THIS IS ALL DEAD.


-Kayla

Emanuel and the Clairvoyance

An end is nigh and crows will fall
Yet through it all I refuse
The Devil will dance and the aegis breaks
At the inchoate bowel

Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled

Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
For I am blind to the night’s red
In my mouth the taste of salt

All inspired by the weak
The searchlight’s lust will be filled

It was a coward for success
Just as the misery
But I promise you it’s hotter in hell
Let us go together in bliss

Even the skinner barely killed
And hell rides can be a thrill
All inspired by the false
The eye’s lust will be filled

Oh pity me darling for the cutting begun
But the pendulum at a halt
I hate the crust of night’s tears
Let us dance in your opus cult

Although I’m burning
I swear I’m free
Though tonight I watch the doves fall down
They will fly tomorrow you see
Even if today the humor mask is true
It is not your face
Through my denial it will break
Wearing it you will rue

No don’t pity me friends
For I am king
And forever
It is my slave

______

Yeah all you TNP guys
This is sorta a little song thingy I wrote
See what you think

The Textbook of Enlightenment

He had a problem
A burden

He knew it all

Everyone saw it in the least

He himself could not look at his infamous eyes with a look of passion

He was a "god"

and all with a sense of perfection

People around him try so hard

And try to grasp something larger

Which only angered him

They knew nothing

He knew true chaos

The small world around the people was nothing yet in this he meant nothing to them

Which also angered him

Knowing everything can end in only knowing so little

Damn those small minded

They know only what is around them and get their insignificant pleasure through primitive thought

His one wish is to destroy them in their puny nothingness

But he feared his father

If only gods could die





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sigh

This isnt really anything

Just self expression

-Jake

Incomprehensible

I think the reason I really like it when the weather’s force is so prominent is because it starts to feel like the wind itself, or the rain, or the snow, or whatever, is actually a part of something that has order. It makes me feel like I have a friend, or a companion, and when I open up the door, and the winds blowing so hard that it rips it out of my hand scaring the shit out of me, it makes me feel like maybe, the wind is just having a bad day. And that for once it’s being selfish and it isn’t thinking about being gentle, so as not to hurt the human beings. I mean, I get that nothing is connected. Or at least, I get that there’s a possibility that nothing’s connected. I once read in this book called Accepting the Universe by John Burroughs, that said weather isn’t a negative thing; not even when it hurts us. It really makes a whole hell of a lot of sense, because the weather is just the weather, and its’ just happening. It’s not making any consideration to the humans, because we ourselves are just part of nature too. Usually, I think of stuff like that before I end up reading it in a book. But that time, I happened to read it before I got to think it up myself. Personally, ever since I was a little little girl, I always loved the weather. I’m not talking the quiet stuff either though. Until I turned about 12 maybe, I swear I wanted to be a tornado chaser.
There’s something about tragedy that I can’t get enough of. Some weird, twisted, sadistic part of me that wants to have to suffer. I don’t mean it in a suicidal way. I just mean being so close to something so much bigger than me… seeing how easily it can just be without thinking about other people… it makes me want to cry, but in a good way.
It just is.
I know there’s more to my fascination for it.
I feel like the explanation I just gave only touched on the reasons behind it.
But I really can’t place it.
I just know that I get this rush in me. Something that has a root, embedded so deep underneath all of the shit that’s piled on top of what once was my core central being, that can explain just exactly what the fuck I mean. Maybe I just want to be miserable. Because misery is true passion, and with that kind of misery, you never have to question if it’s justified. If I was more eloquent, maybe I could write a real book. Maybe I could take all the things that make me feel like I’m alive, and put them somewhere; compile them, so they make sense.
But the problem is, sometimes, putting ideas in to stories destroy them a little bit. Just imagine, a singular solitary image, or a mysterious, insightful kid, with a childish face, upon who’s surface gazes eyes that you knew held things like clarity you could only imagine. Imagine that this kid was always eating apples, and imagine that he always cut them with a pocket knife.
I can like that kid right now.
But the minute I throw him in with a story lacking passion for everything other than him, it’s like I’ve diagnosed him with a terminal illness. Soon, I’ll relate him to that that stupid story.
And eventually, I’ll end up hating him. Just like I’ve hated all the other characters I once cherished so much in the past.
Because I can’t show anyone else what I mean by clarity, and wisdom. No one but me can understand what I mean when I say the kid has an understanding of things unfathomable.
And in the end, he just ends up getting lost. Thrown in with all the others, once so precious in the mind of their creators, now so warn, and used and tarnished, from being thrown from lips of people who take the idea, and form them in to their own.
They’re only dead to the creators.
Which is why, I think I’d rather keep my characters locked up inside my head.
Where they continue to remain precious.
Where no one can tell me they’re cliché.
Because the way I think about them; they’re really not.


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Hey,
I know it's been kind of long.
This is the first chance I've had to be on a computer
and I didn't even mean too
but I just started thinking
and putting things down in to words

it's not really a story.
but it's what i really believe in.

by the way
this is Miranda.

My Sanctuary

The bullet felt cool and harmless in Mark's palm. He turned it over and over, and the metal soon grew warm. Without thinking and hesitation, Mark slid the bullet into the chamber. He spun the barrel and it spun around in circles. He flipped the revolver sharply to the right, and the barrel swung into its respective place. Reaching up with his thumb, he clicked back the hammer. Looking at the other man, Mark raised the revolver to his head. Without blinking, he squeezed the trigger, and the ever peaceful 'click' rung through his head. He smiled, and held out the revolver to the man. He was a white man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, quite the young age to risk his life for money. He was clean shaven, and wore a brilliant white polo shirt-a high possibility that the pureness of the shirt would be ruined, and never to be washed. His eyes darted around the room, in an ever nervous way. Mark could tell he didn't want to be there. Mark just smiled and said the incriminating words "Do it." That was enough to push the man to spin the barrel, click back the hammer, and point the gun at his own head.

    

Mark noticed something interesting about the man, besides the fact that he had the balls to try and best him at his favorite game. He noticed that the man's lower lip trembled a little bit every time Mark's head wasn't destroyed by the bullet. The man had a golden band on his left hand, signifying that he was married. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, even before he started playing. Mark held out his hand, lowering the gun.

    

"What's your story?" He asked the man. Mark knew that he didn't belong here, in a dark basement of the bar, where a countless amount of blood was spilt on the walls and floor. "A man just doesn't do this unless he's sure of himself."

    

"W-well…" The man started to say. "I-I was fired a few weeks ago… then the week after that, my parents died in a car crash. A month later my family had no money to pay for the bills, s-so my wife left with my daughter." Tears started to spill down his cheek, and run off of the revolver. "I couldn't handle it anymore, so… I… I…" He squeezed the trigger, and the 'click' sounded out again. He sighed in relief and passed the gun over. Mark held it up to his head and pulled, and the 'click' sounded again. He passed it back to the man.

    

"What's your name?" Mark asked him.

"C-Carl…" The man hesitantly replied. He pulled the trigger-nothing. Only the ever familiar click. Carl made a weird noise that came from deep in his throat-a kind of whimper mixed with a groan and passed the gun over. The crowd that gathered around them were starting to grow restless. They came and bet money to see someone die, yet none of them had their money yet. Mark took the gun and raised it to his head. "W-why do you do it?"

"What, this?" Mark referred to the gun. Carl nodded slowly. Mark smiled. "I'm married. I have children, a house, and a job. Everything you don't have. The only thing you have that I don't is peace. You're very peaceful for a man in your position, y'know that?" He continued smiling. "The only way I can find solace is in this…" He shook the gun in his hand. "This… is my sanctuary… my release." He squeezed the trigger, and for a split second it seemed like time had slowed. He saw the bright whiteness that was Carl's polo shirt. He noticed how vibrant all of the colors were in the room. He even noticed one of the tiniest fruit flies, buzzing around in front of the two. And the last he remembered was the last thing he said.

 

"My Sanctuary… My release…"

-Jon

Fists for Faith (Jake’s Story)

In the nighttime, my fear grew unbearable and I started to realize the world around me isn't as brightly lit as ever body else perceived. I had discovered this at about the age of nine.

        So my mom would stroke my curly hair until I slept and she'd whisper to me before I dozed off into my dreams, she'd whisper "Son, you're meant for so much more."

        Then a few months later, she gave me my Book of Sanctum, hundreds of pages that would keep me safe wherever I went- people call this the Holy Bible.

    

So everywhere I went, I carried a pocket-sized version of the book. I carried it to my job, I carried it to the movies, it went everywhere. But as I said before, it was with me at my job and where I worked I needed it. I was employed at a mortuary and my main duty was to fit the suits and dresses to each body I saw. Seeing so many bodies of who seemed to be pleasant people when they were dead and at peace, it could really drag your spirit down, but that's why I went to the dollar store every day.

At the dollar store, they sold crosses and crucifixes. I would always buy at least fourteen of them and tear them off of their small chains they were on and store them in my pocket. At work, when I figured what tailored suits would be assigned to each body, I would stick a cross into their breast pocket or a crucifix into the bow of a dress. I never got complaints for doing this, because I don't believe anybody took it as offensive, no matter what religion. I myself believed that what mattered was having someone out there was praying for you and looking at these dead bodies-these machines, these passageways into heaven I would always leave affected. I would hug the bodies of dead little girls, I would fix the hair of middle aged men with their eyes closed and I would straighten their ties before their funerals.

And when I left, I wondered why this had to happen. And as I exited the morgue, I buttoned my peacoat and I would walk in the dark. Scared of surroundings, I would pray to the Father, the Son, and the Spirit and I'd be okay. But the more and more I prayed, the more a loud voice tried to interrupt my thoughts.

        "You're next." I heard. "You're going to find yourself laying on one of those autopsy tables. I promise."    

And as I remained terrified, I continued going to my job, but things started to become strange. As I went to find the right fit for suits, they would jump up, grab my arm and scream. Sometimes the little girls would cry and ask why I killed them and sometimes they would get up and chased me. But all it took was for me to place a crucifix on a little girl's lips or put a cross by the dead assailant's temple. It was then that their eyes grow wide and they went back to peace. And it seemed I could stomach this until the reflection became me.

He grabbed and began to grow wide eyed, water spewing out of his mouth. Gasping, heaving for air, he just gagged on water, skin greenish and face flushed. I almost threw up but nonetheless I laid the cross on him and ran into the bathroom, opening the Book of Sanctum.

So I prayed to the Father, the Son, and the Spirit and they told me to evacuate my evils, I had to face them head on.

And for some reason, I knew we're my enemy would be. In the underbelly of the city, that scared pit in my stomach, under a sewer grate, it resided in there and as I went deeper down this filthy ladder, I started sweating. After enough climbing I looked down and saw exactly what I had expected, the Lake of Fire. And as I jumped down into it, I realized, contrary to popular belief, the Lake was the exact opposite of what was expected-it was the coldest thing you could imagine. It reeked of sorrow and pulled onto my ribcage as close as it could until I thought the chill was going to prevent them from in taking air. But as I pushed through the inferno, I felt something warm gracing my back. It touched me and made me smile and I realized I had the Spirit right behind me.

And for a moment I thought maybe how quickly I went to fight the demons was a bit senseless, but there are journeys a man has to go through and this felt like one. As I walked I saw it. What I had to face. It had many names, but I preferred to refer to it as the devil. It was slumped, halfway underwater.

    But as it rose, I could see the long black streaks of what was hair. It had eyeliner and pouting lips, it had a rounded pelvis and different curves than I. Before me was the beast, the demon, the devil, no, before me was a woman.

She stood naked trying to lure me over, but my stomach started to twist and I was prepared. My Book of Sanctum had warned me of this deception and I had awaited all of this, I had expected all of this, I had read all of this. "I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! SHOW YOURSELF, SHOW YOUR TRUE FORM." And she twitched into little spasms. I began saying prayers and seeing my Father, his Son, watching me with approval and I watched the demon shed forms as she remained the same but her eyes drew to the back of her head and she grew claws. The Father and the Son laid a sword upon my hands and the Spirit guided my arm slightly with me swinging in the air, backing it away.

The demon grew angry, she backed up, and charged, and I put my sword up, trying to block the fury of Satan itself.

Bite marks mark the dubious mash, but sword slashes mark the devil's defeat. And to this day, I still believe my mother. I knew she was right and I was meant for more. I was meant for a deeper understanding. And I'm not afraid anymore and I never will be again. I now know who's guiding the blades of my back, who watches me for my judgment and who makes sure I'm alright and ever since then I've traded my fists for my faith and I've never felt wrong about it.

The Circus

The condensation strewn, covering the windows, cold and wet from the snow that just fell down a moment ago. Covering the city like a blanket, putting it to sleep. My parents are talking the front seat, but I can't understand what they're saying. Me, I'm Abel, I'm from Slovakia, and my parents have always force fed me rules and regulations that aren't really what you would call regular. We're on our way to the local circus right now. I know, I'm 8 going on 9, I'm a little too old for this, but my parents never baby me anymore and I thought this would be the closest thing to it. The green signs are passing me up so fast I can't read what they say. I don't know how to get to the circus, but I don't think it's on a dirt road. My brain is bouncing off the sides of my head and my hands and fingers are dancing inside my coat pockets. I hear the snow crinkle in between the tread of the tires, and the pebbles crackle in and out of them like minuscule bones. This road is really bumpy and I have a feeling I'm on my way to a place much more different than the circus.

We climb to the top of the hill. I see an abandon building. Half of the front what was probably an entrance caved in with bricks that used to touch the sky. We got out of the our vehicle and some strange man in an all black velvet business suit walks up and drives our car to a safe place. My dad grabs my hood like a leash. Like I'm a dog, and drags me to a booth. In the booth, a fat bald man with a lazy eyes watches pornographic movies on his portable DVD player. My dad discusses with him with a horrible Slovakian accent behind his English that the price for youth is outrageous. I grab his hand and look up with my bright green eyes and say, "Father." He continues discussing. I tug, "FATHER." My father looks down and spits in my face. I sneeze and wipe his streaming saliva off of my eyebrows and eyelashes. We proceed forward. My mother just following us like she's our caddy. Like we're playing golf. We step over those bricks that used to touch the sky, then I hear violent screaming. I stop dead in my tracks. My mom pushing me forward. My father tugging me, forcing me forward.

Internal monologue has set in, paranoia ensues. What am I doing here? There's cages and chains and shackles and chairs and high voltage hats. I don't want to get hurt. I don't want to die.

We continue forward. I see a man. He has a bag of candy. I ask for a piece of bubblegum, he hands me a piece and says "Go have yourself an adventure." He sounded sarcastic, almost pissed to be there. I bite down and the sweet sensation of bubblegum jolted through my teeth leaving me with a big smile on my face. Very opposite of what I was feeling. We keep walking down this narrow hallway lined with cages. Replicas of jail cells. Elite Hunting. My father's job. His fucking profession. Torturing people, letting them suffer. Making them not bite the bullet, but swallow it. My thoughts were then interrupted by a man lashing out and screaming. Sounding like pebbles hitting the floor, "I'm scared." I say out loud. "Shut the fuck up, Abel." My father yells. My jaw quivers, my eyes clear coat with tears. I looked down at the ground. We've been walking on a path made of preserved bones this whole time. We stop. I'm thinking we need to talk to another hunter. "Follow me" he says in a dark ominous tone. He hands us three lab coats. One for me, one for my father, and one for my mother. "Check your pockets" he says. We all pull out hospital masks. At this point, I'm crying.

I kick the wall, throw the equipment on the rugged bone floor and scream, "I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS! YOU TWISTED PEOPLE! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY PARENTS?!" My father hits me. My mom forces my arms straight out, adjacent to each other. She forces the lab coat on my limbs. My father covers my mouth so I could stop lashing out. My parents both force the hospital mask on my face. As soon as the last strap wraps around my left ear, I spew everywhere. No one saw. At this point, I'm crying, shaking, and puking my brains out while walking. We enter our cage. Our jail cell. I catch a glimpse of a man. A familiar looking man. I rub the river of tears out of my eyes to see it's the same man who gave me bubblegum. I look into his eyes, he looks pissed to be there. His mood hasn't changed at all since the last time I saw him. He's tied up to a chair. Helpless like an ant under a magnifying glass with the sizzling sun ray hitting on its back, killing it in front of it's own family. We're going to kill him. If not my sick-twisted parents. The virgin-minded me. He had "The Fork" on his neck like an unwanted necklace. The Fork is basically a midevil torturing weapon/tool just used to be jabbed into the chin making talking and movement of the head nearly impossible. My dad is already revving up the chainsaw.

I'm trying to stop crying. My father flaunts the chainsaw in front of the man's face, like you do with human food in front of a dog's dancing eyes. Except this guy, didn't want it. His eyes were trying to stop my dad from doing this. The fork was making him squirm. He couldn't move a muscle. He couldn't get away. My father looks at me. Finally, he stopped. He hands me the chainsaw. "Son, you do the honors, maybe If you do this, I'll respect you more and you'll be less of a pussy." I stare. "TAKE IT, GODDAMMIT!" I immediately put my hands out. And I hold the chainsaw. It's so heavy, but I can manage. I press the handle to make the teeth spin. The guy, is scared that his life is in the hands of an 8-year-old. I have the power, I'm in control.

All I could think of is if I do this, kill this man, maybe my parents will treat me better. So I rev up that chainsaw, with the teeth eating the air. I jam it into his groin. Blood splatters everywhere like one of my favorite pictures. My mind goes blank. I go from the groin to the inner thigh, to the knee cap, to the femur, eventually hitting his toes. My jacket is now a light pink. The moans and groans of the bubblegum man push me along to keep butchering him like a dead deer. There's blood in my hair and blood on my equipment. A demon has consumed my brain. I can't think about anything other than what I do next. I stop. I'm done. Step away, look at my masterpiece. It's struggling for life. The fork still around his neck. He's dead. I drop my jacket. I hand over the chainsaw to my wide-eyed father. My mother expressionless. It's then, I notice. My gum has just lost it's flavor. I walk away. out of the cage, the jail cell, not caring if my parents are following or not.

I'm walking away with blood in my hair, and in my fingernails. I still have the mask on. I walk over the bricks that used to touch the sky, and see my car. The snow crinkles in my shoes tread, and the man who took our car lets me in it warmed up and ready to go. I look in the rear view mirror, and realize that I like what I see. I don't feel like an 8-year-old. I don't feel like Abel. And that's when I knew, I became and Elite Hunter.

My name is Abel, I am now 24 years old, I have dark shadowed hair, with red tips to represent the day I killed my first victim. Only for you bubblegum man, your blood changed my life. Who's next?

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So, I wrote this a while back, but just wanted to share it with some people and get feedback because It's really the only serious thing I've ever written. Tell me what you think.

-Kayla