Silently, I watched my father’s hound rush off. Bouncing through the grass to get the goose. Giddy. Proud to make his master happy.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful and collect the geese Holt?” my brother asked, not an ounce of venom in his tone. “You’d be faster than Finn.”
My dad hit him lightly. Smacking him gently with the butt of his rifle as the words floated and sank, digging into the earth.
“Don’t say things like that to your brother. He’s a werewolf, not a dog. It’s a legitimate condition,” Dad snarled.
My brother didn’t mean anything by it. Not at all. It was a suggestion made by a young mind. Someone who doesn’t quite understand.
I think about it all the time. Continue reading “Wolf Hound”
I cleave the building.
Split it in two.
It crumbles, the giant skyscraper. Creaking like an ancient door, cracking like lightning. All of its stories falling, echoing thunder. The building roars as it falls, and people run from it. Completely terrified.
But I don’t stop.
I don’t stop.
I throw another bolt of lightning. Shake the earth with a kick. Yell, and the foundations all shake.
I am not done destroying, not yet.
I won’t be done for quite some time.
This must all come crashing down, you see. These terrors and raging beasts. The creatures that carve out destruction, that lay waste to each other and the beasts of this earth.
I won’t stop until they’re all gone.
Until all this ends.
Until there is nothing but a clean slate left.
This all must end. Continue reading “Beginning”
There is a root to selfishness.
It’s a knowledge. A knowing. When you reach out and push away, or grab at, or break. Looking at something and thinking to yourself “I want that” or “I want that away from me” or “I want to destroy that” and for no other reason than simply because you want to. Selfishness is being fully in the know about what you’re doing. Yes, you might deny it to yourself, but you know.
That’s selfishness. True and unfiltered selfishness, cut down to its root.
Knowing what you’re doing is wrong, and doing it anyway.
Knowing that getting what you want will hurt someone, put them at a disadvantage.
And doing anyway.
That’s why I can’t forgive them. Ignorant as some may be, they’re not all that way.
Some of them know. Continue reading “Magic Is Not “Mine””
I remember the first time I told my dad there was a monster under my bed.
I remember the way my voice was factual, honest. Clear. I cut all other words away, just left the root of what I wanted to say.
“There’s a monster under my bed.”
And I remember what he said. How it was a mirror of my own words. The way he cut out all nonsense. All description. All in favor of cutting to the root of what he wanted to say.
“There’s no such thing as monsters.”
My dad was a liar.
He still is.
Because everyone who’s got a brain knows:
Monsters are very real.
Very. Continue reading “Real Monsters”
The thing about people is:
They’re so preoccupied with their own worlds. With the things that are right before their eyes.
And only those things.
They forget other things exist.
If they can’t see it, it’s out of their mind.
Isn’t that how the saying goes?
Out of sight, out of mind.
They don’t give thought to the things they can’t see. To the worlds underneath the surface.
Through the cracks. Under the bark. If you can slide your fingers in, just a touch, they could see it. They could be there. They could know.
The world is not everything we see. Continue reading “Unseen”