Violence is a hippie.

She drives a blood-red

moped

with peace stickers on the back.

Her hair is the color of wheat.

Her skin’s the color of the beach.

Why’d she choose this disguise?

Of course: to deceive.

Because nothing is as it seems

under chaos’ broad regime.

So be careful who you trust.

And be careful what they mean.

Rare to find a snare laid bare.

The discovery is commonly

born of

a snap and a scream.

#fiction, #personification

"Justice is a self-indulgent brat. She claims not to know Corruption, but they're really next-door neighbors."

"She got me out of summer school once, so she's okay."

"Ugh. Don't get me started, she's all save the animals and use paper bags. I want to shove her in a box called reality."

"I wish she would stop running for student body president. It's getting ridiculous."

"Nobody cares how many times she can argue her grade up from a C, she's still failing civics class."

"Justice is an okay student, but she doesn't know much about the real world. And her classmates are fed up with how she's treating them. Now, this is just speculation, but apparently, she got the prom queen vote recounted because of collusion."

"I heard she broke Truth's nose one time. It was pretty sick."

"My nose wouldn't stop bleeding for a week. I had to join Sadness's support group. He's so obnoxious."

"Yeah, she's okay in my book. Got me out of a bogus speeding ticket once."

"If she makes one more poster about running for student body president, I swear to Religion - okay, she's done it now! Hang on, I need to go burn a few flyers."

"She's got cute hair. Heard she sued a salon over a bad dye job once though."

"She said cheerleading was outdated and sexist. Whatever, loser."

"My crown and sash was taken away because she thought I meddled in the election. I'd get her back if I could, but she'd find some way to get me suspended again. Stupid loopholes."

"Envy stole my shoes one time. Justice got her detention. It was totally great."

"I can't hold a conversation with her. Like I get it, the ice caps are melting, and Friendship's too happy-go-lucky to realize people hate her. That doesn't mean we need to move to Antarctica or tell her the truth."

"This school was built on her. Literally, she used to live on the lot it was built on. Or so I've been told."

"Justice can go fly a kite. Well, poor kite 'cause she'd argue with it over why water isn't wet."

Death,

I'd like to think death to be a pair of angel twins.

One light and peaceful, one dark and painful.

One whole and beautiful, shining like the stars.

One scarred and broken, dark as night

And it all depends on who their Mother chooses to send.

Life,

What kind of death you will encounter,

depends on your life,

how you lived.

Was it full of Evil and Violence?

Did the devil on your shoulder deafen you?

His whispers and murmurings in your ears,

almost soothing,

but so hypnotising

Or was it Goodness and Love?

Did the angel on your shoulder protect you,

from the darkness threathening to swallow you?

Her wings covering you in a protective, warm embrace?

Violence is a man.

A man

who’s been wronged in the past.

A vengeful man.

A man

who wants to hurt people.

A cunning, clever man.

A man

who takes broken people

and lets them think

he’s the answer to their problems.

A cowardly man.

A man

who hides

behind the guise

of Justice.

An ugly man.

A man

with a distorted face

and missing teeth;

emitting the stench

of gun powder

and cigarette smoke.

He’s awfully popular, isn’t he?

I’ll give him that.

However horrible and sleazy

of a man

Violence is,

he’s certainly built up

quite a fan base.

I’m all alone, tired of trudging on earth restlessly. I’ve not had a vacation ever since...well, I stopped counting my time off a long time ago. Let’s just say that I have too many accumulated days I can use for eternity. Imagine the splendid time I’d have in the Bahamas or Tahiti.

I haven’t aged a day but my feet are soaring in pain and burning like they’re on fire. 

I’m heartless. My senses are numb. I have no empathy in my bones. There’s no grey line in my vocabulary; it’s only black and white. Pure and simple. I know how pathetic that might sound, not having a beating heart between my rib cages. It’s depressing being the one with a cold heart when life is made of rainbow colors. 

I guess life is for living. I have no experience with it. All I have heard that the color of life makes you feel exuberant and give you wings to fly into the endless sky, and makes you immortal even if you die. Such feelings are what makes humans different from the rest and humanity worth dying for.

My job is the dirtiest and scariest of all. I am a bounty hunter. I deliver people to their masters when their final due dates arrive unexpectedly because they owe debts to their lenders. It’s clearly stipulated in the fine prints they sign the day they are born that all debts must be paid in full. No exceptions to the rules.

When the alarm clock is sounded, I have to be there to drag them by the collar and dump them into the darkest pits regardless of their willingness. I don’t really care what happens to them after my job is done as long as I do mine perfectly. On-time, of course!

My name is death. I am the night keeper. Most people know me as the Angel of Death. I hate being called by that name if I can totally be honest.

Everyone is terrified of me whenever the lights go out, or the thunderstorm roars or something terrible happens in their lives as if their fate is forever sealed with mine; even though nothing is far from the truth. 

I loathe my nickname because it has a negative connotation and scares people away. They can’t fully look into my empty eyes. Whenever someone starts talking about me, most of them turn pale, shaking in fear like they saw a bone-chilling ghost, who’s choking the life out of them by their necks. I think that’s why I’m all alone until this day or forever.

I know they have good reasons for being petrified of me, for when I bring my wrath, I am so ruthless and merciless, even if humans clinch to hopes that never save them.  I am like a hit-man for hire. I don’t discriminate or ask questions. I just answer whenever the call comes at any time.

Once the wire is hot, I drop everything I’m doing and go to work right away. No job is too big or small. My delivery service is exceptional because I deliver on time without an exception or excuse.

But I get upset when people blame me though. 

When fate closes their doors, I’m who they see first. They’ve never stopped to think that I don’t have much of a choice like them or have full control over their final destinations. What they don’t realize is that I’m just doing my job in this never-ending carnage of soul collection business. All I do is pick up and deliver. For once, however, I wish if I could be a messenger of good news. 

But, “no news is ever good,” as one wise person once said.

The other day, for example, I was on the brink of a nap and almost fell asleep when my employer called me to pick up a few people. It was in a broad light in one neighborhood, rain of darkness poured down and killed a ton of people. I didn’t ask or whine why for the interruption of my loneliness drifting but had to complete the task asked of me instead. 

The calls never stop coming. Although I’m so exhausted beyond control and have tried not to exacerbate people’s lives, I have no choice in matters but answer the calls on time. It’s on my business logo. “On-Time Delivery. Anytime without Exceptions!”

midnightink 7-28-2020

in this heat, he still has to wear that black biker jacket. we meet at the noodle shop. thankfully, it’s after the rush hour. I take a moment to enjoy the noodles, trying not to notice him using his fingers.

“i bet they have forks, if you can’t do the chopsticks.” i suggest.

“of course, I can do chopsticks. it just feels differently to eat with your fingers”

i bet it is..

we drink cheap, weak beer. and he complains.

what are friends for?

he talks about pressure. constantly going against the current. I gave up on that years ago. no one makes a living doing acrobatics, ’cept in the circus. his improvisation is impressive, but after a while it’s just flash, a leather jacket on a hot day.

he could have chosen things differently, he openly admits. but all the cool that he used to exhude caught to him, and penetrated the core. he became desperate for more the cooker he got. he had to wear sunglasses to the jam session. then he got drunk and fell off the stage.

did gigs in advertising, where the smokescreen earned him some cred. but since brother Camel got lung cancer, they started putting out players that progressively look the same.

he quit, and moved to the atoll he found. surrounded by palm trees and eating lobsters all day. the beer ran out, so did the smokes. his Harley was a dissaster to maintain with all that sand.

I felt sorry for him, my long-lost friend. but he surprised me. he took out a pommegranate and opened it with just two fingers. a perfect low-cal snack. he is hopeful though. after we finish, he’s going to that job interview. it’s not glamorous, but not bad either. he has enough track record doing the hocky-pockey, and I feel he will make the HR happy. and in the end, that’s what’s it all a-bout!

The water fizzled in tiny amber bubbles as the worker placed his ginger ale back on the window sill. It would be warmed by the mid-July sun in a few minutes, but he was no longer thirsty now he could work in the shade.

He and the other workers had been building this tower of Babble for at least three months, though he couldn’t ask anyone else to make sure. Language ran from one floor to the next, just as she had patroled the foundation structures, screaming every time a worker attempted to talk another.

Language was an empress, complicated and beautiful but unforgiving, ready to ridicule and mock. None of the workers liked her. Yet as she approached the worker, she said softly:

“Aren’t you going to drink that?”

“No,” said the worker, “you can have it if you wish.”

So Language took the ginger ale and thanked the worker, before going on her way. The worker continued to set stones and bang nails with hammers until the sun had set. Bleeding from one finger, he went home and bandaged it, before falling into a deep undisturbed sleep. The next day, the worker brought two cans of ginger ale into work. When Language did her usual patrol, he motioned her over, and gave her the can in silence. Language nodded her appreciation and went upstairs.

Later that day, as she passed by him, Language stopped to open up her can of ginger ale.

“What happened to your finger? And your thumb?” she asked.

The worker looked down at his mangled hands, the burns on his arms, and then back up at Language’s clean, inquiring face.

“Just work.”

“Come with me this evening, I know someone who can help.”

So, just before sunset, Language appeared and the worker followed her into the forest, towards the hut of an old man and woman. Language spoke to the couple, who nodded and ran back inside the house.

“How long have they been living here?” the worker asked, “I’ve never seen them before.”

“That’s because only with me is the world of people a possibility for you,” Language smiled.

The old woman came back, and with wrinkled hands smoothed cool colour onto the man’s bare skin. She cleaned his arms and hands, and let the ointments sting before she bandaged them again.

“She says the cuts will be healed tomorrow,” Language told him.

“How ever can I repay you?” the worker said as they walked home.

“Continue to look at me the way you do,” Language smiled.

The next evening, when he turned around, Language stood, waiting shyly. He asked about the other workers as they walked along the beach. She told him, some had come as babies, others as fathers and grandfathers. She told about their cultures, the books they loved, the plays they went to watch, the dreams they had.

“I would love to be able to talk to them,” he told her.

“Perhaps I can organise a meal with all of the workers, where each must bring foods from the places they come from, and I can help you all talk to one another,” Language said, coyly.

The worker looked at the full moon, shining bright above the sea, where a mirror world trembled. Then he looked back at Language, and thought he had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked her.

“Forever,” she answered, as she placed her palms in his.

If they were in high school . . .

'I am inevitable.' ~ Death. Likes to wear a red/black cloak with a hood and enjoys carrying a scythe around with him. Emo.

'I am inevitable too.' ~ Life, a bright and cheery girl.

'Hey! You stole my line!' Death shook his scythe in Life's face.

'Did not!' Life scowled back.

As you can see, they're as different as . . . life and death.

'Everyone loves me.' ~Love. Appearance changes in everyone's eyes. Picture the hottest man/woman, and you've got a good idea.

'I judge all.' ~Time. Obsessed with clocks and watches and sundials. Small, bespectacled, carries a timekeeping piece wherever he goes.

'Come here, you weak-kneed (insert dergatory term)!' ~Violence. Bully. Likes dressing up with chains, spiked leather jackets and brings a gun wherever he goes.

'I take many forms.' ~Evil. Many twins; all equally bad. Works hand in hand with Violence to ensure chaos and anarchy within school.

And then Philosophy walks into the room and sees everyone quarrelling.

'Chill, guys. Lesson's starting soon. Go sit down.'

'Everything is connected through me.' Philosophy. Likes wearing a toga everywhere and spouting ancient bits of wisdom.

'Shut up, Phil,' Violence complains. 'You're all about arguments!'

'Nay thee,' Philosophy says. 'You were contradicting each other, not arguing. It is not a true argument.'

'Someone shut him up,' Time grumbles.

'Time is relative. It is your nature to be relative too. What did you mean by "shut him up"? Were you speaking to me, or Violence?'

'We are speaking to you!' Death groaned.

'Who is this "you"? It is relative too, like time,' Philosophy strokes his imaginary beard.

'We are speaking to Philosophy! Now shut up, Phil!' Time screams.

'Calm down. Let me present my interesting new cheese theory first,' Philosophy says calmly as he walks to the whiteboard.'

'Why do you have so low EQ?' Violence shouts at him.

'Clarity of thought and speech is infinitely better than your emotional quotient. Now, as I was saying, here is my cheese theory:'

And he scrawled some words on the whiteboard:

Swiss cheese has holes.

More cheese means more holes.

More holes in cheese means less amount of cheese.

Thus, more cheese is equal to less cheese.

'No. Stop challenging the natural order of the universe.' Death sighed.

'What is this "natural order of the universe"?' Philosophy questioned.

'Alright, alright. Shut up already, wise man,' Time mumbles.

'What defines "wise"?' Philosophy asked him.

'STOP IT!'

Finally Philosophy stops talking and proceeds to read Socrates.

'Some peace and quiet,' Death heaved a sigh of relief.

'What defines "peace and quiet"?' Philosophy looks up from his book.

'AHH! STOP!'

She is different for each one of us,

She gives,

And she takes away.

Some days she peeks her face over the horizon,

And some days she hides in shame.

But always does she give when she appears,

And never does she take the blame.