Oh, nature. Imagine if we procreated like this.  Hm?

The female Tarantula Hawk stings and paralyzes the spider, then either drags her prey back into her own burrow or transports it to a specially prepared nest, where a single egg is laid on the spider’s abdomen, and the entrance is covered. When the wasp larva hatches, it creates a small hole in the spider's abdomen, then enters and feeds voraciously, avoiding vital organs for as long as possible to keep the spider alive. After several weeks, the larva pupates. Finally, the wasp becomes an adult, and emerges from the spider's abdomen to continue the life cycle. 

Tarantula Hawks are also nectarivorous. The consumption of fermented fruit sometimes intoxicates them to the point that flight becomes difficult.

No man can eschew.

The pull is strong from bow to stern. Through crested waves on stormy waters they cannot resist, all faith in the figurehead. Bring us home safely, sweet maiden. None can tell you if it's the lure of riches, the promise of triumph, to ascend into the graces of good fortune or simply to return unscathed and singing the praises of their own success. What they can tell you are stories of how strong their desire is, how undeniable the urge to vanquish the menace lingering just outside the reach of sound judgement. They set sail and hold fast to the passion in their hearts.

It is said that countless seafarers have seen the warning, the telltale signs, but none can refuse the temptation.

Nemo's omen.

Dreamy to the max.

It's raining.

My sock is wet.

Too bad I hid a boot.

My addiction was gruesome and shameless. I couldn't remember where I had gone off the tracks it had been so long. There was no living without it, I had to have it. I thought of all the horrible things I'd done to get it, but this was the lowest I'd ever sunk. I might not come back from this one, but my craving told me it didn't matter. I rose from my bare mattress and looked at my skeletal frame in the mirror.  I used to be a handsome man, but that was another lifetime. I pulled on a shirt and headed for the door. I had agreed to meet him at a bar not far from where I lived, a shit hole. The perfect place for such seedy dealings. I showed up first so I ordered a drink and sat at the bar. It was 8:00. He arrived about halfway through drink #2 looking just as well to do as I expected he would. He slid me an envelope and left without saying anything at all. I shrugged and emptied my glass. Back at my apartment I rifled through the papers, the request was very specific. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I turned the key over in my hand, pressing it into my palm.

He lived a short train ride away. I stepped off and walked the rest of the way. Nice neighborhood, wealthy, I must have looked absurdly out of place strolling down Post Lane. I stuck to the shadows. It was almost 1AM.  I could see a giant aquarium through the veiled front window, soft blue light. There I was. I hadn't lost my resolve yet, testament to the monkey on my back. I moved cautiously up the walk running my finger along the teeth of the key. I thought Neighborhood Watch would be shining their lights at any second, but I got into the house without incident. I saw her immediately, draped across the lounge, she was stunning. Curled blonde hair fell in waves around her exquisitely pale face. One slender arm hung weakly off the cushion. There was a bottle of wine on the table with a scattering of pills around the tipped glass. I was uneasy with the situation. How would I collect if my work was already done? I pushed toward her and leaned in to check her breathing, shallow and staggered, but still there. I brought my hands to her throat, almost lovingly. Her skin was so soft and pliant to my fingers that I thought it might not be as awful as I'd imagined, I was wrong. I inhaled deeply and tightened the grip, my heart was slamming like an unbalanced washing machine. What the fuck was I doing? Her eyes fluttered open locking with my own. She parted her lips attempting to draw breath but only a small sound escaped her. She didn't fight to live, she just wilted beneath me, content to be done with it all.

I didn't recall my trip home, but there I was, and there was my payoff. I wanted to be conflicted, to feel human about the whole thing, but the ruby colored prize that was now in my hands destroyed any thoughts of regret. I had done it and I wasn't sorry.

Murder for a jar of red rum.

Every word is under scrutiny. The delivery has to be just so, lives depend on it. I can tell he's nervous, sweat on his brow, thinking too hard about all of it. The quill is static on the parchment, his fingers are trembling. He looks to me for encouragement and then lets out a sigh with a hand to his forehead. I have nothing to offer him. Even if I wanted to help, I couldn't. It's not permitted. He has one chance. I know the immense pressure he's feeling. He pulls his shoulders back and starts the scrawl of words. He's tapped the tree and it's slow, but I can tell the sugar is there. He has one chance, but now that he's begun writing he sees that it's an opportunity. His script has picked up speed and his face now carries more hope than despair. I smile. I am, after all, secretly rooting for him. Minutes pass and paragraphs become pages. He dips into the inkwell and glances in my direction with curious eyes, then he smiles.

"Do nine men interpret?"   "Nine men." I nod.

Just fucking do it, right? What is there to lose? Moral standing? There's no regard for that anyway, the world is rotten with it.

Think about it every day, it's devouring them. At least, for now, they'll be conscious. If they wait too long there won't be any of them left, just the bile. Resistance is futile, the light is already fading, just give in to it.

Live evil.

The grasslands of New Zealand were under consideration for the new resort. The spot they were looking at had a beautiful treeline and miles of space for golfing. There wasn't much residence to contend with so they felt pretty confident about moving forward.

Burnt Hill is a small, rural community named for the extinct volcano in the township's southeast corner. They arrived late in the afternoon, settled in at the tavern and headed out to explore the area, but not before grabbing a pint and chatting up the bartender.

"How's business these days, mate? We're looking to expand our market into the area."

"Yeh 'mahket', eh.  What's yeh mahket?"

"We're in the resort business, we'd like to bring one here, with a golf course.  You know liven up the local economy."

"We do just foyn, d'noe 'ow many galfers yuh'll get from these pahts, but I'm sure it'll 'ave it's own draw. Yuh'll wanna watch the fahrust, tho.  Ogres."

"What?  Did you say ogres? Like goblins and trolls, ogres?"

"Aye."

They gave each other smug glances, thanked the barkeep for his time and settled their bill. By the end of the night and after canvassing most of the town, they decided they were part of some elaborate ruse to dissuade them from building here. If not that, then the whole town was ogre crazy.

In the morning they headed straight for the plot of land they were looking to develop. It really was gorgeous, so hilly and green. And, those TREES, those trees were dense and lush, the perfect backdrop. They pulled the trigger that day. Full steam ahead.

*fast forward*

The Verge Resort is thriving, reservations booked months out. The golf course is lovely.  In celebration of their success, the development team is playing 18 holes. Next turn, one of them strikes the ball into a tree deep in the rough and it bounces back onto the fairway, lucky boy. He's lining up his next shot and hears the snap of wood in the trees behind him. No one else is paying attention, they're engaged in conversation by the golf cart. He turns and walks slowly toward the treeline, peering in. There's a smell in the air, it's earthy and rotten, tinged with sulfur. Movement catches his eye and before he can register what's happening a giant hand is around his chest, snatching him from the ground. Breathing is impossible in the clutch of what he cannot believe he's really seeing. The bartender from the tavern is standing nearby.  He makes a motion with his hand and whispers:

"Ogre, flog a golfer. Go."

He'd been watching her for months. All her windows held a warm glow that heightened his desire to be near her, that beautiful creature living across the street. Sometimes he got the feeling that she knew and played it up for him. He also sometimes got the feeling that spiders might come pouring out of his heat vents in droves, so yeah.

On his way home from work he stopped at the corner market to grab a six pack.  It was yoga night and he was eager. She would be home in an hour. He gave the house a quick tidy and sat down to read a couple chapters. His excitement mounted as the minutes ticked by.  When he saw her car pull into the driveway he set his book aside, cracked another cold one and waited.

It had been a long week and she was looking forward to unwinding with long, slow stretches and soothing music. She flipped the lights on as she came in the door, set her groceries on the counter and kicked off her shoes. 

Sorting all the items into their place was part of her process. Canned goods in the lazy susan, vegetables in the right drawer, fruits in the left, and dairy was always on the door. 

As Joy Division flowed from the speakers, she slipped into leggings and a tank top. Just stepping onto the soft foam of her mat relieved the stress of it all. She reached for the ceiling, feeling every muscle release in a warm surge of comfort.  Hands to the floor, she lowered herself into cobra and continued on with her regimen. 

He couldn't get enough of her. The floor length curtains framed her every move perfectly. She looked so soft from here, skin to touch, beyond a dream. The arc of her body when she moved and reached made him lightheaded with yearning. He imagined being with her; the way her hair would smell, the way she'd respond to his caress, the definition of her jaw as her head fell back in rapture. 

He loved her.  I knew it wasn't right.  It was creepy, and probably illegal, but hey.  He was my friend, so I told him:

"Go. Desire vagina, man. I gave. Rise, dog."

I view this life as an obstacle to be breached. What it holds on the other side is of no concern to me. Just the procedure of penetration and the knowledge that I can encroach safeguards if I so choose. Right?

There's a world in my eyes, flooded with texture. You don't have to row, the current will carry you. Drink it in. No straw. No ice. Full strength. Intoxicate yourself with my tinker toy thoughts. Build it up and tear it down. Make it your own, again and again. I only live here.

The breeze ruffles me. I seek solace in the tree. My fingertips drag along the bark. It's jagged and soothing. My ear to the trunk, it beats with my own. This tree is all I know. Earth below, stars above. We have an understanding, truth. Time brings another sunrise. Clouds frustrate my comfort. Butterflies envelop my lungs and carry me away. Someone else is under my tree today.

mo chroí

Racing, head down and bucking against the clock. Impetus.

mo chroí

Forlorn, gazing at the cosmos through a broken window. Isolation.

mo chroí

Overflowing, swells crashing starboard in the perfect storm. Fulfilled.

mo chroí

Vacant, standing in the ashes, smoke spiraling. Betrayed.

mo chroí

Perfervid.  


On a clover, if alive, erupts a vast, pure evil; a fire volcano.

searching quietly for affirmation, I forget what I am. 

emotions twisting weakly in the wind, they blow through my fingertips and I almost lose them entirely.

I scratch my surface to find the truth, lacuna stares me down.

hear the echoes of my knocking and turn a blind eye.

substance is lost, pulchritude is all there is...

Words. I have words. My words are afraid of my mouth. They stay in my head until I pick up a habit. The chair is against the door. No one in. No one out. You can't peek through the keyhole. Nothing is happening. The lights will flicker, but it doesn't matter. Open your eyes, they can't hear you. Don't move away from the window, you need the permit. All I can see is the keyhole, but the window contains me. I need to look, I need to know...what the keyhole holds.

"Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you was beyond my control." - author unknown

What is going on inside that man's head?  Has he always been that way or did he gradually decline into the obvious madness that's holding him?  He's tall, probably six and a half feet, and slender. His movements are palsied and his hands are contorted as he preens his plastic bags. He has four plastic grocery bags that are all full of other plastic grocery bags. Some of them are crumpled and stuffed in, others are folded neatly.  He's obsessing over them. One of his feet is wearing a boot.  His other foot is wrapped in plastic bags fastened with black electrical tape and wearing a sandal. I'm sitting next to him while I wait for my coffee. He's incredibly fidgety, moving things on the counter around, touching his coffee carafe, sliding his cup, smoothing the bags, rifling through a billfold full of coupons and a bus schedule.  I'm staring out the window at a space just past his things. He thinks I'm watching him, which I am. I glance up to his face, give him a little smile and then awkwardly look away. One of his bags of bags is tattered into ribbons and hangs off the counter by his knee, fluttering every time he moves. He's got blond hair tied loosely into a low ponytail with stray strands tucked behind his ears. His skin is sallow and soft looking.  There's a listlessness in his eyes that speaks of a long and troubled life. I saw him a short while later walking by the window of the comic shop with his bags of bags. Thanks, crazy guy, for being there. Good luck with your bag life.

He's not in there.  He's checked out.  An empty man on a fixed track.

Deep pools, caustic, eating away from the inside out. Strip away artifice and show clear reality. That reality is the light at the bottom, faint but certain and overwhelmed by a life of unchosen circumstance. Fan the flame to inferno and reclaim yourself. Nothing is lost that can't be found. 

Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?

Was it a car or a cat I saw?

It was neither. Or, maybe it was both.  

It was John.

I rolled over squinting my eyes against the sun that shone through the bedroom window. My face was warm, I loved it. The curtains whispered in a light breeze, telling me the secrets of my day. I knew I was, at least, one more long stretch away from leaving the bed, the cats concurred. 

Sleepy toes on Berber carpet.  Soft steps to cold tile. The slide of fabric and sweet relief. Diagonal shafts of light crisscross the hallway.  Every day should be so lovely.

Downstairs, no one is home. All of the doors and windows are open. It's full-on perfect, fucking, summer. 

I was here alone, but there was this beautiful breakfast laid out in the kitchen. Fresh coffee, buttered toast. Slices of fruit and slices of bacon. What was going on? Why was everything ready? Had I already been down here?  Did I do this? 

I knew it wasn't me for two reasons.  

No lemon, no melon.

The sun might shine. There could be a beautiful breeze. It wouldn't matter.

If the clock spun to that precious moment. If fate dealt the winning hand. It wouldn't matter.

What's the point of winning the battle if you only enjoy the fight?

That's her.

Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard.

Patrolling the gaps was no one's pleasure, even less so after dark. He could see the camp lights on the surface of the water.  It all looked so far away.

A rustle of motion drew his attention and he froze in his tracks, rifle poised, searching for a target. He listened intently and waited for what he feared was there. Nothing happened. A quick scan of his surroundings settled his nerves. Then, a glimmer in the gap caught his eye.

The Irish had gone extinct.  They'd been culled by the infiltrators for reasons unknown, but due to that elimination their teeth had become quite valuable.

Paget saw an Irish tooth, sir, in a waste gap.