April 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Something… Some being…
Some unknown being or beings that, before it or they could strike out at him and offer him mortal agony or… at the very least, coronary heart failure, would have to come forth and be created from the imaginations of the many peoples of many officious little civilisations of eons past or, a much more disturbing possibility which was in actual fact a reality, from the modern minds of the supposedly great authors of the modern day… and if that were to happen in such tight and enclosed surroundings then he would certainly be sure to die and leave this unfair world in these less than sordid surroundings for the street, narrow as it clearly was, only allowed for one way traffic to pass through, and said traffic excluded cars.
Maybe what wanted—requested—demanded release from the confines of his stomach was just simply… just merely… just anxiety and exhilaration… the anxiety and exhilaration at being out at night at this time in an area of town out of which only the dead, or soon to be dead, walked.
It was reckless abandon and it had its course charted; it would travel up from the stomach… through the gullet, on into the wind pipe, passing the vocal cords and delivering an almost alien clamour but just before it reached his lips—while he still growled, he cut it short and didn’t allow it’s petulant cry out into the world outside his body.
He wasn’t a cowardly man… a slight bit superstitious, within reason that is, but he knew when to fear mans machinations; whether it be mugger from the physical plane of this world or monster from the mental arenas of his mind.
He thought once again of the monsters from his mind that now hid in the shadows… his sight only in black and white but with night, he had mainly black to make his way.
Suddenly he was struck by some long past nostalgic feeling… almost awe but not quite. The feeling told him of every film he’d watched that made known the era of middle age London and described the strife’s its people went through and suffered.
– ‘… Heh, if it only had mist.’
If only it did have mist… then he would have believed he was in the times of seventeenth or eighteenth century London but alas, to take that potential thrill from his blood, here came the realisation that there was no mist… and that it wasn’t London… but rather Dublin and all that there was, was only the trestles and rustles of the other drunken phantoms moving throughout the immediate area.
Yeah… that’s right, other drunken phantoms… meaning that he was one of them—part of their particular brood—.
He’d been drinking… and how!
But John Stolen was unlike all the others, he wasn’t one who could let his appearance become sullied by the advancement and effect of his intake of alcohol.
No, he had a part in his hair… an exact part and was wearing a stylish suit of black and blue.
That wasn’t all though, Stolen, John; stood at five foot four inches and although he wasn’t the tallest of men, he also wasn’t the stupidest either. In fact, he wasn’t stupid at all.
They repeatedly say, on news, radio and other such devices of the media that small men tend to over compensate for their lack of height by being overly aggressive and angry but John… Good ol’ John Stolen was the prime exception to the rule.
‘Incredibly witty’… His father called him the Irish Winston Churchill and his wit… his wit was something that women loved a great deal, but he wasn’t just witty… he was also quite cunning and excessively smart with the added luck of being modest… well, somewhat.
– ‘Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which we will not put.’
He’d out thought many taller foes with his wit and cunning… and his charm.
Oh, to speak of his charm… his Mother, when she was alive that is—God bless her Soul—, considered this one of his most appealing aspects and knew, when she suffered greatly from the cancer which ate away at her from the inwards to the outwards, that when she died he wouldn’t be unarmed and would most definitely be strong enough to travel the world and live a productive life. She knew that with dreadful unerring certainty… just as she knew with absolute conviction that when she died it would be an incredibly painful experience. The last ones always were…
But he’d hit a low that many great men suffer in life; Divorce.
– ‘Behind every great man is a greater woman… BAH! Behind every great man is a cunning manipulative whore with a knife. That ladies and gents is what is behind every great man!’
That back stabbing wife of his… she didn’t stab him in the back from behind, no… she looked him straight in the eye and struck deep with the emotional knife and twisted to a hundred and eighty degree turn but now… now he was in squalid surroundings searching for a means to get home.
He continued down the street in search for his carriage… his golden chariot that, with his column of phalanx foot soldiers, would ensure his safe travel home but should he not find his faithful chariot a bus shall have to do. As he continued down the street he also continued into the drunken stupor.
– ‘Where is my Chariot? Pharaoh demands his Chariot!’
His eyes were groggy and unfocused as he walked down the street… a tear crept from his eye as he thought once again of the betrayal he’d suffered from one so dear to him.
Then once again, the thought was either lost or pushed from his mind as he thought of his apartment and how it’s couch or even better, its bed would comfort him like his wife once did by cradling him in its bosom.
He walked along the side street in search for that loving bus stop, that hidden beauty with its broken signs, its shattered plastic glass and its caved in red seat that, despite the darkness and the shadows, shone and reflected whatever whimsical light able to penetrate the decrepit darkness. As the Seconds ran by and soon evolved into minutes, which were then were joined together and systematically turned in to a sequence of moments.
As these coordinated moments came and went, passing him by in minutes by the plenty, he finally made it to the bus stop of which he sought… at the centre on the high plastic transparent glass there hung a small rectangular object that stated the times of the bus’ and after a confused moment of staring blindly at it he began to make out the information that he’d missed a bus by only moments… those very same moments that passed him by just recently. He cursed silently under his breath and when he realised that he was alone, he cursed louder for those at extreme distance to hear also.
It would be another twenty to thirty minutes to his bus arrived…
As his boredom crept up on him from behind and his concentration wavered, he looked around himself avidly in hope of finding something interesting that would deter the on coming feet of the marching army of sleep. He’d read the advert of the bus poster, something about Caprice the super model and poker. ‘Hopefully Strip Poker’, he thought with a sly smile creeping across his face. He then looked to the ceiling of the bus shelter and saw that the class was cracked… and at last he looked to the bus times once again and then checked his watch yet again.
He found that only three minutes had elapsed. Three minutes exactly… then, just to his feet or to be more accurate, behind his feet a little to the left he found a leather bound journal of some sort.
On opening it, he found the inscription:
“These are the words of Casus O’M.”
“Shame… oh fierce shame. Barren in your lands!
It taunts my stricken heart and slaps my face not once but twice.
Twice for good measure it says…
… It says.
Twice for lack of honour it says…
… It says.
Does it show upon my collapsed being?
My face turned upwards.
A man with no reason?
A man attacked by shame?
I fear my sanity will leave me betrothed, now a shackle of what man once was.
Relationship, torn and incomplete… ruined spectacle of what shame can be.’’
“I can no longer breathe… for as I sit here in this deathly silence, penetrated only by the ticking of time upon the mantel and the wheeze from within my chest, I can think only of that thick, concentrated black cloud that has once again enveloped me… invaded my mind with no relent nor remorse… causing me to feel horror and sorrow, fear and sadness, anger and distain.
Out of all people I should be able to interpret my feelings and understand what they say… what they shout, what they proclaim to the world at large. Instead, I am dogged by this intense confusion on ‘what if?’
This hateful, this confusion, this madness- it attacks me with seemingly no cause nor reason, things that should be so much simpler; aren’t!
Once again I feel the convulsive urge to cough, that wracking tearing sound that emanates from within the borders of my chest and the territory of my throat.
And once again I wonder what I feel…
That old familiar cloud rumbles and rages throughout the sovereign lands of my chest once again. Lighting and illuminating parts unseen by the human eye but understood to be there and felt by the contorting of the face and tremor of the skin.
I had failed…
The legend that good always triumphs over evil led me askew and over to the one side. My ignorance was filled with the self belief that I would win no matter what and that my foe would be vanquished but in a matter of moments, a collection of seconds, my ignorant theory was proved incorrect as I fell from the house… as I fell from grace.
My own personal promise to myself that I shall rectify the situation comforts me slightly but not completely.
It’s time to level the ground lost…
It’s time to ignore ignorance…
It’s time to finish the job I set out to do!
No longer shall false self-belief cloud my judgement and impair my abilities, I shall leave that to him.
I won’t be defeated again… not by him, not by anyone.
What was once confused and disorientated, is now clear headed and ready for the battle!”
John Stolen set down the book; inspired somewhat by what he had read… sobered by the knowledge that no matter how dire the times were for him, they would and could get better. It was his choice to improve them… and by god as his witness, he would.
In retrospect, he picked up the journal and stood for the impending arrival of his bus.
He’d find this Mr Casus O’M. and return his property to him with the respect it and its author deserves.
He himself would not allow some shallow emotion to cloud his judgement and impair his abilities… he dropped the bottle from his hand and climbed upon his carriage.
– ‘Take me to the palace in this Carriage… Pharaoh has much to do!’
April 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Penna Spada, Italian for Pen Sword. Yes truly the pen is mightier than the sword, though for the sake of having a memorable snappy web domain, it’s been shortened, sounds good in Italian though, right? This is a place where we review those attempts in earnest to exemplify the strength of the quill over the blade only to have ended up as a horribly stunted pen sword.
Have you ever had a friend send you prose/poetry of a magnitude so bad that it took you literally HOURS to adequately sugarcoat the response? Is that piece of literature still available to you? Do you believe that the world needs to read it, to endure the squinting and raised eyebrows you did while first reading it, send it to us!! No piece of literature is too bad, awful or unintentionally homoerotic for us to publish.
For the mean time pieces will be published on an as received basis, so get one in while you can and be guaranteed to have it on the site!!!
Please send all submissions to firstname.lastname@example.org.