time

An eye-patched man came through the space café

Patting a boy on the back, he had this to say:

“Listen, everyone,” in a voice filled with delight

“This young gent had his first one tonight!”

All the patrons let out a drunken cheer

Cups clasped in their hands filled with alien beer

“Buy the boy a drink, then!” said one woman, “get in line!

It’s not every night one gets to celebrate their first time.”

When the boy settled down with green beer in his hand

The pub chanted and wailed like an unruly band,

“So tell us, oh tell us, what was it like?”

The boy bit his lip and smiled in the neon light:

“It was awkward, and quick,” the boy admitted

“But I know that after tonight, I am committed.”

The pub cheered again, and a woman came forward,

Dressed in black leather, she looked like a warrior.

“My first time was something I’ll never forget;

Our hands on each other; slow, and passionate

And the screaming…” smiled the woman playfully;

“You’ll want more, kid, there’s bigger fish in the sea.”

“My first time,” reminisced the man with a patch over his eye,

“Was very emotional. The night after, I cried.

Because I knew at that moment I’d never again

Have the innocence I had before I shot that man.”

For in the space café only mercenaries enter

And their talk of first times is the first ones they’ve murdered.



I’m Going To Be Honest

Everything terrifies and depresses me. Healthy relationships are swallowed up in complex complexes. Inferiority? Superiority? Both simultaneously? Not simultaneously. More consecutive. Alternating, re-alternating.
I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared. Of? Dying, ugly. My beauty will have faded away with no fame to speak of. Beat beat beat

This is not a natural fear. It is insanity. You are contemplative, caught up in a torrent of extremes. We gawk at extremes. The extremes become the norm. The norm becomes boring. Breathe breath.

I see other happy people. I’m not sure if they’re happy.

I’m still jealous of them. Jealous and spiteful. Jealous and unhappy.

It’s a welling in the pit of my stomach with no discernible cause, that good relations can qualm but not kill.

Every passing second is a regret.

In other news, popcorn: best with seasoning, or without?