Talon Ribsam
Derailed
Someone cut my brake line while I was having a drink on Tuesday night.
Now I’m zipping past blurred lights, remembering thrills, remembering pointless guilty pleasures, catching glimpses of mechanical parts rusting themselves for the machine rather than chasing ideals before due for inspection.
Now I’m watching movies in fast forward.
Talon Ribsam
December Rose
My my, what a flower! Bursting
Through the black and white frost
Just to cast a smile towards a weakened sun
Gusts of crushing wind came slapping
Viciously against the pink petals
But not every natural beauty is a fragile one
Upright, facing the faded flash
The soft heroine stood strong and alone
Waiting patiently in a fluorescent pose
My my, what a flower! Dangling
Over a bed of death, eluding
The coffee-stained expiration of a December rose
~ for grandma~
Talon Hunter
Ars Poeticunt
I.
Silky smoke floats from a Marlboro Edge,
stinging weary eyes burned out from
pixelated computer screens.
Stacked due dates overwhelm the poet
searching for the right words.
II.
Quiet sleep language mumbles from her throat,
knocking me off my rolling chair
. She says, in delirium, a bird flies between us,
but nothing could ever come between us.
III.
Why do I wish for sleep when slumber will condemn me?
Why do I resent her paraphrased yet elegant dreams?
Do I have a rendezvous with failure,
or is her bird a reminder to soar?
IV.
Capital J’s dominate the page, while numbers batter my brain like swords on shields. Dates. My love sings a tune for the flight as I gather my wings and jump; no one knows how we sidestep ravines or how we laugh demons into the underworld. These fingers don’t flap, rather, they tap keys and grip pencils, scribbling all the wrong words.
V.
Muses often inspire by example and conceal reasonable doubt. I am fickle and jaded for my muse is my rambling mind, cursing me with fatigue and perching me on the highest tower, expecting a leap into black holes and untested Waters, haunted by historical penmen.
Although photographs are seemingly the new “timeless” descriptions of people, I am working on a piece called “Time Capsule”. In the piece, I will be describing every aspect of myself in the most realistic, yet poetic, tone in order to maintain a larger image of myself than one pixels can capture. I don’t want my grandchildren’s children to think I was a standard, one-dimensional man with no soul or feeling to distinguish him from the rest of humanity. I believe this work will require more drafts than any other piece I’ve done and I hope to gather some assistance from fellow writers and bloggers. To be continued…
Homeless children scurry the broken streets,
Trying to find hidden secrets left in the alleys,
They yell and screech nicknames and “Over here!”
Businessmen walk coldly by with briefcases
Filled with files claiming someone else’s money,
And the dirty children starve
One time I heard a boy of 7 or 8
Call for help like no other had before
His mother had died but he didn’t know
Dumpsters lined the buildings and cats
Strutted like drunk women leaving
Bars on a clear Saturday night in the city
One wrong turn and a girl found herself
Slammed to the ground by a dark man
Calling her a sexy little bitch,
But miraculously she was saved
By a girl of misfortune, a friend in the streets
She was called a “hero.”
You’re a special kind of beautiful
tempting me to kiss you
Many faces pass me by
with lust pinching my nerves
You’re a special kind of beautiful
tempting me to kiss you
I don’t want to straddle you
I don’t need you to find my soul
Charcoal lashes curled elegantly
overtop frosted gray marbles
And thin silent lips with an impatient
glow of loneliness
How that freckled canvas moved me…
You’re a special kind of beautiful
With a voice as delicate as glass,
I am hypnotized.
This is just the first paragraph that asked what Creative Writing meant to me. Let me know what you think!
As cliché as it sounds, when I create poetry or short stories I feel a distinct freedom many people can never grasp. Writing creatively requires an artistic touch and a profound imagination in order to find the perfect pieces to the puzzle and assemble them in a unique fashion. The importance lies in the process and the product, as both are mechanisms for expression, coping, and learning. Some people use music or art as their medium of expressing feelings and dreams; that’s what creative writing accomplishes for me. The power that accompanies original writing is invaluable. I can explore the craggy cliffs of Ireland or the fictional medieval marketplace in the great city of Puckshire while sitting alone at the Inkwell in Long Branch. I can force you to loathe a doctor for refusing to treat a single father’s work-related gash because he didn’t have the proper insurance documentation. I can illustrate the filthy factory scene where his injury took place using only descriptive words. I can break your heart with applicable tortures, I can lift your spirits, I can desecrate your beliefs, and I can beguile your spouses into pages plastered with words all from my very own bleeding pen. In times of heartache I’ll always have a paper sanctuary, and in times of despair I’ll always be able to visit my personal version of Neverland. There is a particular level of discipline required to thrive in the challenging environment of the creative writing process. The researching of form specifications and appropriate synonyms in the midst of writer’s block can be a daunting task, but the challenge and possibility of resulting greatness encourages me to thrust through any obstacles that present themselves. Creative writing means that I can express myself however I please for no particular purpose and a large portion of people can fall in love with my interpretations. Maybe I’ll never become a Stephen King or George R. R. Martin in terms of fame and fortune, but if I can obtain the same benefits out of creative writing that spurred these greats onward in their careers, then it’s all worth it in the end.
This was an idea that sort of expanded out of a classroom assignment. Not sure if it has any potential, but I enjoyed writing what I have so far. Maybe feedback will be the judge of its future. WARNING: Disturbing imagery.
Chapter 1?
Catalyst
The English princess hummed a haunting tune,
“Ladies can see the light beyond the flame.”
Her mother used to sing that hopeful song,
When blazes blinded all but cunning mom.
She often spoke of never becoming a mother, and now she is scandalously with child; unmarried. Her embarrassment cuts like barbed wire, slicing through her reputation, leaving a screaming gash. Mouth corners veer downward on her sulking grim face while her country, The New England’s expectations to produce a legacy opposed her strongest belief. She did not want an heir. She did not want a child. She could remember what it was like to be the Queen’s daughter in the old country so prim and proper when it came to royalty. Things have gotten much worse than they were now; marriage is the most sacred of vows, death is justice, children are necessary.
Little Princess Willa they called her, short for Willamina. Queen Willamina has a certain ring to it, but the High Council insisted on Willa. Mother is the most beautiful Queen in the whole world. Desperation and redemption begin coalescing behind the faded drumming of Willa’s withering conscience. Mother, why don’t you understand? To deflect the rumors of sharing unholy flesh, the princess hems her dresses to be tighter and tighter to counter the growth, but clenching the uterus into a breathless deathtrap only led to the brain-squashing of her own offspring. My mother, the Queen, never let me live, only survive. I have grown tired of surviving. Monster.
One morning, Queen Willa awoke to a brutal slaying. Deep red warmed the silk sheets in large stains. Her thighs were spattered with the evil that was the undoing of life. The sun’s gleam broke through the curtains like a spotlight on the main act. There, at the foot of the outrageously large mattress, was the dead prince. The figure looked like a mangled rabbit after the hounds had their way. Tiny and shriveled, the crimson-coated corpse forever slept in a puddle of blood. Tears and vomit and screams and thrashes overcame the Queen all at once; synesthesia-like. Her emotions bled out like her womb had the night before. In her unsettling shrieks, the handmaidens and butlers, who were instructed not to enter unless they wanted to die, could make out not but two words:
“Motherrrrrrr!” and “Murrrrrrderrr!”
Willa stripped the sheets with the cold infant wrapped up inside, reset the bed herself, and hustled past the servants lined up at her chamber doors. Down three corridors and two spiral staircases, the queen finally reaches the kitchen where she will dispose of the evidence of both lust and pride. Speeding past curious chefs towards the back doors leading to the dumpsters, Willa crashes into a server smoking a cigarette just outside the kitchen. The Queen jumps back and her sheets unravel, dropping the miscarried baby onto the pavement. It hits the ground with a flattening thud as Willa and the smoker are caught in a stare for a few moments. Then the server nearly cries and begs the Queen’s forgiveness.
“Please, your Highness, please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill me!”
Willa whimpers a bit and with a cracked voice she responds:
“You never saw me.”
He agreed to never say a word to anyone about what he had seen that day, but someone else’s eyes were lurking.
The royal family’s root name is Pattenson. Their crest is a wolf’s body with a dragon’s head walking through flame. Their family words are “All that is lost, is never lost.” The Pattenson family has always been royalty, for centuries and centuries before those. The bloodline flourished through the Millenium; kings and queens were birthing multiple princes and princesses, but not Willa’s great mother, Queen Auralea. She believed that one child was all she needed to produce a worthy heir to the throne. However, Auralea did not account for enemies. Willa’s childhood was a constant peril, especially at school. One boy in particular always tried to hurt little Willa. His name was Armen Sance.
One time, Armen and a few of his friends cornered her and threw her into the boys’ bathroom, clawing at her clothes. The Sances are a spiteful family, always looking to climb the social ladder as quickly as they can. Armen’s father instructed him to do this nasty deed to Willa and to photograph the result as blackmail against the royal family. Willa, down to her flipped-up skirt and tight training bra, flailed at her attackers but they were strong enough to pin her arms and legs to the tile floor that reeked of piss. One of them concealed her attempts to scream with her own stocking that he tore off her. Armen unbuckled his belt with a snicker just as the door slams open and a barrage of yelling blurs with a tall man in a white shirt and thin black tie. Professor Coshe.
The lurking eyes provide vision for a man with sinister plans. After the server and Queen make their accord and depart, he slinks toward the dumpster and reaches inside, wrapping the evidence in newspaper. With the premature carcass wrapped and tucked under his arm, the man disappeared through the alleyways. The next morning a doctor came forward presenting evidence of murderous tampering on behalf of the royal family. The streets filled with rioters who saw the macabre scene on their televisions and shouted for the angel of death. The New England was not forgiving in the least bit, especially not for heinous crimes against both their religion and their laws. The cold city sought justice as they marched on the Pattenson Cemetery, crackling the frosted soil beneath their stomps. They planned to bury the premature prince and desecrate the graves of his ancestors.
He carried her to his empty classroom, walked out, and locked the door. He returned moments later with clothes from the “lost and found” and a blanket to cover whatever else needed covering. Professor Coshe was a caring man, unusual for his age. He was tall and his muscles were toned just right. His brownish-blonde hair was wavy like Willa’s skirt. Willa was happy that he was the one who rescued her from those horrible boys.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks to you, sir” she replied.
He looked at her deeply for a moment and then asked, as if he was prompted to snap out of a gaze he wasn’t supposed to be in,
“Is there anything I can do?”
She thought about his question for a while before she answered,
“I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m afraid to stay in school. Could you bring me home?”
Professor Coshe complied with little Princess Willa’s wishes and brought her to the gates of the Royal Mansion. Although it was against her better judgment and the laws binding schoolteachers and student relations, Willa invited the professor in because her mother was away on business and her father was dead. She did not want to be alone after what had happened to her. They drank tea and snacked on shortbread cookies and watched an old TV program called Workaholics.
How did they find him so quickly? The Queen thought. It must have been that damned server, that son of a— she gathered herself. She rushed to her car, demanding her two most loyal guards to escort her to the Pattenson Cemetery.
Donnarita has seen them all; the corporates,
The mailmen, the bartenders, the gangsters, the unwanted babies,
The politicians, the nobodies…
…the dead. All of them called John
Doe because genitalia was the only “name”
Discovered on the deceased,
What about their families—Donnarita pondered.
The Sun distributed warm light equally
Across the broken city of Los Angeles.
Two strong men wheeled a metal cart
Cloaked in a stained white sheet
Into Donnarita’s silver-overloaded office.
She peeled back the front left corner
Revealing a human foot, colored
Like a frozen robin’s egg, labeled
by a cardboard tag tied to its toe:
#13,048—John Doe
Everything began as routinely as usual,
logging the delivery time, signing papers,
sipping luke-warm coffee, and stretching
latex gloves over her long, ring-less fingers.
Donnarita whipped the cover off
dramatically, as an art exhibit
would a Picasso painting,
to examine the sky-tinted corpse.
She slid her shoulders from her lab coat,
And, raw as birth, climbed steel to lay
Under John’s arm, head covering the holes
in his chest, one brown hand holding his name.
Stratus clouds sashay through
rays of sun,
Flickering epileptic light manically,
across his mattress,
Waking him in instinctive rage
like a cannibal’s
Festering thirst for flesh
and blood.
The cuckoo clock, assembled
in Mahogany
To match the warped floorboards,
creaks and clucks
Static-toned screeches
like knives
Piercing sensitive ears.
Every rattle of the wooden
fowl sounds
Like a siren with a bad cold,
reminding him of his deal—
That evil agreement
shrieking (and shrieking)
Inside, bubbling every nerve
to a frightening boil.
Those bleak voices forced
him to promise—
“Kill, kill, kill” they whispered
from the grave
From the depths, the hidden
pockets in his mind,
Kill him now. Kill him.
Sure-footed he stood and moved
towards the bathroom door,
Unsheathing a serrated
mercenary. Firmly
Smirking, he thrusted the blade
into his glass skull
Collapsing the victim,
shard by shard.
talonhunterribsam 