The 31st Of The 12th

We called the dead from their graves and told them they’ve finished one year of their eternity. Such good friends they were.By the campfire, flames dispensed in the still air after eating the last of their book’s pages.

Some things never fade. They just change states or shed skin. Bones remain as flower petals fall of scaly skin, and scaly skin falls off skeletal remains.Crumbling masks. Origins that send goosebumps to the skin.

I was never able to understand such processes. I don’t see the point anymore anyways.I’ve heard congratulations on the new beginning, the new birth. Such naive actions. The book hasn’t finished yet. The writer’s hand just got crippled. His tongue got cut; his eyes popped. This always happens on the 31st of the 12th. The brain is what remains functioning, forced to reflect on a story it can no longer tell. Self- torture. The worst and the best all send yearning thoughts that sizzle and fry. Those who use their senses never experience such pain. This year, I agreed to continue the book that will be burnt.

I attached a pen to the clock’s arms and surrounded it with papers pinned down by my friends’ bones. I hid it all away in the depth of the jungle.

Let them cripple my hands. The clock will continue the story.

Woven Stories : Hers

She’s the girl with the messy notebooks scattered all over her bedroom, the ones with scratches over words and words trailing behind arrows of curved paths and a corrected direction. She never wrote with neat pens or fancy brushes, the ones you dipped into dark-soul ink and wrote a few letters, then stopped to stare at the beauty the feathers left behind.  No. She didn’t. And her pencils were never sharpened. She left it to her ideas to sharpen words, then printed them with thick graphite on small sheets of old brown paper that smelled like yesterday, and her hand never wrote straight.

When she was at home, she would drink her coffee in an orange mug with a metal spoon inside. You always found it on the small round oak table to the right of her bed, sometimes full and boiling hot, other times empty and cold, always with the spoon standing inside. And right there, just to the left of the mug on that small round oak table she bought from the antiquity store for 20$, you always found a Hemingway novel on top of “Post Office” or a Hawking book lying over “Ham on Rye.” She would not let Henry Chinaski leave, and he did not mind. She fell in love with how they both lived over their writings : Him, through currency he got paid for writing raw novels to a sparrow; her, through the sheer existence of assembled words.

And every night before she went to sleep, she always ran her fingers through his books as she imagined how he had once written them on a barely-working typewriter in the corner of his bedroom while his head hurt from alcohol, his stomach rumbled from hunger, and his eyes darted back and forth to his bed where a women he had met a few hours ago lay peacefully sleeping naked. She shuddered as she thought of the scene, but didn’t shut the book for his tales of ordinary men were too beautiful. “One more hour,” she told herself as the hands of the clock struck 2 AM, then dove into the pages.