Brain Snippets

I don’t know the words that are creeping in my lungs, up my throat, and hanging around in the cracks between my teeth. They lounge there, smoking cigarettes, playing like they’re famous when no one’s ever heard them before. They sip all the martinis I’ve never had and they make the place home.

I wish they would get out.

When I’m being spoken to, I wish my words would get up off their asses and greet them. Charm them. Woo them with their fancy ways, but they’ve made a home inside my mouth and they’re not leaving any time soon. They dress up and they tell jokes that no one but me can laugh at.

I wonder how they got this way.

Why did they choose to settle down when everyone else’s words are constantly traveling. Flying first class to surrounding ears and spreading ideas, thoughts, dreams. My words live a sedentary life. Homebodies. Every last one of them.

And so I have to do the hard work.

If they won’t leave the cracks between my teeth, it’s up to me to catch them. Wrangle them from my mouth, down to my fingers, where they reluctantly slide from my hand to the pen to the page. Where they attempt to settle once more. And once more, it falls to me to send them out, in fancy paper airplanes to my friends, family, anyone willing to listen.

That’s just the way you make me feel. Cats playing chess with short furry paws. Will they stay together?

An apple with an axe in it. Tea kettle’s still sitting on the stove filled with cold water.

My neck is going to break.

Don’t leave your things out in the rain. Old phone batteries draining away to nothing. Aliens spin on Saturn’s rings.

Eat some good pizza.

Smooth Jazz, rough jazz, sparkle in the starlight jazz. Put tissues on the grocery list. Free pens at events that never get used. I didn’t get much sleep last night but I woke to a crazy dream.

We are all Gina Linetti.

Tiny couch with red cushions built for an ant.

What is it about anger, that lets it hook itself into our soul and carry us forth seemingly indefinitely? Why is it so had to shrug off that haze? How is it so tempting to let the hate rise up and alienate us from everyone else around? Who deserves to be on the receiving end of our ire who has not provoked it? Where can we go to escape that frustration and that burning sensation in our chests? When do we let it go?

How is it that sadness can lie undetected for so long only to sweep over us at the most trivial thought? What makes it so difficult to pull ourselves out of the feeling that we are drowning without anything to hold on to? When is it time to let sadness pass on and get over the cause of it? Why does it hit like a wave, pushing you back as it rolls in? Who causes those feelings of self doubt and misery and can we be at fault ourselves? Where do we let the tears escape?

Why does anxiety have to build with such force and frenzied energy? Who can we trust to temper our racing nerves and calm our shaking hands? Where can we store that electric buzz, that shock of electricity, in order to move on with our day? How do you rationalize when your brain is firing off fears and lists of problems faster than you can keep up? When is it safe to ignore those warning impulses? What do you do to breath deeply for once? 

Who turns and sours our wanting into envy? When do we cross the line from admiration into sickly need and that clawing for something better? What can stop that unrelenting magnetic pull? Where does that spiteful combination of desire and contempt grow inside of us? How do we detach those roots of judgement and self-pity? Why can’t we accept and embrace what is on our side of the fence?

Where can we go to no longer feel the weight of our loneliness? How do we connect ourselves to the world around us? Why is it so hard to feel present even when we’re surrounded by others? When do we get to break out of our self-imposed dungeons? What keeps dragging us into the silence and hiding us away in the dark? Who will break down the doors and wrap their arms around us so we no we are not alone?

I’ve got one foot buried in the concrete and one hand up in the clouds trying to pull down the sun.

My body aches as I’m stretched between what I’ve got and what I wish I could have.

But there’s nothing to hold onto up here in the sky and so I let go and slowly fall back.

My body sinks into the cold, wet, grey that was beneath me and comes to rest there.

But I can still see the clouds, lying here on my back, staring up at my desires and dreams.

My body is no less tired than it was before and the concrete has still yet to fully set.

I can’t stand the sound of clocks ticking.

I don’t know if it’s the passing of time that they represent that bothers me, or something else.

Perhaps it’s the fact that, when I can hear them ticking, it means there is nothing else to listen to.

I means that there is nothing else going on where I am. There is no one to talk to or nothing to say. It is emptiness and endlessness. It is time slipping by wasted and unfulfilled.

When I am busy, they go unnoticed. If there is music playing, I am dancing and singing to a beat. To rhythms that change and turn right along with me.

The ticking of the clocks is always the same. One, two, one, two, one, two, on and on in a monotonous chorus to my isolation, procrastination, indecision. You cannot dance to the ticking of a clock.

On the phone, I do not hear the clocks. I hear laughter and stories and the comfort of other voices. Of family and friends and plans and progress.

There are two clocks. I believe one of them has the wrong time. The battery is old, and even though the time is wrong and the hands have slowed, the noise continues. The other clock is right. It sits on the table and ticks away, accurately narrating my inaction.

I can’t stand the sound of clocks ticking.

I gave it to a stranger

With a leather bound notebook

And twisting braids

A light smile.

I gave it for free

With no returns expected

But what I got was wonderful

A weight off my shoulders

And springtime in my lungs

I shared a piece of my soul today

And now I know

What it is to have hollow bones

And feathered wings

Eveline walked with the dead.

She swept demons up out of the shadows and let them perch on her shoulders.

Eveline liked to sit in the cemetery to eat her lunch with the ghosts.

Other people were afraid of her and raised eyebrows at her dark clothes, her crooked smile, and the way that she would whisper softly to the air around her.

Eveline wore dark clothes because the spirits felt safer in the folds of her cloaks.

When the moon was high and the sky was black she would converse with the zombies.

Eveline enjoyed the woods and the witches who lived at the heart of them.

She was unsettling, or at least that’s what most people said about her.

Eveline pulled monsters out from the sewers and shared her left-overs with them.

Just before dawn she could be seen at the lake laughing and listening to what appeared to be only moss and murky waters.

Eveline sat with the gargoyles at school just to make sure they never felt lonely.

She smiled her crooked smile, wore her clothes in every shade of midnight, and befriended all the creepy, beastly, ugly, frightening creatures she could find.

Eveline considered that perhaps this made her creepy, beastly, ugly, and frightening.

I am a piece of chocolate, in the bowl of a double boiler where the water beneath is already bubbling, ready to melt away

I am an old twist tie, hiding in a drawer in the kitchen long since forgotten, tied in endless knots

I feel the universe course through me, up through the threads of my fading carpet

Light shines upon me from simple fixtures, but through them I feel the heat of our sun, of the stars beyond our galaxy

In the cup on my desk, I hold the necessity of life, the waters of the deepest oceans, droplets in the air, that which makes up our very being and carries us from one day to the next

Ink bleeds from my pen like the blood from my veins, from the prey of a large grey wolf, from the crushing death of a mosquito against my skin, sacrifice and loss that keep us alive as my sweat and my tears and my blood spilled on the page do the same to keep me moving in this existence

Soft fabric presses against my skin and I pull it closer, to keep in the warmth of my heartbeat and the fire that fuels invention and creation, to hold back the icy terror of space and loneliness and wide open spaces

While the open door behind me reminds me of escape to wide open plains, the expanse of sky found at the tops of the mountains, and the endless pushing back and forth of good and bad, comforting and frightening, safe and dangerous

I want desperately to keep him safe. To wipe away the fear and the danger from his life. I watch him smile, and I can feel my heart breaking for all the times when he was unable to do so. For all the times that he felt beaten down and tossed aside.

I want desperately to keep her from harm. To shield her from prying eyes and wandering hands. I see the way she laughs, and I can feel anger burning through my lungs at those who would stop her from doing so. At the idea that they would try to take away her happiness.

I want desperately to keep them protected. To stop their own self-hatred and isolation. I notice their daydreaming, and I can feel fear crawling up my spine knowing it is their own thoughts that can turn to darkness and harm. That their thoughts can betray them and turn dreams to nightmares.

She sat upon her silver throne and watched as the fiery sun descended below the horizon. Her dark eyes reflected the distant red and orange glow, adding an ominous touch to her already fierce expression.

Below her, at the foot of the dais, she could see the water rising. It lapped against the ebony steps, climbing ever upwards. The dark waters spread across her vision and met the crest of the sun at the edge of the skyline.

Beneath the rippling surface, she could see the faint outline of the stairs, but beyond that, nothing. It didn’t stop her from knowing what was out there however. Lost beneath the rising tides.

The water reached the platform of the dais and pooled around her feet. It licked at the base of the throne. She watched for a moment, as the water touched the soles of her boots, then lifted her head, tearing her eyes away.

She did not get up. Under the ocean before her was the wasted remains of her world. Her people had chosen to surrender. She let her lips curl with disdain. They chose to throw away their lives and as their goddess she would follow.

Without the people she meant nothing. And despite her words and her conviction that they must soldier onward, that they must face life beyond what they knew, her people had chosen otherwise. She would not abandon them.

The water poured over the lip of her shoes. It was cold. Cold to the point of burning and she held her breath. She would not leave them now. And so the water rose higher.

It passed above her knees and the sun disappeared completely, leaving her in darkness. The fire gone from her eyes, she sat, breathing deeply as the water made it’s way over her arms and up her chest.

Above her, the faintly shining stars bounced their light off the water. She glanced down once more and was startled by the watery silhouette of her reflection. Her fingers were numb against the throne, clenched tightly.

The water encircled her neck and she closed her eyes. Her people were gone, and soon, she would be too. She would be strong for them. As she had always been. And if she could no longer guide them, she would follow.

She did not move from the throne, but she could not stop herself from taking one last breath as the water overtook her chin, and her lips, and her nose. Once the water had climbed over her eyes she opened them.

It was the end. There was only darkness. She could no longer see her people. The sun. The dais or her throne. Even her hands were too far to see in the starlight that attempted to penetrate the inky tomb enveloping her.

She released her final breath, a small flurry of bubbles racing away towards the surface. It was the end. However, as the cold and the water took her, she could not help but wish, that in the vast universe there lay something more.

Deep below the surface of frozen lakes and in underwater crevices where the sun cannot reach, are creatures pulled from our darkest dreams.

They filter through the darkness, moving when nothing else is looking. Bodies curling and pulsing with hunger.

Scales line their arms and claws adorn each finger. Their tongues are made of sprawling lengths of rubber that lick towards the surface.

Even in the darkest parts of the sea, their eyes can find you. All seven of them, watching and waiting for the right moment to strike.

And they are banding together. Pacing the confines of the lakes they inhabit and creeping across the belly of the earth, beneath the ocean, they unite.

With each new dawn, the creatures numbers grow. As they cluster together, the depths of the waters become even darker and even colder.

Until they decide to strike. Climbing up from under the waves, they will pierce the surface of the water and crack the ice that contains them.

Tongues dragging, scales flashing, and claws scrapping the earth, they will pull themselves to land and they will find us.

Waiting no longer, they will hunt us down. They will emerge from the darkness and consume us all.

Every girl holds chaos in her heart. 

Some try to contain it. Others let it roam free, carrying them through life with the daring speed and theatrics of the wind. 

Juliana raised her girls with compassion. She taught them to be kind to others. To care for those who did not have the means to help themselves. And she taught them to use the chaos burning deep inside their souls.

As Juliana’s daughters grew older, they feed the chaos. They wore big hats and tight jeans. They wore leather jackets and rode motorcycles. They read books and dined with strangers. They drank together and danced through the fields. They climbed mountains and sewed dresses.

More importantly, Natalie, Rosamund, and Toma traveled. They met people from far and wide. They told stories and laughed together. On rainy nights they shared their shelters with those they met on the road. The food they carried with them was split among themselves and their company.

The chaos in their hearts grew and with every day they journeyed farther. In sweeping skirts and platform shoes, with red lipstick and purple hair they spent their days being kind to those who had not seen it in many days. Juliana’s daughters shared their wealth. They inspired the chaos in others.

Natalie laughed loudly. She smiled with gap teeth and told stories about grand gestures and romance. When the sun dipped below the horizon she would link arms with the women still at the bar and walk them home.

Rosamund watched the world around her like a hawk. She read journals and novels. She performed experiments just to see the lights of the explosions and reactions she could create. When the sun rose she woke with it, to seek out new information. To seek out people to share her discoveries with.

Toma stood tall. She danced when there was no music and drew the wonders she experienced. In her hands, the world became beautiful. When the sun reached it’s peak and the rest of the day stretched out before her, Toma would grasp it in her hands. She reached for anyone nearby and brought them into the sun with her.

Juliana looked at her daughters. She looked at the chaos inside of them and the beautiful ways in which it allowed them to connect with the world. At how it flourished in their lives and she was proud.

That was what they had been told. That they danced like no one was watching. It was meant as a compliment. It was taken as such. But they knew it wasn’t true. They danced as if everyone was watching.

They danced as if everyone was watching, because they were afraid to take the wrong steps. So each move had to look perfectly casual. Perfectly unaffected by the world. They danced as if everyone was watching, because their personality was important. Their style was important. Their choices mattered, and everyone watching needed to see that.

In the comfort of their own home, they danced as if the world was watching. Because the scrutiny and the judgement lingered. They tried to make the words true. They tried to feel as though the way they moved and the music they listened to was only for themselves. That they didn’t care.

But they did. 

And they tried their best to keep hiding it.

To keep the people watching believing that they felt confident and free.

They kept dancing. And the world kept watching. They felt the eyes on them. And people told them that they looked so comfortable in their own skin. They kept dancing.

Once upon a time there was a prince. He was a decent prince. He attended and hosted balls and parties across the kingdom and he never missed a lesson, be it in etiquette, politics, history, horseback riding, policy, economics, etc. He was the king's only child and was next in line for the throne.

When his father passed away, the prince followed all the traditions and procedures expected of him. He arranged the funeral. He prepared the kingdom for the transition to his rule. He coordinated with the advisors to the throne, the caterers, and the court musicians for his crowning ceremony. The prince took to the throne with unprecedented ease and the people of the kingdom were pleased to find themselves in such good hands. 

A few months passed and things changed. The prince, while entirely prepared for his duties and the power bestowed upon him, wanted more. From his room in the tallest tower he could see the border of the neighboring kingdom. And if he looked out the window in the East tower he could see a vast forest. It was wild and uncharted. He wanted both of them. He wanted it all. And he was determined to get it. 

Over the next few weeks, the prince sent out his soldiers and rallied the people. The kingdom pushed into the neighboring lands and claimed the forest as their own, setting up outposts and watchmen among the trees. The people began to doubt their new king. But he kept onward. Riding through his forest on a strong and noble steed, he could see a river beyond the trees. From the fields that now marked the border of his land, the king could see a city and an even larger, even grander castle than his own.

Over the next year, the king grew bolder and bolder. He conquered and claimed and built his kingdom, the people following reluctantly behind him. Anything the King laid eyes on was to be his. 

One day, as the king surveyed his border, looking for his next conquest a woman emerged from a nearby house and approached him. 

"You're mighty far from home," she said with a smile. 

The king laughed. "How can I be far from home? This is my home. Everything I see is my home." He pointed to the house she had come from. "Your hovel, even, belongs to me now." 

The woman looked back at what had once been hers. "Really?" she said, and smiled. "Then let me show you around your new home. There's a lovely pond on the far side that you should be proud to own." 

And so the king followed her. He was eager to see beyond the hut and it's insignificant pond. He rounded the house and passed the woman, peering into the pond.

"Why it's more a puddle than a pond," he exclaimed.

“Either way,” said the woman, “it is your new home.”

As she finished speaking, the woman raised a finger and pointed at the king’s back. There was a flash of light and the king vanished. Or so it seemed. His clothes lay flat on the ground where he had once stood, and nestled between the silks was a tiny lizard.

The ghost that had started writing out it’s life story in the pages of my journal had surprisingly little to say. I suppose, like the rest of us, it lived a pretty normal and frankly boring life. I did get a name from her eventually (it was Tilly), and she said she grew up a couple houses down the block from where I lived.

Tilly explained that she had moved around to a few different houses after her death. She’d tried a few hauntings, but she wanted someone to talk to. She was bored. She had worked as a car saleswoman for most of her life and had a few kids. Apparently she checked in on them now and then, but didn’t want to freak them out by hanging around all the time.

I didn’t necessarily mind Tilly’s presence, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could take reading about her cat Noodles. He sounded adorable, but a cat’s a cat. I was hesitant to stop reading her notes though, because one time I forgot to respond and for the next few days I kept losing things. Pens. Socks. Shirts. Books. She returned them, but only after I apologized profusely.

Something had to be done though. So, I switched her over to a new notebook. I found some old notes from a creative writing class that I took in college. One night, I left the notebook open on my desk to a page about how to start a story and how to write a good hook.

The following morning, Tilly had left a note in the back of the journal. She said that she had told me a lot about herself and that she enjoyed our written conversations, but she wanted to switch things up. To try something different. She hoped I would read what she had written.

And the woman could write. She reached through the veil and had me right there beside her. Tilly may have had a simple life, but her imagination was beyond anything I’d encountered before. It seemed such a shame for her stories to go untold. So, we came to an agreement.

A few years have passed since then, and Tilly and I are still writing together. I act as the face of the books here on the material plane. I use Tilly as a pen name to give her the credit I can, and when I go on the book tours she comes with me to at least see the fans, even if they can’t see her.

He was sitting at the kitchen table when I woke up the next morning. It was an odd sight. His large amber laced horns were nearly touching the table as he was bent over attempting to read the newspaper. Which was also odd, since I wasn’t subscribed to any newspaper.

The demon’s grey peeling skin was flaking off onto my kitchen chair, but I thought it might be best not to mention it. He was so focused on reading the newspaper, or attempting to read it, that he didn’t seem to notice my arrival in the kitchen. I thought he might be struggling with the small print, given how close his face was to the paper, and the way his flickering red eyes hadn’t seemed to move past the first sentence. 

I noticed that his tail was also whipping back and forth. The jagged amber spines that lined it posed a serious threat to both the floor tiles and the legs of the chair, but again, I thought it might be best to keep it to myself. I cleared my throat quietly.

Almost immediately, the demon was up out of the chair, newspaper abandoned. He loomed over me, a good three or so feet taller, without the horns, which were now threatening the ceiling. I didn’t quite meet his eye, not wanting to stare directly into what definitely resembled live fires inside his eye sockets, and instead focused on his shoulder.

“Can I get you anything?”

I wasn’t sure if he had heard me or not. The words had come out as a bit of a strangled whisper, even though I had been going for a more confidently hospitable tone.

The demon huffed.

NO

The words didn’t so much leave his mouth, as they reverberated through the inside of my skull. Regardless, the message was received. Attempting more of that confident, but respectful charm, I croaked out my next question.

“Why are you still here?”

You see, I had accidentally summoned the demon the night before. I had been reading up on satanic rituals, and cults, etc. and had sketched out a few pentagrams just for fun. Eventually I must had gotten one of them right, which I’m must admit I am sort of proud of, but I also ended up with a real, physical demon inside my house.

The demon’s eyes flickered, but I resisted the urge to look more closely. He took a step back, and I watched as his tail swished, just missing the edge of the table. The long claws at the end of his skinny grey fingers curled inwards and he turned his head.

IT’S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I’VE BEEN ON THE SURFACE.

I nodded. His tail swished some more, and he bent his head. His horns glowed softly.

I SIMPLY THOUGHT I’D CATCH UP ON THE TIMES. SEE WHAT I’D BEEN MISSING. YOU KNOW.