Myth- 227
Stephen N. Dethrage
As the ship rocked viciously on the furious waves of the sea near Crete, his blood, almost black in the inky darkness of twilight, splattered first, staining the faces of the surrounding crew, then poured out onto the deck, then, in the end, merely dripped weakly into the growing puddle below. The storm around them intensified so fiercely that the very sea seemed to leap onto the deck, and the resulting brackish tides raced along the planks of the ship until, at last, they met the crimson pool beneath him. Terrified crewmen looked on as his blood mingled with the waters of the deep and foamed obscenely, as though the sea god himself sought to taste of the sacrifice. Around them, the waves calmed for the first time in days, and in mere minutes, the placid surf around the ship seemed more like a lake, and less like the unforgiving oceans that had so aggressively haunted their entire voyage. The crew relaxed at last, and knew deep within themselves that the ragged man before them was not murdered. He was a necessary appeasement to the gods they all served. Beneath them, the boards of the ship began to absorb the shed blood of another fool who chose to blaspheme Poseidon, the stains of which would forever testify to the power of story over the minds of men.
Showing posts with label Stephen Dethrage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stephen Dethrage. Show all posts
Monday, July 5, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
Spike- 210
Stephen N. Dethrage
A familiar phantom feeling arose when I parked at the house you once lived in again today. A sense of displacement and oddity that resulted from dwelling too long on the idea that you no longer live inside the home I stopped by. For only a moment, a moment that was like a sudden spike on a flat-lined EKG, I imagined you sitting inside, watching the television or surfing the web or having some cereal, and everything was normal, but you are no longer within, and the heartbeat of what once was stops again. I let myself in the back, the way you once showed me, so that I didn't need the code for the realtor's lockbox on the front door. Once inside, the only things that awaited me inside were ancient things, and buried things. A memory of the sound the floor made, the way your bedroom smelled, the color of your bathroom walls. You're gone, and I know that, but the realization is still an alien thing to me, and standing where we used to stand, then collapsing to my knees and crying like I always do, I am left alone with a long history of memories, and phantom feelings, and those damned spikes, few and far between.
Stephen N. Dethrage
A familiar phantom feeling arose when I parked at the house you once lived in again today. A sense of displacement and oddity that resulted from dwelling too long on the idea that you no longer live inside the home I stopped by. For only a moment, a moment that was like a sudden spike on a flat-lined EKG, I imagined you sitting inside, watching the television or surfing the web or having some cereal, and everything was normal, but you are no longer within, and the heartbeat of what once was stops again. I let myself in the back, the way you once showed me, so that I didn't need the code for the realtor's lockbox on the front door. Once inside, the only things that awaited me inside were ancient things, and buried things. A memory of the sound the floor made, the way your bedroom smelled, the color of your bathroom walls. You're gone, and I know that, but the realization is still an alien thing to me, and standing where we used to stand, then collapsing to my knees and crying like I always do, I am left alone with a long history of memories, and phantom feelings, and those damned spikes, few and far between.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Olfactory Delight
Bleach- 117
Stephen N. Dethrage
The bathroom was filled with the typical odors of one of her crime scenes: the metallic scent of his blood on the tile, thick enough to almost taste; the hospital janitor smell of the bleach that was changing her hair from the seductive red of her last conquest to a unrecognizable blond; a hint of musty paper and dust from the open duffel bag, and the thousands of dollars inside. It was an olfactory exploration of deceit, seduction and murder, and aside from the simple pleasures of the smell of books, new or old, nothing else tickled her nose just quite like the combination of unique aromas that fumigated the room she occupied immediately after a kill.
Stephen N. Dethrage
The bathroom was filled with the typical odors of one of her crime scenes: the metallic scent of his blood on the tile, thick enough to almost taste; the hospital janitor smell of the bleach that was changing her hair from the seductive red of her last conquest to a unrecognizable blond; a hint of musty paper and dust from the open duffel bag, and the thousands of dollars inside. It was an olfactory exploration of deceit, seduction and murder, and aside from the simple pleasures of the smell of books, new or old, nothing else tickled her nose just quite like the combination of unique aromas that fumigated the room she occupied immediately after a kill.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Sunset Thunderhead
Driven- 159
Stephen N. Dethrage
I idle at the light turned green, deaf to the honking of horns, blind to the display of fingers. Before and above me looms the biggest, most beautiful thunderhead I have ever seen, the grimacing face of a massive storm. Sunset paints the unbelievable cloud ten thousand colors, from a stark white at its visible peak to the dark blues and blacks of true rain clouds at the bottom, with scarlets and purples and creams in between. My car finds its way into park, and as the traffic builds behind me, I decide I've driven enough, and merely marvel. The cloud is massive enough that each time I trace out a definite shape in its contours, another is suddenly apparent. I see the profile of a woman relaxing in a bubble bath, as clear as day. A tiger appears, then a motorcycle. The colors shift and change in secret ways, and on the ground, I idle, and am awed.
Stephen N. Dethrage
I idle at the light turned green, deaf to the honking of horns, blind to the display of fingers. Before and above me looms the biggest, most beautiful thunderhead I have ever seen, the grimacing face of a massive storm. Sunset paints the unbelievable cloud ten thousand colors, from a stark white at its visible peak to the dark blues and blacks of true rain clouds at the bottom, with scarlets and purples and creams in between. My car finds its way into park, and as the traffic builds behind me, I decide I've driven enough, and merely marvel. The cloud is massive enough that each time I trace out a definite shape in its contours, another is suddenly apparent. I see the profile of a woman relaxing in a bubble bath, as clear as day. A tiger appears, then a motorcycle. The colors shift and change in secret ways, and on the ground, I idle, and am awed.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Taking It Personally.
Remark- 490 Words
Stephen N. DethrageMan-to-man marking, close quarters, one-on-one, and the bastard looked me right in the eyes and whispered, "My next goal is for your whore of a mother, defender. Tell her hello for me."
The little voice in my head nagged at me and whispered to me gently, imploring me to ignore my opponent's words. It insisted that on a soccer field, sometimes things are said by men of less mental caliber, and almost always, their insults merely reflect insecurity. The competitor inside me disagreed. The striker whose words made my blood boil left me no option but to take things personally. Close quarters, man marking, adrenaline flowing, everything's personal.
A turnover at the other end of the field brought the ball into our half, and three passes later, it was at the feet of their best striker. The one who insulted me. My mark. He looked at me briefly as his feet took the first touch of the soccer ball, a skillful, gentle thing that kept the ball moving fast but close enough to him to discourage anything but perfection from our defense. In that single moment as my eyes drilled into his, before he committed his entire attention to the game, he winked at me. One impish gesture. An insult on top of injury. A spark too close to my fuse.
I was only vaguely aware of that little voice becoming louder and begging me to ignore the arrogant prick racing towards me, towards my zone, towards the net behind me. All intelligent thought was suddenly drowned by a klaxon set off in my mind that could only be satisfied by one thing. I sprinted to meet him and watched a dark smile cross his face as I closed the distance. My right foot shot forward, a sloppy stab towards the ball, inviting the striker to pass on my right side and, otherwise uncontested, score the point he promised for my mother.
The fool took the bait.
I crouched and pivoted and swung my left leg around behind me, a 180 arch, moving in a way that seemed more like Judo than defensive soccer. My left heel, powered by legs and hips and momentum and anger traced a straight line until, at last, it found my target and crashed with a terrible thunder just below the striker's knee on his strong right leg. He crumpled and crashed and rolled, just like I knew he would. A cheap hit. A dirty hit. An indescribably satisfying hit.
An hour and a half later, after the the red card, after the stretcher, after their blocked free kick and our eventual victory, as I unlaced my cleats in the locker that that little voice, somewhat disappointed but ultimately understanding, asked me if it was all worth it.
I thought of the comment, the wink, the hit, and the fall. I couldn't fight off the smile that crossed my lips.
Of course it was worth it.
Spitting Venom - Modest Mouse
Monday, May 31, 2010
Shuddering in the Last Seat on the Left.
Train- 259 Words
Stephen N. Dethrage
The immense steel millipede of modern man crawls along its set path, and in its fifth car, in the last seat on the left, I shudder. Too many things are moving at once. Pistons, cylinders, rods, eight wheels per car, too many cars to count... it's unsettling. Any malfunction is catastrophe, and there are simply too many chances for malfunction. Still, I reasoned that the train would be safer than trying to fly, and in this blizzard, my only option was the lesser of two dangers. The countryside around me would be familiar in another season, but in the middle of a Russian winter, everything is blurred to white, slow mile after slow mile, with no gauge of time or distance traveled. I think of my marriage. The landscape of our love changed from bright and vibrant to dull and universally white. The change was slow, but then one day everything was alien, distinctly different than what was before, until at last, the foreign became the norm. In the end, we derailed, divorced. There were too many things moving at once. Critical, crucial things began to crack, and went unnoticed in the blur of everything set in motion. When the crack finally snapped and things broke that we could not love without, there was no repair to be made. We were lost in momentum. You can hardly change a faulty wheel on a moving train. We crashed. A Catastrophe. Too much motion in the cold. In the last seat of the left, in the fifth train car, I shudder.
Stephen N. Dethrage
The immense steel millipede of modern man crawls along its set path, and in its fifth car, in the last seat on the left, I shudder. Too many things are moving at once. Pistons, cylinders, rods, eight wheels per car, too many cars to count... it's unsettling. Any malfunction is catastrophe, and there are simply too many chances for malfunction. Still, I reasoned that the train would be safer than trying to fly, and in this blizzard, my only option was the lesser of two dangers. The countryside around me would be familiar in another season, but in the middle of a Russian winter, everything is blurred to white, slow mile after slow mile, with no gauge of time or distance traveled. I think of my marriage. The landscape of our love changed from bright and vibrant to dull and universally white. The change was slow, but then one day everything was alien, distinctly different than what was before, until at last, the foreign became the norm. In the end, we derailed, divorced. There were too many things moving at once. Critical, crucial things began to crack, and went unnoticed in the blur of everything set in motion. When the crack finally snapped and things broke that we could not love without, there was no repair to be made. We were lost in momentum. You can hardly change a faulty wheel on a moving train. We crashed. A Catastrophe. Too much motion in the cold. In the last seat of the left, in the fifth train car, I shudder.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Scarred but Stronger.
Clash- 101 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
Your sharp words are a bugle sounding and my curt response is the first volley of arrows. This argument is a war and our kitchen is the battleground. Our words slash and cut, we bleed and we bleed. Love seems lost; hope has vanished. Then a lone tear, unwelcome and unbidden, streams down your cheek and our battle lines falter. Your sobs are the hoisted white flag, my embrace is unconditional surrender. When the crying stops at last and we break apart again, our kiss seals the treaty, and we survive another skirmish, scarred but stronger, tear stained but smiling still.
Stephen N. Dethrage
Your sharp words are a bugle sounding and my curt response is the first volley of arrows. This argument is a war and our kitchen is the battleground. Our words slash and cut, we bleed and we bleed. Love seems lost; hope has vanished. Then a lone tear, unwelcome and unbidden, streams down your cheek and our battle lines falter. Your sobs are the hoisted white flag, my embrace is unconditional surrender. When the crying stops at last and we break apart again, our kiss seals the treaty, and we survive another skirmish, scarred but stronger, tear stained but smiling still.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Reflex
Reflex- 275
Stephen N. Dethrage
Lover of my recent past,
I lost my job today. I was not treated unfairly, so don't fret. This morning was my fifth day in a row to come in late, and I'm merely surprised this didn't come earlier in the week. The alarm clock sounded on time, as it has every day I've been tardy, but I slapped the snooze button, and rested for another half hour. To call this ritual a habit does it a serious injustice. It's more than that. Reflex is really the only suitable word to describe it. I can control it no more than I can control the direction of the wind. My right hand, as it reaches to fumble over the buttons every morning, has lagged behind my mind, and is yet to grasp that you aren't there any longer to rise out of bed and shower after the alarm's first ring. Four years of doing the same thing every time that incessant beeping dragged me out of the stupor of sleep can probably never be reversed.
It isn't that I haven't accepted that you're gone, I promise. I know you're with a better man when you wake each morning, and that he'll do a better job of treating you like the goddess you are, but that doesn't change anything.
Don't misunderstand, this is not a plea for you to come back to me and make everything normal once more. It's just a notification. An update.
It's very hard without you.
I wish you'd tell me that it's hard for you, too, so I didn't feel so pathetic.
At any rate, I love you.
Expect another letter tomorrow.
Stephen N. Dethrage
Lover of my recent past,
I lost my job today. I was not treated unfairly, so don't fret. This morning was my fifth day in a row to come in late, and I'm merely surprised this didn't come earlier in the week. The alarm clock sounded on time, as it has every day I've been tardy, but I slapped the snooze button, and rested for another half hour. To call this ritual a habit does it a serious injustice. It's more than that. Reflex is really the only suitable word to describe it. I can control it no more than I can control the direction of the wind. My right hand, as it reaches to fumble over the buttons every morning, has lagged behind my mind, and is yet to grasp that you aren't there any longer to rise out of bed and shower after the alarm's first ring. Four years of doing the same thing every time that incessant beeping dragged me out of the stupor of sleep can probably never be reversed.
It isn't that I haven't accepted that you're gone, I promise. I know you're with a better man when you wake each morning, and that he'll do a better job of treating you like the goddess you are, but that doesn't change anything.
Don't misunderstand, this is not a plea for you to come back to me and make everything normal once more. It's just a notification. An update.
It's very hard without you.
I wish you'd tell me that it's hard for you, too, so I didn't feel so pathetic.
At any rate, I love you.
Expect another letter tomorrow.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Until You're Ready, It's Mine.
Withheld- 134
Stephen N. Dethrage
I do not lie to you. If memory serves, I never have looked you in the eyes and lied to you, and today is not the time to start. Still, when you ask me if I think we'll make it through the dark times all around us and end up together on the other side, I don't tell the whole truth. I want to sing to you, reassure you, drop to one knee and thrust the ring that I've fiddled with for the past five months into your hands and make you see that the answer is yes, yes, eternally yes. Instead, I keep the truth deep inside, and wait for the day that you'll be ready for it. I shrug a bit, offer a small smile, and say that I certainly hope so.
Stephen N. Dethrage
I do not lie to you. If memory serves, I never have looked you in the eyes and lied to you, and today is not the time to start. Still, when you ask me if I think we'll make it through the dark times all around us and end up together on the other side, I don't tell the whole truth. I want to sing to you, reassure you, drop to one knee and thrust the ring that I've fiddled with for the past five months into your hands and make you see that the answer is yes, yes, eternally yes. Instead, I keep the truth deep inside, and wait for the day that you'll be ready for it. I shrug a bit, offer a small smile, and say that I certainly hope so.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Ignoring the Signs.
Regardless- 224
Stephen N. Dethrage
I know they're the kind of kids Mom always warned me about. The ones who didn't have a good family situation and never knew Jesus and allowed media's evil influence to irrevocably corrupt their hearts. Who else would reaching out to me now, needle in hand, daring me to try a hit and touch the sky? I imagine the hand that reaches out is not a hand at all, but the claws of some demon, wrapped sinisterly around that syringe, tempting and trapping me with promises of euphoric mayhem. I know all this, deep within me. I have an unprecedented awareness of the consequence of this one decision in all things to come.
"Damn it all," I think aloud.
I realize I haven't been breathing. I gulp air in, and release it, feigning calmness, and take the syringe. The prick that follows is in slow motion, and the plunger seems to take hours to finally depress and send the last of the drug coursing through me. It effects me in unbelievable ways, and the scales fall from my eyes, and the horns of the kids beside me are suddenly evident, along with his red skin, yellow eyes, bared fangs, fiery breath... His laugh is a cackle, and the others join him, and I tremble.
Mom was right about them all.
Sideways - Citizen Cope
Stephen N. Dethrage
I know they're the kind of kids Mom always warned me about. The ones who didn't have a good family situation and never knew Jesus and allowed media's evil influence to irrevocably corrupt their hearts. Who else would reaching out to me now, needle in hand, daring me to try a hit and touch the sky? I imagine the hand that reaches out is not a hand at all, but the claws of some demon, wrapped sinisterly around that syringe, tempting and trapping me with promises of euphoric mayhem. I know all this, deep within me. I have an unprecedented awareness of the consequence of this one decision in all things to come.
"Damn it all," I think aloud.
I realize I haven't been breathing. I gulp air in, and release it, feigning calmness, and take the syringe. The prick that follows is in slow motion, and the plunger seems to take hours to finally depress and send the last of the drug coursing through me. It effects me in unbelievable ways, and the scales fall from my eyes, and the horns of the kids beside me are suddenly evident, along with his red skin, yellow eyes, bared fangs, fiery breath... His laugh is a cackle, and the others join him, and I tremble.
Mom was right about them all.
Sideways - Citizen Cope
Monday, April 26, 2010
Two Years Time.
Blocks- 189
Stephen N. Dethrage
Just two years ago, our living room was occupied only by a couch and a television. Back then, your side of the bed was occupied by nothing but empty space and pillows. Most notably, your womb was occupied by nothing but distant dreams. You were a smoker, and I was drinking too much. We were cold, cynical people who hated nearly everyone, and we thought that suited us just fine.
As I stand in that same living room and watch my son build a tower of blocks, then smash it to pieces, letting its segments join his other toys on the carpet, those ideas are almost impossible to wrap my head around. How did I ever sleep in that bed without you there? How did I really enjoy a day without tripping over one of Simon's toys? Why did we need bitter thoughts and bitter chemicals to keep us from going mad? I smell you cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and watch our baby crawl on to bigger and better things, and it's beyond me how life before the two of you were mine made any sense at all.
You Are My Joy - The Reindeer Section
Stephen N. Dethrage
Just two years ago, our living room was occupied only by a couch and a television. Back then, your side of the bed was occupied by nothing but empty space and pillows. Most notably, your womb was occupied by nothing but distant dreams. You were a smoker, and I was drinking too much. We were cold, cynical people who hated nearly everyone, and we thought that suited us just fine.
As I stand in that same living room and watch my son build a tower of blocks, then smash it to pieces, letting its segments join his other toys on the carpet, those ideas are almost impossible to wrap my head around. How did I ever sleep in that bed without you there? How did I really enjoy a day without tripping over one of Simon's toys? Why did we need bitter thoughts and bitter chemicals to keep us from going mad? I smell you cooking breakfast in the kitchen, and watch our baby crawl on to bigger and better things, and it's beyond me how life before the two of you were mine made any sense at all.
You Are My Joy - The Reindeer Section
Monday, April 19, 2010
The one that got away.
Castaway- 478
Stephen N. Dethrage
The arthritic fingers, sightless eyes, and wrinkled skin of the man on the edge of the pier tell passersby that he is not the young man he once was, but this does not bother him. He is here for the fishing, not the passerbys. He revels in each cast, each careful selection of his most precious lures. Although vision left him more than a decade ago, the smells and sounds of the lake are more than enough to keep him smiling soft and humming low, casting out and reeling in.
Every time he comes back to this place, he can't resist letting the memories of youth caress him like some sadistic angel or devil who teases and tempts, but dances away from his grasp each time he gives in and reaches out, hoping to take hold and be young again.
Today, he remembers love-- young love, and true love, and the sort of utopian love that Shakespeare and Lennon wrote about. He recalls his well rehearsed lines and practiced charms, not too much unlike the lures in his tacklebox and on his line, and how, always a fisherman, he tossed them to any girl who would bite. The hardest part of it all was dealing with the girls that were fun to court and woo and flirt with, but simply weren't the trophies that he could be satisfied making a life with. It wasn't anything personal, he merely thought like a fisherman, and tossed back the girls who didn't quite make the cut.
And then there was Rebecca. On the pier, his smile fades, and his humming ceases, and he remembers her more clearly than any other part of his long and storied past.
She was, in a word, flawless, and by some means or another, he charmed her, and they married, and for a while, they had the enviable sort of life and love that happens in the movies and in the books, but almost never translates into reality.
And then, one day, his vision was gone. The doctors called it a rare case of Amaurosis fugax, and explained that an artery had clogged just enough to decrease blood supply to his eyes, and the result was a total blindness that occured without warning, and could not be reversed. And suddenly, to Rebecca, he was a burden. She left him, like he left so many girls in his youth, because, for once, he was the one that warranted being tossed back.
He feels a hit at his lure, and knows he needs to jerk the rod and set his hooks in deep, and bring the fish onto the pier and snap out of his reverie, but he does not move, and a tear streaks down his cheeks, and in the murky waters of the lake in front of him, the fish darts away.
Singing Softly To Me - Kings of Convenience
Stephen N. Dethrage
The arthritic fingers, sightless eyes, and wrinkled skin of the man on the edge of the pier tell passersby that he is not the young man he once was, but this does not bother him. He is here for the fishing, not the passerbys. He revels in each cast, each careful selection of his most precious lures. Although vision left him more than a decade ago, the smells and sounds of the lake are more than enough to keep him smiling soft and humming low, casting out and reeling in.
Every time he comes back to this place, he can't resist letting the memories of youth caress him like some sadistic angel or devil who teases and tempts, but dances away from his grasp each time he gives in and reaches out, hoping to take hold and be young again.
Today, he remembers love-- young love, and true love, and the sort of utopian love that Shakespeare and Lennon wrote about. He recalls his well rehearsed lines and practiced charms, not too much unlike the lures in his tacklebox and on his line, and how, always a fisherman, he tossed them to any girl who would bite. The hardest part of it all was dealing with the girls that were fun to court and woo and flirt with, but simply weren't the trophies that he could be satisfied making a life with. It wasn't anything personal, he merely thought like a fisherman, and tossed back the girls who didn't quite make the cut.
And then there was Rebecca. On the pier, his smile fades, and his humming ceases, and he remembers her more clearly than any other part of his long and storied past.
She was, in a word, flawless, and by some means or another, he charmed her, and they married, and for a while, they had the enviable sort of life and love that happens in the movies and in the books, but almost never translates into reality.
And then, one day, his vision was gone. The doctors called it a rare case of Amaurosis fugax, and explained that an artery had clogged just enough to decrease blood supply to his eyes, and the result was a total blindness that occured without warning, and could not be reversed. And suddenly, to Rebecca, he was a burden. She left him, like he left so many girls in his youth, because, for once, he was the one that warranted being tossed back.
He feels a hit at his lure, and knows he needs to jerk the rod and set his hooks in deep, and bring the fish onto the pier and snap out of his reverie, but he does not move, and a tear streaks down his cheeks, and in the murky waters of the lake in front of him, the fish darts away.
Singing Softly To Me - Kings of Convenience
Monday, April 12, 2010
Reading the Story without the Words.
Curls: 89 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
The pages of my journal have turned up and curled at the edges. They are not ancient, but they grow older. Some are misshapen, wrinkled by falling tears, others nearly torn by the pen scribbling words of rage or jealousy. The sudden shift in shade from off-white to an nicotene yellow reveal that at some point, I picked up smoking. These sheets of paper, so much more than the words scribbled on them in dark black ink, tell my true story more masterfully than my own writing ever could.
Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons
Stephen N. Dethrage
The pages of my journal have turned up and curled at the edges. They are not ancient, but they grow older. Some are misshapen, wrinkled by falling tears, others nearly torn by the pen scribbling words of rage or jealousy. The sudden shift in shade from off-white to an nicotene yellow reveal that at some point, I picked up smoking. These sheets of paper, so much more than the words scribbled on them in dark black ink, tell my true story more masterfully than my own writing ever could.
Little Lion Man - Mumford and Sons
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Cookie
Cookie- 84 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
They are warm and gooey. They smell literally irresistible. They are not for you. Someone died, you think, and the cookies are comfort food, but that only makes things better. When you steal one, it is not for the mouth-watering taste or the perfect soft texture. It is for nothing other than the rush, the incomparable thrill you'll get when your mother asks if you took it, or know who did, and you look her in the eyes and lie. You know nothing sweeter.
Rise and Shine - Guster
Sorry for the late post. I wrote this yesterday, but in the insanity of taking an Astronomy test in the morning and getting prepared for a Greek and Roman Mythology test this morning at eight, I apparently forgot to post. As students, I imagine you understand.
Stephen N. Dethrage
They are warm and gooey. They smell literally irresistible. They are not for you. Someone died, you think, and the cookies are comfort food, but that only makes things better. When you steal one, it is not for the mouth-watering taste or the perfect soft texture. It is for nothing other than the rush, the incomparable thrill you'll get when your mother asks if you took it, or know who did, and you look her in the eyes and lie. You know nothing sweeter.
Rise and Shine - Guster
Sorry for the late post. I wrote this yesterday, but in the insanity of taking an Astronomy test in the morning and getting prepared for a Greek and Roman Mythology test this morning at eight, I apparently forgot to post. As students, I imagine you understand.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Rabbits on Easter.
Bunny- 364 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
Richard mused that in a fair, compassionate world, rabbits would not die on Easter. The other holidays would need no such regulation, because it's not as though there's a high risk of discovering Cupid, a Leprechaun, or old Saint Nick dead in the lawn on their particular holidays, but in this case alone, cosmic law ought to have made an exception and dictate that predators pass over rabbits on that single Sunday in Spring.
He thought these things with furrowed brow as he dug a small grave in yard, because, on the only day of the year that people spend much time at all thinking of rabbits, the last thing one should have to deal with is the mauled remains of such a creature. Nevertheless, this morning, amid the hidden plastic eggs and multicolored baskets, the carcass of the rabbit was posed dramatically, there on the lawn, as if to express to all passersby that this planet is neither fair nor kind.
The corpse, once swift and vernal, was torn, bloodied, growing colder every minute. The beagle, responsible for the murder and bored with the lifeless thing in the grass, stood a few yards away waiting for his next bit of fun to arrive. Richard took pity on the fallen creature, and set out to bury it before his daughter woke and discovered the morbid scene. He was glad to avoid her urgent questions about the gruesome death of the bunny on the lawn, because he knew from six years of such questions that he wouldn't be prepared to answer many of them. He would have to lie to her, and swear that he believed God had some overarching plan for the betterment of everything that neither of them could comprehend.
As he shoveled out the almost comically small grave, Richard sought deeper meaning and symbolism beneath the blood-stained exterior of the event. On the holiday of rebirth and resurrection, he pondered the death of fantasy and myth, and the death of youthful ignorance, and the death of all things old and new, eventually. Ultimately, though, the only thing he concluded was that in a fair, compassionate world, rabbits would not die on Easter.
High and Dry - Radiohead
Stephen N. Dethrage
Richard mused that in a fair, compassionate world, rabbits would not die on Easter. The other holidays would need no such regulation, because it's not as though there's a high risk of discovering Cupid, a Leprechaun, or old Saint Nick dead in the lawn on their particular holidays, but in this case alone, cosmic law ought to have made an exception and dictate that predators pass over rabbits on that single Sunday in Spring.
He thought these things with furrowed brow as he dug a small grave in yard, because, on the only day of the year that people spend much time at all thinking of rabbits, the last thing one should have to deal with is the mauled remains of such a creature. Nevertheless, this morning, amid the hidden plastic eggs and multicolored baskets, the carcass of the rabbit was posed dramatically, there on the lawn, as if to express to all passersby that this planet is neither fair nor kind.
The corpse, once swift and vernal, was torn, bloodied, growing colder every minute. The beagle, responsible for the murder and bored with the lifeless thing in the grass, stood a few yards away waiting for his next bit of fun to arrive. Richard took pity on the fallen creature, and set out to bury it before his daughter woke and discovered the morbid scene. He was glad to avoid her urgent questions about the gruesome death of the bunny on the lawn, because he knew from six years of such questions that he wouldn't be prepared to answer many of them. He would have to lie to her, and swear that he believed God had some overarching plan for the betterment of everything that neither of them could comprehend.
As he shoveled out the almost comically small grave, Richard sought deeper meaning and symbolism beneath the blood-stained exterior of the event. On the holiday of rebirth and resurrection, he pondered the death of fantasy and myth, and the death of youthful ignorance, and the death of all things old and new, eventually. Ultimately, though, the only thing he concluded was that in a fair, compassionate world, rabbits would not die on Easter.
High and Dry - Radiohead
Monday, March 22, 2010
"That was swell."
Swell- 133 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
The time that passed between our last "Goodbye, love," and that particular "Hello again," were grueling, terrible things, and later that night, we embraced as if decades had passed since we'd last seen each other, not hours. We broke from each other only long enough for us to kiss like it was the only thing keeping us alive, and for me to whisper, "That was swell."
We were young and innocent then, like everyone else living in an age of youth and innocence. We were a generation of bows and bowties, pigtails and cowlicks. The Depression changed us, and the War to End All Wars, and all the wars that followed, but for those precious years, I know we lived better lives than anyone else on the planet has ever dreamed of living.
A Day in The Life - The Beatles
Stephen N. Dethrage
The time that passed between our last "Goodbye, love," and that particular "Hello again," were grueling, terrible things, and later that night, we embraced as if decades had passed since we'd last seen each other, not hours. We broke from each other only long enough for us to kiss like it was the only thing keeping us alive, and for me to whisper, "That was swell."
We were young and innocent then, like everyone else living in an age of youth and innocence. We were a generation of bows and bowties, pigtails and cowlicks. The Depression changed us, and the War to End All Wars, and all the wars that followed, but for those precious years, I know we lived better lives than anyone else on the planet has ever dreamed of living.
A Day in The Life - The Beatles
Monday, March 15, 2010
Suddenly free.
Keychain- 261 words
Stephen N. Dethrage
Her vice had been keychains for as long as she could clearly remember. Her room housed hundreds of them, some in drawers and others in boxes and a precious few actually on key rings.
Suddenly, the collection disgusted her.
Suddenly, it was a fiery prosecutor’s testimony to the failure her life had so far, a trophy labeled to the person she had pretended to be for years.
Suddenly, Diana realized that in shameless defiance of her innumerable trinkets and the 92,000 miles on her Mustang, she'd spent her entire life going nowhere. The odometer boasted enough miles past to have circled the earth at its equator nearly four times, and somehow she was still stuck in the same redneck city, collecting the same worthless baubles. It struck her that people weren't remembered for the number of gewgaws they bought before death finally stopped them. Hell, most people weren't remembered for anything at all. The only justifiable reason for existence was human interaction, and as Diana admitted that, her wanderlust was instantaneously replaced with an unfamiliar lust of the flesh, and she craved, for the first time, sex and drugs, true love and natural beauty.
And suddenly, she was resolute.
She fingered each keychain absent-mindedly one last time as it made its way into the bin, and eventually to the dump. Pieces from Taiwan and Germany and Orlando Studios alike found themselves ultimately unloved and trashed after so many years of worship and adoration.
Driving away, suddenly free, Diana watched her odometer count each mile closer to her new life with glee.
The Mall and Misery - Broken Bells
Stephen N. Dethrage
Her vice had been keychains for as long as she could clearly remember. Her room housed hundreds of them, some in drawers and others in boxes and a precious few actually on key rings.
Suddenly, the collection disgusted her.
Suddenly, it was a fiery prosecutor’s testimony to the failure her life had so far, a trophy labeled to the person she had pretended to be for years.
Suddenly, Diana realized that in shameless defiance of her innumerable trinkets and the 92,000 miles on her Mustang, she'd spent her entire life going nowhere. The odometer boasted enough miles past to have circled the earth at its equator nearly four times, and somehow she was still stuck in the same redneck city, collecting the same worthless baubles. It struck her that people weren't remembered for the number of gewgaws they bought before death finally stopped them. Hell, most people weren't remembered for anything at all. The only justifiable reason for existence was human interaction, and as Diana admitted that, her wanderlust was instantaneously replaced with an unfamiliar lust of the flesh, and she craved, for the first time, sex and drugs, true love and natural beauty.
And suddenly, she was resolute.
She fingered each keychain absent-mindedly one last time as it made its way into the bin, and eventually to the dump. Pieces from Taiwan and Germany and Orlando Studios alike found themselves ultimately unloved and trashed after so many years of worship and adoration.
Driving away, suddenly free, Diana watched her odometer count each mile closer to her new life with glee.
The Mall and Misery - Broken Bells
Monday, March 8, 2010
Missing Home.
British-127 Words
Stephen N. Dethrage
Desperate for lyric inspiration, and in the service of the Her Majesty's British Empire, Devon found himself hopelessly lost, deep within the living, breathing madness of the jungles of India. Innumerable exotic serpents, faster in striking than any other killer, silently surrounded him with their fangs dripping with venom. Muscular, carnivorous jungle cats stalked him, their next meal, and rustled the foliage with a whisper, staying always just out of sight. Monkeys, or birds, or some other forsaken creatures shrieked shriller cries than the loudest banshee of legends and nightmares. Immersed irrevocably in the world depicted by Kipling's masterpiece, with agonizing death on every side, Devon realized precisely the degree to which he took for granted the beauty of the rolling hills of Tennyson, Shakespeare, and Wilde.
The Bones of You (live)- Elbow and the BBC Concert Orchestra
Stephen N. Dethrage
Desperate for lyric inspiration, and in the service of the Her Majesty's British Empire, Devon found himself hopelessly lost, deep within the living, breathing madness of the jungles of India. Innumerable exotic serpents, faster in striking than any other killer, silently surrounded him with their fangs dripping with venom. Muscular, carnivorous jungle cats stalked him, their next meal, and rustled the foliage with a whisper, staying always just out of sight. Monkeys, or birds, or some other forsaken creatures shrieked shriller cries than the loudest banshee of legends and nightmares. Immersed irrevocably in the world depicted by Kipling's masterpiece, with agonizing death on every side, Devon realized precisely the degree to which he took for granted the beauty of the rolling hills of Tennyson, Shakespeare, and Wilde.
The Bones of You (live)- Elbow and the BBC Concert Orchestra
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Idiot
Idiot- 260 Words
Stephen N. Dethrage
She was irregularly beautiful, and that should have been his first clue. Something indistinguishable in her fascinating amber eyes, her flawless golden skin, and the perfect curves of her body simply surpassed the realm of normalcy. And yet, drunk and lusty, he either missed or ignored the inhuman beauty she radiated. In spite of this, as soon as she saw him on his dilapidated barstool in the seedy club she found herself in, she chose him. She ignored his mediocre build, his inexpensive outfit, and the telling gold ring on his finger and ultimately, they left together. In a cheap room in the first hotel they found, their night was full of fire, passion, and pure animalism. She never once thought of the temples that were once built to her, or the carnal conquests of her past, or the vast difference between the men of the twenty-first century and the men of the Heroic Age. For the first time since Adonis died, she truly loved a mortal.
Hours later, disoriented and losing the fight to a pounding headache, Ethan rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes as quietly as he could. The woman on the bed beside him was truly beautiful, but he wasn't willing to sacrifice his average job or his average marriage for some pretty whore he'd never met. He slipped out the door after one last look at her naked form and vanished into suburbia once more.
In the morning, for the first time in the entirety of her existence, the goddess Aphrodite awoke alone.
Idioteque - Radiohead
Stephen N. Dethrage
She was irregularly beautiful, and that should have been his first clue. Something indistinguishable in her fascinating amber eyes, her flawless golden skin, and the perfect curves of her body simply surpassed the realm of normalcy. And yet, drunk and lusty, he either missed or ignored the inhuman beauty she radiated. In spite of this, as soon as she saw him on his dilapidated barstool in the seedy club she found herself in, she chose him. She ignored his mediocre build, his inexpensive outfit, and the telling gold ring on his finger and ultimately, they left together. In a cheap room in the first hotel they found, their night was full of fire, passion, and pure animalism. She never once thought of the temples that were once built to her, or the carnal conquests of her past, or the vast difference between the men of the twenty-first century and the men of the Heroic Age. For the first time since Adonis died, she truly loved a mortal.
Hours later, disoriented and losing the fight to a pounding headache, Ethan rolled out of bed and pulled on his clothes as quietly as he could. The woman on the bed beside him was truly beautiful, but he wasn't willing to sacrifice his average job or his average marriage for some pretty whore he'd never met. He slipped out the door after one last look at her naked form and vanished into suburbia once more.
In the morning, for the first time in the entirety of her existence, the goddess Aphrodite awoke alone.
Idioteque - Radiohead
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