aka the Party Mix

Lady Prose stepped into the tent as the Flame Lord continued his typing with the Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. Clickety Clack. His eyes took on a mad gleam and his white teeth shone in an insanely evil grin.

”What’s he typing?” The Wolf Den asked.

putski looked over his shoulder to see the bizarre phrase repeated ad nauseam. “All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things. All work and no play makes the Flame Lord want to burn things.”

The tent flap lifted and MeeJong stepped out, but her body was covered with green scales, her eyes had become golden, her teeth sharp, and two massive wings extended from her back. She’d become a dragon.

The Wolf Den and her companions took several steps back as the Flame Lord stood beside MeeJong. His skin had also become scaly green and he also had huge dragon wings. Flames shot out of his eyes and mouth as he and MeeJong said in unison. “Come play with us. Come play with us. Forever and ever and ever…”

”Oh shit” Shells muttered.

The Wolf Den started to convulse. Long gray hair grew out of every inch of her body as her snout extended and sharp teeth grew. She howled at the moon as putski, the Pearl, and Shells also became werewolves. They showed their claws and prepared to pounce. “Oh we’d love to play with you” the Wolf Den said.

”Wait” MeeJong said. “I don’t think you understand what I meant when I said come play with us.” She produced two bottles of bourbon with a grin as the Flame Lord pulled out a huge joint and a lighter.

The Wolf Den smiled. “Now we’re talkin’”

And a black snake slithered towards them and in a puff of smoke, took the form of a beautiful woman. “Am I late to the party?” Mamba asked.

And the seven of them sat around the camp fire, drank and smoked, and talked about women with three nipples, midget clown porn, creative ways to commit suicide, and which arch villains they wanted to fuck. And the only things that were killed were six bottles of bourbon and an ounce of weed.

The End

Or is it?

Once, the stars danced across the cosm.

Birthed by the immortal , emerging from within her bosom.

The goddess , Eniya bless her name.

Brought life in her travels,

Time and time again,

Planets and stars

And galaxies so far

Teaming with life , harmonious and true

Countless worlds for me and you.

Birth and death , served at her whim ,

Pray in reverence and you will find her within

Goddess ,oh goddess, bless our earth

Grant us protection like you granted our birth

Heaven and earth and every corner of the world ,

Hail your rule , as our hands you hold

Temples sing your praises , may your story be forever told.

He took

A wrong turn

Somewhere

On the way

To nowhere

He failed

To capture the flag

Return the cache

Of scared shotguns

Drop the pipe

And rescue the damsel

From, The Evil Crack House

In conclusion,

Game over.

David Burdett

12/8/2021

Through the dim pane of memory, in the muted nocturnal glow of transient dreams, wander the gossamer thoughts of our unchartered youth, treading furtively into the starlit bazaar of the heaven-seeking soul. And I – the temporary observer, the transient catcher of flickering fireflies – marvel at the frail footsteps of this selfsame soul, throbbing pulsating vibrating in the tender heartbeat of little universes yet unborn in the swollen womb of lustrous imagination. The whispers sigh of no place and no time, whispering faintly like spirits in a snowstorm, or echoes in a whisper. For I, the ethereal dreamer that I am, lost among the eloquent weathered pages of time and space, breathe in the lilac shades of twilight and exhale the wings of wayward stars – for the soul knows not the language of man, only the unspoken paradigm of a cosmic song.

His parents' eyes are on him.

His heartrate spikes. His thoughts race, his gaze downcast. Sweaty palms are clasped together on his lap. Fingers fidget.

Face them or hide. Put on an act. Deny himself. Hurt alone. His vision waters. He's fifteen, but he's done this since he was seven. He can't take it anymore.

"I-I'm gay," he confesses.

Mom scoots on the couch to his side. "We know," she soothes.

"It's okay," Dad assures, moving to sit beside him.

Built-up tension leaves him. He cries, hard.

His parents embrace him.

His head hurts, but he feels lighter, more free.

Cleopatra cavalierly plunked the priceless pearl into vinegar, stirred, and sipped, still staring serenely at Caesar.

Guests aghast gawked and gasped, gazing and gossiping hushedly, guessing at obscene sums she had dissolved and drunk.

Rome’s dictator nodded dismissively, grinning at his garrulous guests whilst surreptitiously swiping away a telltale trickle of icy sweat.

Add it up,

|The self expressed|=

{([(3)Me conceptually]+

[My body])×

[What I do] /over

[What is to be]+

[ what I've been Through]}

÷ Y(why)

Thus to write my self expression all I need is to possess a value for these variables and I merely have to check them against the others and factor in English to scrawl the proof of it all to paper or a screen. This makes me function as it is my functioning, and no block can stop the absolute value of this equation.

Should a block crush like a rock my creative flows stream; you would then see me writing about it. The weight of that rock being there, and what I feel like having nothing to write at all. Then I'd go about, in detail, depicting the details of the feeling of being crushed by that huge Boulder. So; like a resulting trickled rivulette escaping around a barrier, that writers block wouldn't stop anything.

My creative flow like water

I'm drenched in it and floating.

Just remember:

Blocks dont make good damns.

Though they're for building.

So build you a boat out of "would" and ride the rapid rushing well spring from the depths

of the you that pours out

And needs expressing.

There's always some variable

You can Solve for

to write down.

You always have

SUMthing.

Formative years whiled away within once bucolic hamlet of Arcola. I feel grateful reelin in the growing up years living within picturesque Arcola. Half a century ago, then said rural enclave comprising about half dozen farms dotted the landscape. Boyhood decades idly lapsed, where yours truly crossed the bridge guarded by trolls. They asked for sweet proceeds purchased a short jaunt to reach penny (once upon time dime a dozen) candy store. Said mecca ideally suited local kids to congregate. Primary usage constituting repurposed old house mainly functioned as sectioned off portion quasi country post office, whereby hubbub older folks met up to chit chat plus satisfactorily, singularly, and adequately stoking, kickstarting, buzzfeeding... gossip monger. Nowadays former generations of Ashenfelter's, Elliot's, and Troutman's of family farms long since industrialized housing headquarters for Glaxosmithkline, Pfizer, and Wyeth Pharmaceuticals, while suburban sprawl (think vinyl city) practically sprouted up like mushrooms overnight. Though long since kicked out nesting coup (lack of wings found yours truly an anomaly among other healthy member viz birth family), I rarely visited picture postcard (think Currier and Ives) boyhood happy non hunting grounds. No matter nary a shred reminiscent of idyllic landscape intact, I treasure precious memories that figuratively swell mine heart and soul with peaceful easy feeling. Prepubescent phase of mine luxuriated wildlands, that witnessed Canadian geese, (I could distinguish their honk that's how) made temporary layover flocking to well secluded pond withal, veritable garden of Eden marsh/wetland. Both parents grew up within urban jungle. Father loathed the city (Brooklyn), but mother throve while reaching maturity, (albeit physical) bound within Coney Island, methinks Canarsie a bedroom community. Both favored raising future (pluperfect) family where more open space offered markedly greater breathing, living and playing room. Thus veritable, impressionable, and formative days of yore steeped within pastoral (reed critical) environment even Ludwig Van Beethoven would approve. Distress (witnessing yours truly teetering on cusp of puberty) arose in part toward radical transformation, viz home turf. Outward change, vis a vis industrialization overlaid charming near pristine woodland plus anatomical metamorphosis ushered whooping psychological hiccups. Once again, a belated appreciation toward parents woke during decades into adulthood. They willfully, proactively, and instinctively, intervened to prevent their sole son withering away to nothing courtesy anorexia nervosa.

These latter days (unsaintly) reflect more self anger at depriving me to experience healthy development of body, mind and spirit. Despite gripped with suicidal pretentions mine corporeal essence remained robust. Never did I suffer the scare of severe medical illness. Nope, not even the flu infected thy susceptible fragile shrinking vulnerable being, which generally fit as a fiddle constitution prompts me to declare such unequivocal assertion. Another reason (aye sup prose) to count my blessings. Nsync with vibrant immunologic system, I managed to avoid any broken bones. As a rather tentative, reserved, hesitant cute little boy averse against risk, et cetera child, no litany of childhood battle scars punctuates a rather unexciting, safe ploy limiting braving gung ho demeanor. Many an emotional debility more than made up (adequately compensated) for common mishaps associated with fancy free and footloose (blistering) innocent early existence. These mental health issues (biochemical, hence congenital) quarks did wreak havoc within academic and interpersonal aspects. Public education (no matter classed as non crowded) presented torturous endeavor. Though mom and dad gravely concerned at nearly failing one after another grade, they raised raised a ruckus regarding abysmal low marks. Yes, their leniency toward my apathy certainly acknowledged now, though fashionably late within thine three score years since birth. These belated kudos also extend to being pleasantly surprised when birthday rolled around. Even when either sibling of mine, (an elder and younger sister) got feted asper notching another orbit around sun, mother also gave the other two progeny, whose special day an approaching or months in the future happening. She once explained, (perhaps even more than one occasion) her reasoning such, that she did not want one or the other kid (essentially both) to feel left out. Yea, I could tout her compassion as feeling thankful for doting (maybe even mollycoddling) this reserved, shy and during adolescence severely withdrawn male offspring. The bounteous trappings lathered lightly all three of us in stark contrast to dirt poor economic household molding predilections ill fate dealt mommy dearest. Disposition evinced toward yours truly (namely myself) would be less pleasant (rather abominable) once chronological arbitrary age of eighteen attained. Rather than adulation, there manifested abomination regarding my lack of motivation, integration, ambition, et cetera. Such unacceptable behavior intolerant, particularly toward mother. She vicariously recounted (and subsequently re-lived) her dismal girlhood, she being the youngest of four children. Morris Kuritsky (maternal grandfather), though learned as a tailor rarely earned adequate income to feed and clothe his hungry and poorly clad brood.

Rectitude with absent filial obligation does haunt me, especially since the two darling daughters I helped beget deeply affected by unemployed parent. Unbeknownst the satisfactory explanation (if any can be found) detailing why grandpa Kuritsky (long since deceased), his idleness most likely differs why Matthew Scott skirted seeking gainful employment, even shoveling horse manure. Social anxiety, (i.e. marked panic attacks) ran rampant and rent asunder one agonizing psyche, who now accepts in utero and/or neurological maladies that plagued most every breathing day since first screaming above decibel of tolerance, yet gratitude afforded personal counseling available in tandem with prescription medication that allow, enabled, and provided peace of mind to cope with cares and concerns of an uncertain world wide web.

Hindsight (always 20/20 versus 20/200 without glasses – bifocals – revisit "Time Enough at Last" the eighth episode of American television anthology series The Twilight Zone) softens harsh edges weathering blistering vitriolic populated ultimatums courtesy those who chose to bring me forth, and bare weaknesses inherent within these lovely bones, no fault of mine iterating insufferable misery. Actually, quite the contrary relationship with father. A widower nonagenarian (livingsocial at retirement community nestled with in sprawling Blue Bell) seems more gentler toward his aging baby boomer heir to the porcelain throne (think glorified toilet), and even sends money. He never assisted this troubled troubadour, when I hermetically sealed myself within safe bedroom. Now without me asking, he provided moderate financial assistance to sustain ten year old 2009 Hyundai Sonata, which original parts conk out one after another. Thank you very much papa.

Today

so far

I don’t want to kill myself

or anybody else.

It’s a start, right?

Baby steps.

Each step I take

is a step away from the psych ward,

from the prison,

from a house stained with hatred,

from dirt and filth and mice,

from a gay wife

who uses my paychecks for sustenance,

from a million women who ignore me,

from a world of pain and suffering,

heartbreak and loss.

I’m not sure where I’m going

but it has to be better than here,

doesn’t it?

I live in Mississippi. Back in 2002 we were invaded by these horrible looking bugs. They made loud noise and had big wings and just all together freaked me the hell out. I would not leave my house unless I absolutely had to. Friends would pop in and if one got in the door way I would scream bloody murder and have someone get it out. One day one was on my car and I didn't want to get out of my truck and that thing get near me- so my crazy ass gets on the interstate...climbing speeds trying to knock that sucker off with the wind. Did it work? Nope. That thing rode with me through 3 different towns and back. Finally my friends mom just knocked it off like it was nothing. Another night during this nightmarish event we stopped at the Bowling Alley to speak to the on duty cop that was working. He walked up to the car and they were crawling all over him and he was just OK with it...mean while I screamed for my friend to roll the window up. I had a diary at the time and drew pictures of my hatred for these things. I was terrified. Finally, one night, I was getting ready to go out and one landed on me. I started screaming, ripping my clothes off out in my front yard, tumbled down the hill and was so stressed I started my period right then. LOL After that, they slowly started to go away...but they will be back- AND I WILL NOT BE ready. Just saying.....