Day 12,128

I awoke from my troubled sleep,
As I often do in the mornings.
The sun was high and bright as it poured its powerful light
Down our collective gullet.
I watched as a boy climbed on top of his car,
Flat on his belly like a slug.
He spun like a top and kicked his arms and legs.
Too early in the morning for such hijinks.
No coffee for me, I don't drink the stuff.
Just a splash in the face and a kick in the pants
And then I'm out,
Attempting not to melt.

Fragile

Things are fragile, no way around it.
When I deem something precious, I want to hold it and enjoy its luster.
Just for as long as I can.
With every sunrise more life is lost.
We get that much closer to the end of our ride.
I don't want to waste my finite minutes on trivia and scrutiny.
I want to breathe deeply the air as it flows around me.
To drink the wild concoction of a series of random events.
That is what it means to be a free man in this free idea we call freedom.
Unbound by chains both real and imagined by those who would imprison.
I am alive, and to live is to claw and scratch and spiral from enlightenment to hopelessness.
And vice-versa.
The sun will rise again soon and burn away whose time has come.
The rest will try to run forever.

Youth Decay

James slowly opened his bedroom door. He stood amazed and terrified as he witnessed a small man on his bed tossing around his freshly laundered and neatly folded t-shirts and underwear. The small man resembled a standard-issue garden gnome, complete with white beard and pointy red hat. Laughing like a jackal and with a crazed look in his eyes, the small man bounced furiously on the bed, whipping boxers and briefs like an all-star. James was quite surprised to see such an unnerving scene, especially in the place where he slept. Nightmares were sure to follow.

After taking a second to catch his breath, James closed the door. He wouldn't return to the room until his mother came home, where she discovered the aftermath of the small man's eruption. She of course thought James' story was bullshit, and blamed him for the clothing disaster. James grew sad.

And somewhere, the small man is still laughing.

Old Stuff: Starring Mark Wahlberg

The doctor sat across the table from him, a Dixie cup in each hand. She had the look of mischief in her eyes as she shook the cups like little maracas, rattling the pills within them.

"Do I have to choose?" he asked her.

"No," she said. "Never again."

She placed the cups in front of him, then expectantly crossed her arms and sighed. She was growing impatient.

These were pills in name only. They were theurgy suppressors: the ultimate achievement of man's dedication to science and logic. Designed to prevent any and all use of what Controllers believed to be magics, the suppressors were "built" by scientists and engineers brought together from every civilized country in the new world order. The perfect combination and dosage would eliminate esoteric sensitivity to the point of no return. The ghost of Joseph McCarthy would be proud.

"Can I see it again?" he asked. "Just one last time? I want to be sure."

The doctor grew agitated at his persistent and tiresome request, but she wasn't completely without mercy.

"This is it, Aldous," she grunted. "It's time to take your medicine. No more bullshit from you. Say your goodbyes."

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on the table between the two cups. The paper was blank, except for a small pencil drawing of two interlocked gears at its center. He looked down at the paper and smiled knowingly as the gears began to move on the page.

"Goodbye, Doctor. Say hello to your mother for me."

Old Stuff: The Night I Was Sick

It was a pocket of time inhabited by a fevered state.

Movements back and forth that were performed by me and someone else who looked like me.

Dull pain and dizziness punctuated with shaking and mild hallucinations.

Neither of us, myself or my doppelganger, could find rest.

Why were there two of us?

Old Stuff: Milk's Best Friend

I trudged along the snow and ice covered sidewalk, carefully planting each foot to prevent unwanted slippage. The milk had been out a mere 20 minutes before I realized I'd forgotten to return it to the refridgerator and began my journey back to make amends. Freshness is important, you see. With a sure and steady pace, I would preserve the pure calcium in just a few minutes time. Unbeknownst to me, Oppenheimer, the neighbors' cat, had gotten word of this free-range milk and vowed to have it for himself. With a fury, he dug under the fence that divides our nations and purposely made his way for my door. At the first sign of ajar, he would have the milk. I was distraught. My stride quickened as the calcium called to me for rescue, a cat's throat is no way to go. My footing was unsure and treacherous, but I would not faltar. Oppenheimer must be stopped. I need milk. No vanity, necessity. This is my life, get your own. As I reached the house, Oppenheimer was disinterested in me, never removing his gaze from the doorknob. He was pretending to be cold, looking to gain sympathy from me, and access to the milky goodness. Not today, Oppenasshole. I reached into my coat pocket and produced a small, metal cube. The cube was shiny silver, and decorated with little red faces, all with different expressions. I held the cube out toward Oppenheimer and he glanced at me, bored and judgemental, then back towards the door. I managed to suppress a smirk as I pushed a small button on the top of the cube, causing it to spin and shift and grow until it finally popped. Where once was a cube now stood a 3-feet tall metallic cyber-dog, purple steam rising from it's newly formed body. The cyber-dog let out a grinding, robotic growl and opened it's jaws wide as a beam of purple energy burst from it's mouth. With obvious cat-like reflexes, Oppenheimer shot to his left, dodging obliteration by mere inches as the energy beam tore into the front of my house behind him. The beam ripped through the entire structure from front to back, exiting into the ground in my back yard. A singed, basketball-sized hole peered through every room. From where I stood I could see into the kitchen, where the force of the beam had shaken the milk and caused it to fall from the counter onto the floor. The calcium now puddled, a victim of the merciless progression of technology and industrialization. Defeated, I sat down on the front steps and sighed. The cyber-dog sadly clanged over, and laid its head on my lap. Good boy. Good boy.