[... Posted by Ryan]
So yea. Back to posting poems. The idea of a sabbatical to focus on my stories didn't really do anything. My stories still aren't done and poems are just so amazingly fun. This one, well it's a little older. It's about heartbreak. This one was about me. Now I don't normally write poems about me, but this one needed to come out. And it's good, I think. So I'm posting it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Untitled.
The fog of doubt,
Replaced the shadow of truth,
Your presence,
Once did prove,
The blinding sun,
Recedes and enlightens,
And in one moment,
I could feel my knees weaken,
Fog has turned solid,
And I can longer trust,
That the emotion once known,
Was ever more than lust,
Doubt,
What you renewed,
I refuse,
To grasp that which you imbued,
And stars guide my love,
Though, not alone,
I still look above for trails,
To lead me back to one,
I look back,
Cleansed of your influence,
And realize it was more fun,
Than anything of conscience,
Whole lies and no truths,
The base of all of our time,
But I never lied to you,
We could have been divine,
Return to the life you held previously,
And I shall remain in mine,
I hold steadily alone,
In a world of my own design,
Alone I mourn your indecision,
Your inability to let yourself be happy,
But you're free now, in your insecurity,
I won't be here for your convenience anymore.
Showing posts with label Ryan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ryan. Show all posts
February 15, 2011
February 14, 2011
Kind of a Slam Poet
[... Posted by Ryan]
Well, this is kind of a slam poem. For those of you who don't know SLAM it's basically poetry meant to be spoken word. Poetry with true rhythm, great pentameter. And it has to express something worth saying out loud. Instead of picking a topic I just wrote... Until I couldn't think of anything else to write. But here goes.
"The Floor"
Well, this is kind of a slam poem. For those of you who don't know SLAM it's basically poetry meant to be spoken word. Poetry with true rhythm, great pentameter. And it has to express something worth saying out loud. Instead of picking a topic I just wrote... Until I couldn't think of anything else to write. But here goes.
"The Floor"
It’s where my jaw fell,
When I thought about a moment alone,
Where all that was empty,
Could possibly be full.
Floored,
Like the once happy,
But now sad,
The once open,
But now mad,
Like the twang sound,
Of a country boy,
Who came home a city man,
Floored,
Like the possibilities,
I once saw that are all gone,
Sprawling, Grasping, Clutching,
For one more handle,
To bear the reigns in,
Once more,
I’d like to clutch,
Shift it all on down to neutral,
And bring these horses to a calmer pace,
But it’s on the floor,
Where my jaw lies,
Where my surprise hides,
And why I can’t even seem to try,
But it shows blank in my eyes,
The way I think this will go tonight,
Floored,
My thoughts of,
How the world goes,
Of how this poem flows,
And the wild passion throes,
Because who in the world knows?
I could be a reader, a rhymer,
A preacher, A tyrant,
And you’d all still say the same thing,
Because he’s a man without soul,
And you all want to know,
Who really truly knows,
Well that’s no one,
And that’s the truth,
So we’ll keep pain inside,
And remember all the lies,
That the world tends to spread as news,
And I’ll keep on the floor,
Because if you look for the clues,
You’ll see that the floor is the place,
When you ever want to displace,
Those feelings and thoughts of the blues,
January 30, 2011
Did Ryan write a Rap Song?
[... Posted by Ryan]
Yea, that's right. I tried it. Tell me what you think :-). I don't have a title but I'm pretty sure rappers name their song's after whatever word is said the most.
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Yea, that's right. I tried it. Tell me what you think :-). I don't have a title but I'm pretty sure rappers name their song's after whatever word is said the most.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Girl you know you can rock on me,
As we play the dancing game,
But what I wanna do, is to get into you,
And I know you’re feeling the same,
We can body rock and do the stank knee,
But it’s nothing like,
When I take you home with me,
When the lights move,
Girl I can feel your body close to me,
When the floor booms,
I can’t wait to get you close to me,
Bedrock’s not a town anymore,
It’s the sound when the police show up cuz the neighbors heard,
And when the lights go on there’ll no one home,
Cuz we’re not leaving this room til the break of dawn,
And as the story goes, Imma break your curse,
Of the spell so tragic, Your bed life’s been in a Hurst,
When the lights move,
Girl I can feel your body close to me,
When the floor booms,
I can’t wait to get you close to me,
Yea girl, when the lights move,
I wanna feel your body close to me,
When the floor booms,
I can’t wait to get you close to me,
Cuz theres no else on this dance floor tonight,
And I know when we move,
That you’re feeling alive,
Cuz girl you know I wanna feel you close to me,
It’s not just the floor that’ll move,
When I get your body close to me,
When the lights move,
Girl, I can feel your body close to me,
When the floor booms,
I can’t wait to get you close to me.
January 29, 2011
It's been a couple of days.
[... Posted by Ryan]
Hey Everyone. I just realized it's been a couple of days. So I figured that since I haven't finished any of my stories and I don't want to post them yet I'll throw an old poem on here. I was at a club last night, and I pretty much had one of the funnest times of my life and it reminded me how much better things have gotten since I wrote this poem that I'm posting. So I hope everyone enjoys.
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My Friend...
I’m sitting alone,
Scared…
Scared of what tomorrow may bring,
Abandoned,
By hope, thought, memory,
By friends, those who were there for me,
I’m sitting alone,
But I can clearly see,
My friend on the table,
Sitting right next to me.
My friend is tall,
Yet, he’s very short,
He wears a designer label,
But it doesn’t cover his whole body,
He has a long neck,
And a very open mind,
He has a bubbly personality,
Even more so than mine,
He likes glass and always arrives in style,
People cheer for him,
At every Boilermaker Mile,
Alone,
Sitting here by myself,
Lost in spirit, to atone,
Yet,
My friends are sitting in cold,
Just begging me to give them a home,
My friend,
Well, he has a few friends.
They like to travel together.
They come in packs,
Sometimes 6,
Sometimes in 30 racks,
Right now he’s my only friend,
And now… I’m all alone.
Hey Everyone. I just realized it's been a couple of days. So I figured that since I haven't finished any of my stories and I don't want to post them yet I'll throw an old poem on here. I was at a club last night, and I pretty much had one of the funnest times of my life and it reminded me how much better things have gotten since I wrote this poem that I'm posting. So I hope everyone enjoys.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Friend...
I’m sitting alone,
Scared…
Scared of what tomorrow may bring,
Abandoned,
By hope, thought, memory,
By friends, those who were there for me,
I’m sitting alone,
But I can clearly see,
My friend on the table,
Sitting right next to me.
My friend is tall,
Yet, he’s very short,
He wears a designer label,
But it doesn’t cover his whole body,
He has a long neck,
And a very open mind,
He has a bubbly personality,
Even more so than mine,
He likes glass and always arrives in style,
People cheer for him,
At every Boilermaker Mile,
Alone,
Sitting here by myself,
Lost in spirit, to atone,
Yet,
My friends are sitting in cold,
Just begging me to give them a home,
My friend,
Well, he has a few friends.
They like to travel together.
They come in packs,
Sometimes 6,
Sometimes in 30 racks,
Right now he’s my only friend,
And now… I’m all alone.
January 24, 2011
Dear Man in the Next Stall
[... Posted by Ryan]
Dear Man in the Next Stall,
Don't pretend I didn't hear you. I walked in only a moment after you. I heard the sound of toilet paper folding into the form of a toilet seat cover. And then to make it even better you used a toilet seat cover. Is there a reason for that much protection? Are you trying to fool the world into believing that your bowel movements are made up of waste more pure than everyone elses?
Although we only shared moments of disgusting sounds, I feel I already know enough about you to not want to be your friend. There were three open stalls. And although Man Law indicates you are to choose the furthest stall away, I'm not sure it meant for you take the handicapped stall when there were two regular stalls available. For this, I believe you are a creature of habit. One who believes that your comfort is an issuea far greater than the comfort or even well being of a possible handicapped who may have walked in; yes this also includes very big people who need that stall.
But again, you used three layers of sanitation between you and the toilet seat. Did you somehow think that your normal, skinny physique is somehow better than that of an overweight or handicapped person? Is that why you believed that your skin could not touch something that another's skin had touched? Are you so naive as to believe that we are not the same?
I could understand if someone had left a surprise on the seat for you. But did they? The world may never know. You are like a serial killer, cleaning up after yourself leaving not a trace that you were even there. You even cleaned the sink after you washed your hands. Do you even work here? Are you trying not to leave fingerprints because in some sick way you'll think that I will dust the handles after you leave? Ultimately proving that you are guilty of a crime that happened twenty years ago which luckily has no statute of limitations?
But again, I heard you. You may have thrown three sheets down to prevent your skin from touching the seat, but your body produced some of the worst sounds I had ever heard. I was disgusted that I could smell your excrement only two stalls away. Were you genetically engineered to render your prey unconscious with those smells? Luckily, my sense of smell is under developedand I didn't fall victim to your evil plot.
Then, after you leave the stall, you look at me and smile as though nothing had transpired and I'm supposed to ignore the fact that you just reigned biological warfare on me. I was the victim of a Kamikaze attack that went wrong, because for one; I survived. And for two, you walked away leaving a chemline trail throughout the bathroom. Your victory was almost complete, I had begun to feel the effects of methayne gas poisoning. But then. Someone opened the door and the fan kicked on. You sealed your own fate, because you should have known that methayne can be transferred with ventialtion.
The battle was won, and I had emerged a survivor. Victorious. Your declaration of war had been recieved and like Switzerland I chose to remain neutral. I feel although this battle has been drawn to a close, I fear a next encounter. I may not survive without the enhanced ability of a gas mask.
I wonder if your attacks are based on a higher power. Will you walk lovingly into the manor of gods? Will you recieve 72 dark haired virgins? I know not. But until the next encounter, I remain fearful.
Signed,
The Survivor of Your Chemical Assault.
Dear Man in the Next Stall,
Don't pretend I didn't hear you. I walked in only a moment after you. I heard the sound of toilet paper folding into the form of a toilet seat cover. And then to make it even better you used a toilet seat cover. Is there a reason for that much protection? Are you trying to fool the world into believing that your bowel movements are made up of waste more pure than everyone elses?
Although we only shared moments of disgusting sounds, I feel I already know enough about you to not want to be your friend. There were three open stalls. And although Man Law indicates you are to choose the furthest stall away, I'm not sure it meant for you take the handicapped stall when there were two regular stalls available. For this, I believe you are a creature of habit. One who believes that your comfort is an issuea far greater than the comfort or even well being of a possible handicapped who may have walked in; yes this also includes very big people who need that stall.
But again, you used three layers of sanitation between you and the toilet seat. Did you somehow think that your normal, skinny physique is somehow better than that of an overweight or handicapped person? Is that why you believed that your skin could not touch something that another's skin had touched? Are you so naive as to believe that we are not the same?
I could understand if someone had left a surprise on the seat for you. But did they? The world may never know. You are like a serial killer, cleaning up after yourself leaving not a trace that you were even there. You even cleaned the sink after you washed your hands. Do you even work here? Are you trying not to leave fingerprints because in some sick way you'll think that I will dust the handles after you leave? Ultimately proving that you are guilty of a crime that happened twenty years ago which luckily has no statute of limitations?
But again, I heard you. You may have thrown three sheets down to prevent your skin from touching the seat, but your body produced some of the worst sounds I had ever heard. I was disgusted that I could smell your excrement only two stalls away. Were you genetically engineered to render your prey unconscious with those smells? Luckily, my sense of smell is under developedand I didn't fall victim to your evil plot.
Then, after you leave the stall, you look at me and smile as though nothing had transpired and I'm supposed to ignore the fact that you just reigned biological warfare on me. I was the victim of a Kamikaze attack that went wrong, because for one; I survived. And for two, you walked away leaving a chemline trail throughout the bathroom. Your victory was almost complete, I had begun to feel the effects of methayne gas poisoning. But then. Someone opened the door and the fan kicked on. You sealed your own fate, because you should have known that methayne can be transferred with ventialtion.
The battle was won, and I had emerged a survivor. Victorious. Your declaration of war had been recieved and like Switzerland I chose to remain neutral. I feel although this battle has been drawn to a close, I fear a next encounter. I may not survive without the enhanced ability of a gas mask.
I wonder if your attacks are based on a higher power. Will you walk lovingly into the manor of gods? Will you recieve 72 dark haired virgins? I know not. But until the next encounter, I remain fearful.
Signed,
The Survivor of Your Chemical Assault.
January 21, 2011
A Message and a Post - From Ryan
[... posted by Ryan]
Well everyone. We've gained a third contributor. His name is Will, referred to us by Ted. I hope everyone enjoys his stuff. Also, I'm working on several short stories and novels at the same time so I'm going to be posting little bits of them from time to time and in between I'll update with poems or short stories I've already finished. The one I'm updating with today is my attempt at a romance. I don't know how polished it is, I just know that I can't stand writing romances. It was a practice at my strength of being a writer though.
His father grew up during the civil rights movement and used to tell stories about how he saw Dr. King speak at the Washington Monument. These stories of his father's past were the teacher's favorites. He always asked his father for one more story, one more moral.
When he went off to college his favorite authors turned out to be revolutionaries. Not just Dr. King but Voltaire, Henry David Thoreau and Whitman as well. His favorite thing to say in class was "those who could stand up before their nation, their peers and before the ones they loved and declare what they believed in was right for all people, and they were willing to fight for the benefit of all people, then they were truly the heroes of their times." When the teacher was the student he still lead the class and offered them up the ways of the world and the ways of honor and respect amongst the world. His teacher's became his peers and out loud before the end of each semester he would say "just one more. Just one more soliloquy of pride and love and the feelings that were lost long ago. Just one more kiss between lips and one more under budget staging of Troilus and Cressida… Just one more anything so I feel like I haven't missed out."
When the teacher started dating and looking for someone to spend the rest of his tomorrows with he spoke within his head "no more, even though I'm willing to go for just one more." He had almost given up hope until one day in the library. He bumped right into her while he was staring off into the science fiction section, fantasizing of futuristic knights defending their home front's, getting the girl and winning the honor of knowing they had fought and won for their country, for their planet and for their home. When he bumped into her he immediately noticed the way her eyes glistened a shade of green he had never seen before. It was a pure color that attracted him to her eyes, but it was the smell that made him realize she was the one. It was vanilla; real vanilla, not the scent of white chocolate or vanilla ice cream, but real vanilla. It was emanating from her hair, the prettiest shade of blonde and red, he could see her telling people that "the color isn't on a hair dye box, so it isn't a true hair color." Her hair color didn't matter to him. After bumping into the combination of the wonderful smell, her beauty and his hearts beating he couldn't think of anything else to say aside from the reflex of "excuse me. I'm so sorry."
He had ruined it; his first impression on the one he thought to be his true love. He walked away a sad and disappointed man, all the way to the Heinlein section before realizing his mistake. Almost to the Philip K. Dick section before her smell moved like fate through the shelves and aisles and right before he could turn and run back to her he notices Neil Gaiman's American God's and remembers the love Shadow had for his wife, even in her death and he walks back to her. The beautiful girl with the blue eyes, she smelled like vanilla he kept saying in his mind.
His run back to her felt like a thousand steps, a day's run across an empty field where the only thing he could see was her beautiful face. She stared down into her selection of romance novels and she couldn't decide between a novel by Linda Howard and a novel from Helen Parramore. The teacher had read both selections and recommended the Howard novel, not because he liked it, but because a respected colleague had told him of the books themes, the love story and the adventure. Her reply was more of a physical reaction than one of words; she looked up into his brown eyes and stared. The moment was not lost to them and as they peered into each other's eyes they could only wonder what the other was thinking and as the red began to show on her face he introduced himself. Her response was just as wanting as she said "My name is Elizabeth." That was all she said.
He wondered for a moment. How could this beautiful woman not see the beauty I see in her, or sense the longing I have for her now? He picked up a romance novel, and at this point he couldn't even sense the title, only that it had an "Oprah's Book of the Month" club sticker on it. He stared at his reflection in the luminescent and golden sticker and told himself that this was one of those moments where he couldn't show that he was fearful, that all his past ten minutes of staring into space and remembering characters in books was for her. He built up his courage and with one last exasperating breath he said "Do you like coffee?"
The look in her eyes was a look he thought he said seen often enough. He thought this was the moment where he should take the hint, excuse himself and walk away and just as he began to walk away she said "Oh I'd love to get some with you." This was said in a high pitched voice, much higher than when she had said her name and from this the Teacher could tell she was as excited as he. "I brew my own and I only live a few blocks away. I would love to walk you back to my apartment for some drinks. The sky outside is getting dark but I did bring my magical umbrella so I can protect us both from the rain or any creature that may be lurking in the night." A smile grew across her face as she stared happily into the Teacher's eyes, piercing into his soul. He could feel her searching around inside his heart, attempting to discover his intentions. They are true his mind finally said and at once she stood, said "let's check out and go my Noble knight."
Well everyone. We've gained a third contributor. His name is Will, referred to us by Ted. I hope everyone enjoys his stuff. Also, I'm working on several short stories and novels at the same time so I'm going to be posting little bits of them from time to time and in between I'll update with poems or short stories I've already finished. The one I'm updating with today is my attempt at a romance. I don't know how polished it is, I just know that I can't stand writing romances. It was a practice at my strength of being a writer though.
His age shows on his face; in the wrinkles that form the wavy lines above his worn brow. The chalk dust on his hands and face only serve to add more age to his to his already ghost like appearance. He still uses chalk and ebony boards to teach his students the way of the world. In class he tells everyone that the ebony board is more personal than the power point slide; chalk and erasers can't hide their flaws behind digital make-up. The worn brown patches on the elbows of each shirt and blazer he wears are a tell tale sign of his commitment to his students; staying up late each night to scan just "one more" essay, just "one more" response.
His father grew up during the civil rights movement and used to tell stories about how he saw Dr. King speak at the Washington Monument. These stories of his father's past were the teacher's favorites. He always asked his father for one more story, one more moral.
When he went off to college his favorite authors turned out to be revolutionaries. Not just Dr. King but Voltaire, Henry David Thoreau and Whitman as well. His favorite thing to say in class was "those who could stand up before their nation, their peers and before the ones they loved and declare what they believed in was right for all people, and they were willing to fight for the benefit of all people, then they were truly the heroes of their times." When the teacher was the student he still lead the class and offered them up the ways of the world and the ways of honor and respect amongst the world. His teacher's became his peers and out loud before the end of each semester he would say "just one more. Just one more soliloquy of pride and love and the feelings that were lost long ago. Just one more kiss between lips and one more under budget staging of Troilus and Cressida… Just one more anything so I feel like I haven't missed out."
When the teacher started dating and looking for someone to spend the rest of his tomorrows with he spoke within his head "no more, even though I'm willing to go for just one more." He had almost given up hope until one day in the library. He bumped right into her while he was staring off into the science fiction section, fantasizing of futuristic knights defending their home front's, getting the girl and winning the honor of knowing they had fought and won for their country, for their planet and for their home. When he bumped into her he immediately noticed the way her eyes glistened a shade of green he had never seen before. It was a pure color that attracted him to her eyes, but it was the smell that made him realize she was the one. It was vanilla; real vanilla, not the scent of white chocolate or vanilla ice cream, but real vanilla. It was emanating from her hair, the prettiest shade of blonde and red, he could see her telling people that "the color isn't on a hair dye box, so it isn't a true hair color." Her hair color didn't matter to him. After bumping into the combination of the wonderful smell, her beauty and his hearts beating he couldn't think of anything else to say aside from the reflex of "excuse me. I'm so sorry."
He had ruined it; his first impression on the one he thought to be his true love. He walked away a sad and disappointed man, all the way to the Heinlein section before realizing his mistake. Almost to the Philip K. Dick section before her smell moved like fate through the shelves and aisles and right before he could turn and run back to her he notices Neil Gaiman's American God's and remembers the love Shadow had for his wife, even in her death and he walks back to her. The beautiful girl with the blue eyes, she smelled like vanilla he kept saying in his mind.
His run back to her felt like a thousand steps, a day's run across an empty field where the only thing he could see was her beautiful face. She stared down into her selection of romance novels and she couldn't decide between a novel by Linda Howard and a novel from Helen Parramore. The teacher had read both selections and recommended the Howard novel, not because he liked it, but because a respected colleague had told him of the books themes, the love story and the adventure. Her reply was more of a physical reaction than one of words; she looked up into his brown eyes and stared. The moment was not lost to them and as they peered into each other's eyes they could only wonder what the other was thinking and as the red began to show on her face he introduced himself. Her response was just as wanting as she said "My name is Elizabeth." That was all she said.
He wondered for a moment. How could this beautiful woman not see the beauty I see in her, or sense the longing I have for her now? He picked up a romance novel, and at this point he couldn't even sense the title, only that it had an "Oprah's Book of the Month" club sticker on it. He stared at his reflection in the luminescent and golden sticker and told himself that this was one of those moments where he couldn't show that he was fearful, that all his past ten minutes of staring into space and remembering characters in books was for her. He built up his courage and with one last exasperating breath he said "Do you like coffee?"
The look in her eyes was a look he thought he said seen often enough. He thought this was the moment where he should take the hint, excuse himself and walk away and just as he began to walk away she said "Oh I'd love to get some with you." This was said in a high pitched voice, much higher than when she had said her name and from this the Teacher could tell she was as excited as he. "I brew my own and I only live a few blocks away. I would love to walk you back to my apartment for some drinks. The sky outside is getting dark but I did bring my magical umbrella so I can protect us both from the rain or any creature that may be lurking in the night." A smile grew across her face as she stared happily into the Teacher's eyes, piercing into his soul. He could feel her searching around inside his heart, attempting to discover his intentions. They are true his mind finally said and at once she stood, said "let's check out and go my Noble knight."
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But this was my attempt at a short romantic story. It actually branched off into a compilation of even further romantic short stories that I'd like to compile into one. But they definitely work better as separate short stories. Enjoy!
January 17, 2011
Untitled
[... posted by Ryan]
Debt is a sickness,
You cut corners,
You go without eating,
Just to afford the things,
That magazines tell us we need,
Credit is debt's best friend,
It lets you make debt bigger,
Just like trash talking Guidos,
Jager Bombs are their monthly payment,
And the more they drink the bigger they get,
Capitalism is religion,
It lies and says its here to help,
But it's slowly stealing money,
Right from your back pocket,
Poisoning you with empty promises,
The health care industry is capitalism's Pope, Bishop and Priest,
They ask you kindly for your money,
Promising you both physical and spiritual enlightenment,
Making your life as sweet as honey,
But they line their pockets as the people starve and are diagnosed with new forms of death,
No doubt dropped from Capitalist heaven where St. Enron cries "We need your soul!"
The average man is a sheep,
Following and stumbling down a dark hallway,
a lemming jumping from a cliff,
blissfully watching as their lives are wasting away.
Debt is a sickness,
You cut corners,
You go without eating,
Just to afford the things,
That magazines tell us we need,
Credit is debt's best friend,
It lets you make debt bigger,
Just like trash talking Guidos,
Jager Bombs are their monthly payment,
And the more they drink the bigger they get,
Capitalism is religion,
It lies and says its here to help,
But it's slowly stealing money,
Right from your back pocket,
Poisoning you with empty promises,
The health care industry is capitalism's Pope, Bishop and Priest,
They ask you kindly for your money,
Promising you both physical and spiritual enlightenment,
Making your life as sweet as honey,
But they line their pockets as the people starve and are diagnosed with new forms of death,
No doubt dropped from Capitalist heaven where St. Enron cries "We need your soul!"
The average man is a sheep,
Following and stumbling down a dark hallway,
a lemming jumping from a cliff,
blissfully watching as their lives are wasting away.
January 16, 2011
The ending to a portion of a short story. More to Come.
[... posted by Ryan]
The Dream always started the same way. The same church, the same stained glass windows; the ones with all the etchings and collages of color creating pictures of burning hearts, the sun shining light from halos on the darkness of the world, shining light into the church from the sun outside. He always woke up, fearing for his life, in the all too familiar cold sweat. The sweat forming a cooling barrier between him and whatever lurked in his dreams and the humid night air.
He never could figure out what the dream meant, but he figured it probably had something to do with his childhood. If he told the shrink at work about the dream the Doc would tell him hes supressing something. You know how those Freudian and Psych types always wanted to analyze you and get inside your head, but never thought about analyzing themselves. He couldn't tell his girlfriend because because she already thought he was slightly weird and he actually wanted to keep this one around. Being a Professor on the Occult wasn't something many women found fascinating. Creepy; yea. Fascinating; not so much.
It was 3am all the same. He knew that anything that would disturb him during this "witching" hour would purportedly be evil. "An insult to the Trinity," as he had once heard Ed Warren, who was a kind of ghost hunter, call it. But, was it really? He knew the stories about all the devils of this world and the ones hereafter. Sure, it's possible there are some demons, succubi or whatever out there who attacked to insult the Trinity. That doesn't mean he actually believed any of it.
He'd grown up under the watchful eye of a conservative Republican minster and a born-again Christian mother who beat the belief in God right of him. "How could a merciful God let this happen to me?" he'd say over and over again as the switch his mother beat him with struck; severing whole portions of skin into remnants of tree bark split vertically.
His name was Johnathon, John for short. And, as much as he hated his mother for naming him that, he hated her even more for the scars that lined his back and arms; like the flogging wounds of an insubordinate soldier in a dysfunctional army.
John sat, staring into the darkness of his bedroom. The only light provided by the moonlight streaming in from the balcony window to the right of his bed. He heard the creaking of the branches from the trees outside, frogs and toads chirping their call from a distance. The house still creaked a bit, "one of these days this house will settle and maybe I'll get a good nights sleep." That explained his restless behavior after the nightmare he thought. There was too much noise, too much going on outside. Birds and bats still flying past the moonlight making it look like there was activity going on outside; and it was coming in.
He looked around his room one last time, hearing the buzzing of bugs outside, the wind blowing and decided that the night's sounds weren't worth losing sleep over. "I have a class in the morning," he said aloud. He threw the sheet over his head, the one he superstitiously always needed to use, and threw his head on the pillow and drifted back into the realm of sleep, ignoring the fact that he did indeed see something in the shadows of the doorway to his bedroom.
The Dream always started the same way. The same church, the same stained glass windows; the ones with all the etchings and collages of color creating pictures of burning hearts, the sun shining light from halos on the darkness of the world, shining light into the church from the sun outside. He always woke up, fearing for his life, in the all too familiar cold sweat. The sweat forming a cooling barrier between him and whatever lurked in his dreams and the humid night air.
He never could figure out what the dream meant, but he figured it probably had something to do with his childhood. If he told the shrink at work about the dream the Doc would tell him hes supressing something. You know how those Freudian and Psych types always wanted to analyze you and get inside your head, but never thought about analyzing themselves. He couldn't tell his girlfriend because because she already thought he was slightly weird and he actually wanted to keep this one around. Being a Professor on the Occult wasn't something many women found fascinating. Creepy; yea. Fascinating; not so much.
It was 3am all the same. He knew that anything that would disturb him during this "witching" hour would purportedly be evil. "An insult to the Trinity," as he had once heard Ed Warren, who was a kind of ghost hunter, call it. But, was it really? He knew the stories about all the devils of this world and the ones hereafter. Sure, it's possible there are some demons, succubi or whatever out there who attacked to insult the Trinity. That doesn't mean he actually believed any of it.
He'd grown up under the watchful eye of a conservative Republican minster and a born-again Christian mother who beat the belief in God right of him. "How could a merciful God let this happen to me?" he'd say over and over again as the switch his mother beat him with struck; severing whole portions of skin into remnants of tree bark split vertically.
His name was Johnathon, John for short. And, as much as he hated his mother for naming him that, he hated her even more for the scars that lined his back and arms; like the flogging wounds of an insubordinate soldier in a dysfunctional army.
John sat, staring into the darkness of his bedroom. The only light provided by the moonlight streaming in from the balcony window to the right of his bed. He heard the creaking of the branches from the trees outside, frogs and toads chirping their call from a distance. The house still creaked a bit, "one of these days this house will settle and maybe I'll get a good nights sleep." That explained his restless behavior after the nightmare he thought. There was too much noise, too much going on outside. Birds and bats still flying past the moonlight making it look like there was activity going on outside; and it was coming in.
He looked around his room one last time, hearing the buzzing of bugs outside, the wind blowing and decided that the night's sounds weren't worth losing sleep over. "I have a class in the morning," he said aloud. He threw the sheet over his head, the one he superstitiously always needed to use, and threw his head on the pillow and drifted back into the realm of sleep, ignoring the fact that he did indeed see something in the shadows of the doorway to his bedroom.
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