And there you were,
there you were
Across a street
made of anti-gravity
Oysters down the lane
and I hope and pray
Hoping you’ll turn away
Shadows resonating
All around me
And there you were,
there you were.
Shadows mean so much to me.
Whisper more than speak
of how much you’ll miss me.
Turn your face away
Dip and turn, away
from me. But kiss me
before you leave
Kiss me down and deep
Before I forget, regret
slivers and I can’t forget
but I forget when I’m with you.
And there you were,
There you were
Oh baby how ‘bout we just forget,
Let regret have its day.
I keep falling forward
Shadows lurching up and down through
So keep me company
And keep me laughing
I’ll keep you close, clinging
When we should be running
Never said we’d be more…
Anti-gravity never said.


I turn away,
I face the rain,
I feel you above and beneath,
Secrets I play hard to keep
and keep secret. Instead
I look down, the sheets are red,
Stained in story, stained in blood
I turn away, below, between, around, above
Such brown eyes spin me deep
In and out of dream and sleep.
I sigh and whisper
I won’t remember
and skin tugs and aches
Brown by brown
Deep and dark and down.
Remember the rain.
I remember and I ache,
Muscle tendon, synapse, and brain
Hoping I’ll wake up again.

Remember skin,
Remember sin,
Remember images torn away
and dreams both grace and craze.
Remember the rain.
I remember eyes so brown
They’d bury deep, etching
Beneath my heart, to drown
in crazed ecstasy.
And here, between push and pull
I tug towards you,
Deeper than passion
Stronger than love,
A gift from hell above.


See, it’s a different sort of rain. The rain seven hours away always begins loud, brash, and bold. It wants you to notice. It wants you to pay attention. The clouds command your attention, but they’re such a hazy gray, you take notice anyway. There is often no sun to cheer you, but wind to remind you that there can be no rain without its lover, the wind.

Everyone bows their head, most hoping their glasses won’t get smeary and teary eyed. This almost never works. Some girls wear rain boots, and others still wear thread bare sandals and one wonders how they pull if off when there’s mud everywhere.

The sun sets and the rain reflects light, droplets of light that splatter all over the pavement.

The best kind of rain though, is at night. You’re at your computer, when a whisper begins outside your door. A soft whisper really, mostly unsuspecting. You open the door and at first it’s so dark that you wonder what that whispering sound is. You can’t always smell the rain, but it whispers instead. You can’t make out the words, or the stories, but you can hear it. The glow from the streetlamp gives the rain such a surreal, warm yellow glow. Droplets of light that disappear when they fall to the pavement. Thunder lets out a low hum, and it should be frightening, but it isn’t. The wind is soft, only a tickle of air against your face really. You can feel the droplets when the wind whispers through, but it isn’t annoying or smearing your glasses. Simply a gentle reminder that rain and wind are often lovers or friends in Denton. You lean against the doorway, and the smell hits you oh so slowly. It’s strange, normally the smell hits your nostrils first. A stray thought wonders if you’re losing your sense of smell. You’re not though, you’ll smell the onslaught of rain in the morning after conveniently forgetting your umbrella in the car.

The smell pools around you, the sound pools around you, even the vision of rain itself looms, never quite hitting your senses, never quite an onslaught like it was earlier. The rain whispers at night in Denton, such stories does it whisper. I cannot fathom the voices, I cannot quite hear the tales. But I hear the gentle whisper, the soft tickle of wind, and I see the droplets of light that disappear on their way towards the pavement. The rain does not admonish you for your lack of depth, for your lack of deciphering its many, many stories. The low thrum of thunder, lightening blooms in the distance, and you are aware of everything and nothing. It is a soft feeling, a soft fathomless feeling you cannot put words to. Not surreal, but deeper, emotionless, but filled in such words as to be wordless. The soft spray of water nuzzles your skin, and the wind picks up. You turn away, closing the door. You linger at the doorknob, as you shut the heavy door. You aren’t quite sure what you feel, you never will be. It felt so close to home, and yet…that sort of rain can never be contained.

Drums (67 Word Story)

There was a girl. And another girl, as is often the tale. One played the drums, and the other was wrapped in a mental game she would lose. The two fell in love with the other. One girl died, while the other was awoken by the master players of that mental game. That girl cried in anguish, unaware that the mental game continued, as it always would.

Blood Moon

My grandmother used to always say, Take the sidewalks, and never listen to the trees.

She died ’bout five years ago. It was under strange circumstances, if you can believe it. She was clutching a slip of paper with nothing on it, written or otherwise. They found her body in the middle of her sunflower field, and all dolled up with only death to go. Sometimes I still hear her whispering, Take the sidewalks, never listen to the  trees.

My mother, her daughter, died ’bout twelve years ‘fore that, too young to remember much. I only ever heard snippets ’bout how she died. Something about a car speeding, she was in the middle of the street when she should have been on the sidewalk, stuff like that. I don’t remember much, just that my father left a couple of years after my mother died. I remember the door slamming on my childhood when he did.

Anyway, I’m walking down the sidewalk, back to my apartment. It’s night, it’s dark, but I’ve never been scared of the dark. Sunlight has always been the wrong side of time in my opinion. Ever felt that way? As if there’s more truth held somewhere deep in the night sky than what you find in the same ol’ blue every damn day? It’s late, not too late, really only a quarter ’til eleven, but late enough for me. I’m groggy, feeling the effects of being up since dawn and without any sort of coffee. Or nap. I look up at the sky, I really shouldn’t be able to see much in the way of stars, too much light pollution around my university. But man oh man, there I see it.

A blood moon, big and dripping in red. I stare up at it for longer than I should. And do you ever get that funny feeling that something ain’t right? Ever get the little itch on the back of your neck like something big is about to happen? The first time I felt it was during a tornado, I remember hearing it outside but I kept on huddling in my bathroom. I remember the wind too, and every time I remember, I feel that itch. That itch you can’t scratch, that feeling you can’t shake off, and in a way, you don’t want to.

I veer off the sidewalk, I’m pretty sure I veered. I think I hit the root of a tree, poking out real annoying-like from the grass. And there was wind too, or at least, thought there was, a real menacing, chilling sort of wind. And there were whispers, dark whispers I couldn’t make out. Did they mention my mother? My father? I think I hear my grandmother calling out to me, but…no, that’s a damned mistake. She’s dead. I look down at my feet and no, no root, no tree, no grass.

I look up, and there’s the moon, shining white enough to poke your eyes out. I keep walking down the sidewalk, back to my apartment. I can’t help thinking ’bout my grandmother. She used to always tell me Take the sidewalks, and never listen to the trees.

She died under strange circumstances, if you can believe it. She was clutching a slip of paper with something  written that the police never could figure out. They found her strewn across an empty field, just a damned empty field, all dolled up with nowhere to go. They never could make it out. It was the darnedest thing too, my mother, her daughter, got real anxious afterwards. And then she died under strange circumstances too, they never did find the driver who killed her.

Whisper now Evelyn, that’s what it’d said, the slip of paper. Whisper now Evelyn. It always gave me shivers, and my father looked at me funny for the rest of his years, before he just up and left, slamming the door on my childhood on his way out. Real polite-like my father always was. I cross the street, looking both ways, seeing the lights from my apartment complex and I turn around quickly. There was whispering, I’m sure there was whispering right behind me. And there are so many trees too, I don’t remember there ever being so many trees. And I think back on my grandmother, Take the sidewalks, and never listen to the trees.

I run now, and I keep running until I slam my apartment door close.

Take the sidewalks, Evelyn. Never listen to the trees.

Planet Speck and the Lady Love Ella Who Lived There

There are universes vast and wide, dimensions far and wide, and time both bent and narrow. In each of these is a Star Stellar 821, holding the Galaxy otherwise known as Zoot. In Galaxy Zoot there is a planet much like this one, green and blue much like this one, with more blue than green…much like this one. There are elephants and gazelles, lions and tigers and bears. The occasional humanoid and the occasional raging plague to remind those humanoids of their place in society. There are zoos on this planet, which we will learn to call the planet Speck. On planet Speck, zoos are the ultimate attraction, coupling zoo with carnival and circus, Dada and theatre, impromptu dancing and scripted teledrama. Zoos are the wonder, and life itself comes second. The animals are relatively sane, given the occasional outburst before slashing at a humanoid’s face. Contrary to popular belief, most of the animals are content in their caged freedom, enjoying as humanoids gaze at them in their gilded cages. Most are born into the crazy life of the zoo, most could not see life any other way. Why, just the other day, the news televised the grisly slaughter of a Grengel tiger at the hands of a cockroach. Utterly reproachable, all humanoids agreed that if the poor Grengel tiger had been simply left in its gilded cage, this never would have happened. Even the animals agreed poor Timothy the Grengel tiger should have been kept confined in his zoo, rather than be subjected to the slimy misdeeds of a cockroach.

Of course, as with all attractions fun and entertaining, there are those who protest the advancements of fun and entertainment in society. Particular humanoids particularly, protest against these fun and entertaining zoos, researching those in captivity and those who watch those in captivity. The results are always startling, and as per usual, wholly misbelieved by the general public. Of course, this does not stop these particular humanoids into trying by whatever means necessary to save those in their gilded cages, even if it means  two nights spent in the county jail for breaking Code 257 of Law 58, Section 215 (amended in the year 2130 as to read Code 257 of Law 58, Section 215, Sub-Section 18, Margin 3), sometimes even three nights if it takes the officer time to find their Hippy-Nifty Book of Rules and Regulations Pertaining to the Guidance, Treatment, General Avoidance, and Advice of Zoos and Those Who Protest Against Them, Section 3. As can be assumed, most particular humanoids have time for a mad get-away before the officer finds the particular rule and/or regulation the perpetrator has committed. As such, many officers have petitioned for a far-reaching, broad brush stroke of the Hippy-Nifty Book of Rules and Regulations Pertaining to the Guidance, Treatment, General Avoidance, and Advice of Zoos and Those Who Protest Against Them, Section 3 as to make an arrest possible. As such, their petitions have gone unnoticed by those in higher power or somehow always seem to conveniently get lost in the junk mail.

In this Planet Speck, of Zoos both monstrous and beauteous, there lived an elephant. Of the male species: gray, particularly thick legs, and an especially long trunk. His tusks had never quite grown to his liking, and as such, he normally kept his lugging head turned slightly downwards, as to give the illusion that his tusks were somehow more illustrious than they were. His name was Olifant.

Olifant was at a curious point in his life, not quite so young but neither was he too old, but just a little too old to be considered in the prime of his life. Olifant was not a zoo animal, indeed, he had been born in the jungles of Xindia, wild and free, or as free as one can be before one begins to notice the shrouded cameras dispersed throughout the jungle. Olifant had never paid too much attention to these conveniently placed cameras, recording and researching all animals living in the Great Conservatory of Xindia. His life was far freer and far wilder than those elephants of the zoo, and how he used to shudder at the thought of becoming like them. In the Great Conservatory of Xindia, Olifant met Ella, his lady love. The most beautiful of all the gray elephants, the most passionate, and the most learned. Ella and Olifant lived a simple life, wandering the Great Conservatory in search of cockroaches to trample and animals to nurture and teach. Ella was born of the even more beautiful, more stupendous elephant Morgan whom many animals came to for guidance and knowledge of the universe. She counseled all, except for cockroaches.

Ella was so beautiful in fact, so wonderful to behold in all her loving glory that the Great Conservatory of Xindia sold her for five septibillion fervids. It was the greatest transaction ever committed between zoo and conservatory, and while particular humanoids found the transaction to be on the whole, disgraceful and immoral, the general public found it to be exhilarating. The Great Conservatory of Xindia now had enough money to begin a land transaction with the country of Alpen for a possible one thousand acres for the Great Conservatory (the title would then change to The Great Conservatory of Xindia and Alpen). Olifant was in despair, Morgan wailed her loss to the dingy blue skies of Planet Speck; all the animals of the Great Conservatory gasped in shock and horror. Ella the beautiful, Ella the bold, Ella the brave, stupendous daughter of Morgan, sold as if she were cattle!

Olifant lay in disgrace, and Morgan in sorrow. What was an elephant to do, but go and save his lady love from the clutches of the zoo and all who visited there.

So begins our tale, the tale of Olifant the Elephant on Planet Speck, to save his lady love Ella from the Star-Studded Platinum Zoo of Stupendous, Spectacular, Stunning, and Always Awesome Intergalactic Things (Cockroach Free Since 1993).