Hope To Ruin

Cracked skin on wringing hands like crooked lines etched into the fabric of time

Reminiscing of days past when hope was but a song, carried by the voices of those imbued by life’s love

Heads bowed in shame now, averse to the gaze of what we’ve become

Too entangled in the dilapidated ruins on humanity’s home

Built upon, a monument to honor the promise of potential

All hands toiled and tolled, both young and old

Both weak hearted and brave

Gone is the distinction that emboldens the cracks that split across jagged surfaces, deepening rotten wounds, rancid and oozing to their core

The dream of goodness wiped away like a speck on the clear vision of hate

Hope To Ruin

The State of My Mental

So I sat down to write this and I thought to myself.. be as honest as you possibly can

Typing this now, my hands feel like mush

I am now in the 4th month of my 32nd year on earth

The world around me has only gotten worse

My mental state is fickle, like rootless trees

As if such a thing exists

The inside of my brain feels like a dungeon at times

I imagine my creativity truly is stifled in there

Because it sure has been absent these past few months

Life indeed has become an endless drone of normalcy, pockmarked by brief moments of.. liberation?

Is that how I’d describe it?

I’m not sure.

I do feel like there is a version of me, dead within my bones

I walk around in her carcass, pantomiming what she would do and say but her essence was dimmed quite a while ago.

I still bathe in the brief moments of happiness I experience but the ever-persistent doubt lingers

It hangs over my head like a guillotine, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Yet, even as my sense of self withers away like smoke in the wind..

I am even surer of myself in a way that seems almost obnoxious

I still don’t understand the purpose of life. I’m beginning to think I never will.

But I do hope to, one day, understand what I am doing here.

Not in a way that hearkens back to my dark youth, where thoughts of suicide plagued almost every moment of my waking life

Instead, in a way that keeps me throttling forward, day after day.

The State of My Mental

The First Day

The snowed in street leading to Ann Arbor High School didn’t seem to slow the traffic down one bit. Casey Lewis sat patiently in her brand new car with the radio playing smooth R&B music at a moderate volume. She was a gorgeous young woman with seemingly flawless dark brown skin, rich black hair, and almond shaped, hazelnut brown eyes. Unfortunately, she currently found herself stuck behind two school buses and three minivans, all carrying children with a curiosity and childlike intuition that she had lost many years ago. Even though she was only 27 years old, she felt as though she had been 27 since she was a child. The oldest of her 4 siblings, she was forced to grow up quickly and, at a young age, she formed a strong sense of responsibility that followed through her many years of schooling.

One of the minivans in front of her made a sudden U-turn and she was allowed to move up a space. She ogled her wristwatch. It was 7:50AM. She was going to be late for her first class of the day. Nay, the first class of her career. She had never imagined herself as a teacher. As a child, she often imagined herself as a superhero. Fighting crime alongside the likes of Batman and Wonder Woman, saving the world from caricatured super villains with extraordinary personalities and a micro-level focus of doom. She always thought it odd that Joker never seemed to want to leave Gotham and instead was simply staying there to make Batman’s life difficult. Nonetheless, she imagined herself fighting with Batman side by side. She had the physique for it. Those dreams were shattered when she suffered a devastating injury to her left knee during a JV soccer game in middle school. She broke her knee – and her heart – in three different places and gone were her dreams of death defying leaps from rooftop to rooftop, chasing down so-called bad guys and crooks. Instead, she was restrained to a hospital bed for six months and endured six more months of grueling physical therapy before she could even walk on her own again. Every day she was reminded of her limitations when she got out of bed. A slight limp characterized her gait now and, while it took her a long time to get used to it, she had finally come to accept it. So her dreams of athletic and heroic feats were dashed and her intense ambition was permanently deterred.

The final school bus in front of her had finally finished unloading the copious amounts of children it carried in its underbelly and obnoxiously roared away from the curb. Casey inched up slowly. Her car clock read 7:53AM. Almost there, she thought to herself. She had discovered her passion for teaching during her freshman year of college. She wasn’t the most gregarious person on campus and she rarely went to the oft-mentioned “college parties” she had seen depicted so many times on television shows. When she first attended one, her high expectations were quickly diminished. No hot guys. No free drinks. No drama. It was just a cramped dorm filled with sweaty and exhausted college students listening to EDM music from 3 years prior. The “booze” they had procured tasted like cheaply and carelessly made bathtub gin and the only drama that occurred was due to the lack of ample parking. At some point, Casey had been lingering around the lone TV set in the living room when it suddenly came to life, scaring everyone else in the room.

“What the fuck is going on?!” a tipsy classmate of hers bellowed. “That doesn’t just happen. You think it’s haunted?” He asked no one in particular.

A lazy shrug rippled throughout the room and, for some odd reason, all eyes fell on her. So there she was, the only one standing in a room full of intoxicated, bleary eyed young adults sitting, staring blankly at her. It felt all too familiar, but she couldn’t put her finger on why it did and she also couldn’t understand why she was the center of attention. Then her eyes noticed something on the sofa packed with her cohorts. Her tipsy classmate with all the questions was sitting directly on the remote control and was accidentally changing the channel as he squirmed around in discomfort and growing panic at the television set he assumed had turned itself on.

Casey simply pointed at his crotch. “You’re sitting on the control,” she said matter-of-factly.

Everyone else’s eyes fell to his crotch and it was then that he realized that the haunted television set was his own doing. He reached down and yanked the remote control from under his crotch and glared it as though it had groped him against his will. He quickly glanced at Casey, suddenly embarrassed.

“You’re really observant. That’s pretty cool” he said.

The others around him nodded their heads in unison, murmuring words of agreement. Casey simply stared at them all with a blank expression. Later that night, as she was washing her friend’s vomit from her hair, she decided right then and there that she wanted to be a teacher. Simply because she liked being the center of attention for at least one minute. She had never been the center of attention growing up. Her parents always seemed to put the needs of her younger siblings above hers.

She changed her major the very next day.

Back in her car, the clock read 7:58. Class began in just two minutes and she was finally pulling into her own assigned parking space. She shut her car off and stared at herself in her rearview mirror for a moment. Her makeup was nicely applied, her hair was neat with not a strand hanging out of place, and her teeth were brighter than the sun.

“It’s showtime,” she muttered.

She took another deep breath and finally opened her car door. She swung her work bag over her shoulders, shut her car door, and walked with her slight limp across the parking lot onto the school’s main grounds, ready to begin the rest of her life.

The First Day

The Forest Of Souls

Mary had never been scared of the dark. As a child, her father, sticking firmly with his decades-old tradition of scary stories before bed, would attempt to continue this tradition by telling her tales of gnarly toothed witches lurking in dark woods or scary goblin-like monsters under her bed. She would only glare at him — both amused and agitated. Because Mary was not afraid of what lurked in the dark. She was not afraid of the unknown.

But now, as the stood at her grandmother’s grave, for the first time in her life – she was terrified. The old cemetery was hidden deep in the woods. Legends say it was to ensure that the agonizing howls from the undead wouldn’t wake the neighborhood in the middle of the night. Mary wondered why her father had decided to bury his mother in such a place. Permanently coated in fog, it seemed, it reeked of rotting skin and untended graves. Several tombstones had been turned over by grave robbers, entirely severed limbs lay lazily strewn about the cemetery grounds. Her bouquet of flowers – flowers she had picked freshly from a garden less than an hour ago – were already leaning over in death.

With shaking hands, she leaned down to her grandmother’s grave and wiped away the dust from her tombstone.

HERE LIES RACHEL MORGAN

MOTHER, SISTER, GRANDMOTHER, WIFE

May 1, 1929- April 10, 2017

Mary gently laid the flowers down on the rain soaked dirt and patted the mound as though her grandmother was laying there.

“I miss you Grandma. I wish you were here…”

She leaned down and laid her face against the soft earth. The wetness of the dirt kissed her cheek and she smiled with her eyes closed. Peaceful.

Suddenly the earth around her began to move and Mary, momentarily lost in her moment of bliss, was drawn into it. It swirled around her like a hurricane and she yelped in fear as, through the dirt mound she lay on, a ghastly hand shot up, reaching for the sky. This hand was emaciated, rotting flesh languidly dripped off the bones, fingernails as yellow as the moon and rotted as the soil it came from. Mary screamed, her voice so shrill and loud, it awoke the birds and critters in the forest. Owls angrily hooted and crows aggressively flapped their wings and cawed restlessly as Mary’s screams of horror pierced through the relative calm, disturbing their rest. Those bony hands slowly clutched onto untouched earth and from the rest of the mound arose a decaying and decrepit corpse dressed in a stained wedding dress.

With a portion of its skull exposed, this corpse had a permanent smirk on its face but the eyes were open and blank. Mary was frozen in fear at what she was witnessing. Her breath came out in short, panicked spurts and her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

The corpse cricked its neck and finally glanced in her direction. It leaned over ever so slowly with its outstretched hand and slowly caressed Mary’s cheek. Her breath caught in her throat and she grimaced in disgust as the hand moved to the other cheek.

Then the corpse leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Thanks for the flowers…”

Mary watched in shock and horror as the corpse grabbed the bouquet of flowers, put it up to its nose… then leaned back into the cursed earth it arose from.

Mary stood and ran. She ran through the dark woods, away from the cemetery, away from the fog. As she ran, the creatures of the night celebrated her departure and the moon seemed to loom dangerously close above her as a warning sign:

Stay Away From The Forest Of Souls

The Forest Of Souls