THATRANDOMPROMPT

“…. Jay. Hi.”

“Did you know that if you have cellulite it’s OK because! that means there’s lots more of a Charlie to hug!”

“I - wait, what?”

“Also, it’s not a coffee. I found that out for you,” I informify Charlie with extra jaysome.

“… you’ve been asking questions on tumblr again, haven’t you?”

“Uh-huh!” 

“I noticed.” Charlie pauses. “There’s a certain miasma of tumblr about you.”

“Huh?!”

“That’s for a prompt you were going to do,” Charlie explainifies. “Because your other ideas about a miasma were just a little, ah, too jaysome.”

“Really? Even the one about helping turtles become ninja turtles and escape the sewers?! They’d be a lot less meany if they didn’t smell you know.”

“I do. Also, you don’t need to find any cellulite for yourself, Jay.”

we must admit I am sad to say this that the miasma mankind has caused in many corners of the world by not attending to the rules of humanity is most appalling and rigorously rejectable

I stopped laughing every day I’ve never felt happier I stopped smiling every day I’ve never felt happier I stopped crying every day I’ve never felt wait I stopped feeling every day

there is a pollution in the air I don’t have enough febreeze I can’t apply enough deoderant this body wash is shit I can’t stop saying I because I think something is wrong therefore I am a fuck up or I’m fucked up I know life won’t stop fucking me at least someone still is

visiting friends because they stopped calling and they speak as if I’m not in the room

my favorite songs no longer make me sing this miasma only seems to follow me if I take a step & I keep trying to move on

I no longer feel the cigarette smoke as it pours from under my fingernails the mailman never comes anymore & I can’t remember the last time I went to the grocery store

flies envelop me worms bury in the dirt of my soul I cough maggots like clockwork every day at 1:33PM

I can’t feel anything anymore I don’t want to eat anything the doorbell never sings

my friends flies worms maggots everyone seems to know I’m already dead

capillary streets.

we are from the low clouds. expelled. rejected.

When you stretched (little chicken wing child arm hard stretch) out past the chainlink fencing, you could touch the cool outside of the house of something dead.

In the late summer, sticky miasma spilled out of crypts and through useless chainlink to touch the living.

To reach into our pink child lungs, to find our beating hearts and fill us

with whatever was left of them.

Candles were lit,

white wax was

supposed to

expel the demons

from each room 

of this house.

Sage burned,

chanted words,

prayers, circles,

stars, salt,

oaths,

elements,

priests, young

and old,

oil, 

water blessed

and musical vibrations

that affect physical 

forces

 were used

                               in vain.

The house was trapped 

in a storm of rage,

shame and despair

like the large eye of Jupiter,

swirling miasma 

of history and no amount

of incense

took away the smell 

of the corpses

shaking their fists

at what happened 

to them; 

Rotting earth 

is clean and does

not stop your

heart.

Decomposing,

furious dead can not

speak.

They can only 

emanate their feelings

from the ground, 

the walls, 

the attic,

their last cry of accusation

and sadness at

their fate

punches us

in the nose.

The only way to stop

this cursed,

self contained

piece of real estate

is to take it apart,

let the sun hit the bones,

the flesh left over,

the rain,

the wind,

all can take these            souls

away

from a hell

on earth

and  let them 

tell a new story

in the smell 

of a forest

morning mist,

the steam from

a drizzle after

a drought 

or lightning 

striking 

exactly where 

it is 

The professor was bringing us down, down into a tiny park. I was dying to get out and step on land again, even if it had to be done while I was covered up in layer upon layer of protective clothing. I leapt off and stamped on the ground as soon as the flyer touched the grass. I stretched, about as well as I could. My goggles were already starting to get muddy.

“Take these wipes,” the professor said from behind me, her voice muffled by the oxygen mask she was wearing. “Use them only when you need to. There aren’t many of them.” I formed an ‘OK’ sign with my fingers and stuffed the wipes into a pocket.

“I don’t bring many people here,” the professor said. Not a single hint of her humanity was visible through the protective clothing and the tinted goggles. “Not many people believe this place exists to begin with. They think I’m crazy. Well, now you’re crazy too. Crazy enough to come here.”

I thanked her for the privilege and suggested we get a move on.

The people of the city went about their daily business. They never wore any protective gear. The miasma wasn’t just invisible to them—it was inside them now. They lived entire lives within the horrid air of this city, becoming corrupted from within.

They walked down the sidewalks, and entered shops, and could be seen crossing the streets and boarding their cabs. They wore hats and dresses, they laughed and they spoke in the Old Language.

“It’s tempting to think this is a real city,” the professor said, “But it’s as real as a dream. The people here can’t see you. Their eyes are so clouded by the air, they can only see others who are contaminated.”

She was right, of course. None of the people in the city so much as glanced in our direction. I thought of taking pictures again, but the professor had forbidden cameras. “A pointless burden,” she’d said, “All you get out of pictures here is a brown haze.”

The longer we spent in the city, the more I came to find that the dwellers here seemed to be living normal lives. They weren’t sickly or diseased like I’d imagined. They weren’t crawling on the earth, or clawing at each other for some kind of cannibalistic survival. They were perfectly dressed, civilised, gentlemanly people with sophisticated lives. Just like us, you could say.

“Nonsense,” the professor said, her body turned vaguely in my direction. She used a wipe to clean her goggles, but I still couldn’t see her eyes. “They’re gone. They’re not in the real world anymore. Not in our world. The miasma has taken a told of them, and it has consumed them from the inside out. They think they’re living normal lives, but they’re manipulated by the particulates and they don’t even know it.”

I countered the claim. “Does it matter?” I asked, “They’re happy doing what they want. What more can you ask for?”

The professor pointed a finger at me threateningly, “If they’re not like us, they’re not living the right way. It doesn’t matter how satisfied they seem. This whole city is a corruption. You can see it, I can see it. They can’t see it. Their perception is flawed, ours isn’t.”

I took the goggles off my head and tossed them to the ground. The glass shattered on the street. Layer after layer of clothing covering me fell and I breathed in deeply.

“You idiot, you grandiose idiot,” the professor fumed.

The world felt so clear and so clean. And a gentleman and a lady were inquiring if I was alright. The professor was nowhere to be found. The grassy park we’d landed on was empty, save for a few children playing tag.

to wake from a daze just to dream

of the simpler ways we used to stagger

buzzed on the backs of hairy dogs

 fleas fleeing