a writer's journal - politics, music, american culture, esoteric aspects of life, and stories


Fleeting Story

We all have gremlins inside us, urging us to act irresponsibly. Which bleeds into acting viciously. And it ends in acting calculatingly. You keep on top of the impulses but when your heart's asleep one might run wild with you. Of course the worst demons are those who convince you they're angels. Consider the civil war inside you - what you think is a war between good thoughts and bad - what if it was like most human strife, between two evil empires?

You better try to avoid all positions of weakness and servitude. The cringing smile and stale stink of fear's traces attracts desirous impulses for guns, drugs, and the most numbing forms of bland sexual release...

Don't stay here long enough to let the predators get your scent. Imagine if the demons and angels within you joined forces: you'd miss out on quite a story, and never see their fascinating reversion as they returned to squabbling, now over your carcass.

After being yelled at by a bum, who explained that city sewers keep spirits trapped in the heart of towns the same way vampires cannot cross river bridges, I clicked awake from my frenzied wanderings. I was halfway across the city, barefoot, and had been thinking about hurting someone famous. But I dissipated when out of sight of the bum, who thought all of this story in a half second between random-flash memories of Victorian ghost-tales and the cheap beer he swilled to keep his brain clamped down. He cleaned his glasses with scuddy shirt end and ran fingers across his greasy arm hair, and twitched as immediately another thing happened in his brain. The worst migraines throb like coming, is how the next one began...

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