Monday, November 16, 2009

Faust

So this is it, he thought. This is fame.
Kurt sat in the limo with his nose to the window, approaching his next and last show in New Jersey. As they passed the entrance of the venue, Kurt could see thousands of people swarming around the ticket purchase booth paying what ever they had in their pockets just to see him and his fellow band mates. Am I cheating them?
The lights, the crazed and hysterical fans, the heroine coursing through his blood, feeling it in his veins; some would kill to be in his position. Yet he wasn’t fazed by it, he wanted to be, but it all felt old. As he picked up his Fender Mustang guitar he felt like he was punching in his timecard like chum who hated his job. Was this worth it? He didn’t deserve to be here, he cheated his way here.
This thought never left him the entire show. It angered him. It put a pit in his stomach that he couldn’t move. It made him blind. He played ‘Polly’ on autopilot, not thinking about the words that left his mouth, not thinking about the chords he strummed, nothing else. As the song ended, and he was forced to come to, he felt his rage rise into his throat, he let it out. He smashed his guitar on a near by amplifier. Sight gone white, the crowd erupted as if

Monday, November 2, 2009

6 word memoir

They made me who I am.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

no title yet

A bit of turbulence; this is why Allison hated flying. She grabbed hold of both her armrests with either hand and braced herself eyes-closed. She tried to free herself mentally from this hell since she couldn’t physically; free of this plane, free of that kid continuously kicking her seat, free of the black clouds she could see out her window, and of the odorous man sitting next to her, who some how slept through it all. She focused on the task at hand: getting that book.
This book was not just any book; it was universally renowned for its iniquity. Anyone even slightly interested in the Black Arts would gasp at its mentioning and faint at its sight. Animus Desum de Inferne drew a line between her audacity and her ignorance.

The plane landed in a small airport in Italy where she had a drink at the bar before catching a cab to her hotel. It had been a long day and Allison planned on getting some rest before starting her journey the next day. She fell backward with her arms out onto her king-sized, unbelievably comfortable bed. She stared at the ceiling and thought about what she was getting her self into. She knew that there was time to turn back, but she also knew it wasn’t an option. This had been her obsession, her passion. She had always been interested in demonology since her 3rd grade best friend, Natalie.
Everyday, after school, Allison and Natalie would walk home together, always stopping at Vinny’s corner store to buy their favorite penny candies. Natalie fell sick, and soon stopped going to school. No longer did Allison chase anyone around the school yard in a game of tag, no longer did she jump rope, but instead swung alone, head down, toes dragging in the dirt. After school, Allison was aloud to visit Natalie and they would play imagination games in her room until dinner was ready, and Allison had to return home. Natalie fell sicker, and Allison was not aloud to visit anymore. A month went by with out seeing her best friend. Allison became frustrated, why wouldn’t they let her see her? After school, Allison tiptoed up there front stairs, and quietly turned the doorknob, inched the door open, and poked her little, blonde head in. She heard screaming, shut the door, and ran down the path way to the front gate. She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard the scream again, from outside, and she realized that the screaming wasn’t at her. She went back and stood in the front hallway at the bottom of the stairs.
The screams where coming from Natalie and an older man who was trying to yell over her screams. Allison felt petrified but fascinated, and she made the decision to go up. One step at a time. Natalie’s cries grew lower and lower in tone; soon they were growls. Natalie’s one, single, growling voice, grew into three, four, five, six, and then seven voices screaming simultaneously. How was this possible? The older man’s voice got louder and more intense at this. Allison’s mind said to run but her body was on autopilot climbing those stairs. Allison reached the top. The door to Natalie’s room was open a crack and she put her wide, blue eye up to it. Inside she saw Mrs. Crowley in tears, clutching a white handkerchief, balling uncontrollably. Mr. Crowley was to the right of her by the bed side, holding something down. The older man, who Allison heard shouting earlier, was a priest. But where was Natalie in all of this? What was that thing that was in her bed? Eyes like black buttons, mouth contorted, hair frazzled, and hands tied, this was not Natalie. It was terrifying; it held a woman figure, but spoke in a man’s voice, speaking in a language that Allison didn’t recognize. She saw Natalie’s bear on the floor beside the bed, was this Natalie? No, it couldn’t have been, this was not the girl who taught her how to hopscotch, or a blow bubble with her gum… was it? Eyes wider still, she continued to watch. The Priest cried out something in the name of the Lord, and splashed holy water on the monster. Its face burned where the drops hit, and it shrieked. It flung its head back into the pillow and tried to free its hands of the rope that bound them above her head. Chest protruding in the air, heels digging into the bed, it gasped for air before releasing again. Mr. Crowley’s faced held no expression, just watched, and held what was no longer his daughter.
Natalie, or the thing, spat blood at the father and laughed; she had bit off half of her tongue. Mrs. Crowley ran to take Mr. Crowley’s position while Mr. Crowley vomited. Allison knew what this was, it was an exorcism. But how, how could this have happened to her best friend? The feeling of worried for her friend quickly turned to her self when her young and ignorant mind ran over the possibility that maybe she was possessed too, just from be associated with Natalie.
Through a crude and bloody smile, Natalie held the freed half of her tongue between her teeth to show the attendants before spitting it at the Priest. It made a splat sound as it hit the Father in the face, making him grimace, and momentarily causing the exorcism to come to a stop while the priest cleaned himself up. Natalie let out a maniacal laugh. Allison stood paralyzed, trying to take all of this in. A croaking sound grew in Natalie’s throat and speaking in theses tongues, the bed she was tied to began to rise into the air. The priest cursed, realizing this demon was beyond his powers. He gathered his things, and ran out of the room, pushing past Allison. Mr. and Mrs. Crowley ran after the priest pleading and begging him to stay, to try once again to free their daughter. Down the stairs they went, and Allison stood alone with the monster. Natalie, or what was apparently occupying her, spotted her. She sat strait up, pulling with all of her might on the ropes that restrained her, and screaming at Allison. The ropes began to fray, and one snapped, releasing on treacherous arm. Allison didn’t stick around to see if the other rope would hold out or not. Natalie passed away shortly after that day.
And since that day, Allison has been mesmerized by the ideal. Obsessed, she felt almost jealous of Natalie, jealous that she had come in contact with the most powerful, and evil of all things, the Devil. Recalling all of this, Allison began to sleepily take her last blinks, before she closed her eyes for the last time that night.
The next morning she began her expedition. The man who had this book was known as Mr. Linden, and he had quite an impressive library. Mr. Linden was very kind when she spoke to him on the phone previous to her trip, and why shouldn’t he be? After all, he lived in paradise. He lived in an old estate known as ‘Torre Cangiani’. It was a beautiful place about 10 kilometers outside of Sorrento in southern Italy. It was a massive beauty that was draped in green vines and bushes. The fragrance of the lemon and olive groves was almost as splendid as the view of Mount Vesuvio and the Bay of Naples, which was visible from the high hill the building was perched on. Sticking her hands in her pockets, her boots crunched against the pebbled driveway. Here she finally was, Mr. Lindens Library. He warned her about this book.