The Eye of the Bronco

technoir82: ‘Do you believe in time travel?’ Donnie Darko...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 20:57:44 -0500

technoir82:

‘Do you believe in time travel?’

Donnie Darko (2001)

the-absolute-funniest-posts: Follow this blog, you’ll love it...

Fri, 06 Jan 2012 20:54:34 -0500

the-absolute-funniest-posts:

Follow this blog, you’ll love it on your dashboard!

Love, Luck, Life

Sat, 01 Oct 2011 09:38:09 -0400

I shook a man’s hand on Tuesday and by Thursday he was dead. Life cues the credits much too early, as a good movie you never want it to end and you’re left with an empty popcorn box filled with regret for not getting the free refill because the good part is coming up, you can feel it. Afterwards you realize how much you’ve been ripped off, but it’s too late, and throw out your proof of purchase along with the empty sweets, here one moment gone the next.

His obituary didn’t say how he died, just that he was a loving father and husband, recently widowed. We are only given a set amount of time to live, and I think half of that time is attributed to luck, the other half to love. When you lose the one you love, life is just a fifty-fifty chance.

As a kid you think the first person you meet and fall in love with is your soul mate. What they didn’t tell you is how new love feels every time it hits you, and how different it is for each person you fall for.

Love is as precious as life, and luck has nothing to do with it, but judging from that man’s smile after our hands unhooked, chances are he lived a good life.

She Who Flees

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 20:10:00 -0400

She fled into the desert, and the stranger followed. It was getting hot, the sun hot on the back of his neck. That pack mule dropped dead between the two towns who’s names were as faint as the horizon piercing the desert. He couldn’t help but think she had something to do with that. There were miles of brown sand caked on his cracking boots, and his holster strap, criss-crossed across his chest, was in need of generous oiling. He had come upon a shanty, her smell lingered in the stale air. Inside was a man hovering over an open fire, cooking something that smelled like fish.

“Are you she,” he said to the man.

“Missed her. Maybe two, three days ago. Perhaps longer.”

“Have you food and lodge?”

“Indeed. If you’ll spare my life.” He looked at the revolver tucked on the hip.

“Be spared if your words hold true.”

“Won’t know until it’s too late.”

This woman whom he chased was known to create elaborate illusions. The sun could have cooked his brain to irrationality. However, the grime on the walls, crawling from the top of the wooden ceiling to the bottom of the dry, dry ground felt too real to be a misdirection. So he took his chances with this man, in hopes of catching she who flees.

“Head North,” said the man. “She told me East but I seen her head North.”

The stranger would go West, then, and chase her until she stopped running.

His guns were ready.

Go get a Google+ and add me to your circle!

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 23:59:42 -0400

Go get a Google+ and add me to your circle!

Old Man in the Valley

Tue, 20 Sep 2011 14:51:00 -0400

“There’s magic in those hills,” said the old man. His face wrinkled inward, and he smelled of the tobacco he stuffed into his pipe with fingers that popped as he moved. He continued to speak of the lights that dip from the sky, the black tongued chants sounding from the groves, the howling—man or beast he did not know—by the springs. I wondered his being here, at the base where mist stuck to your skin like a leach, if he made his home near. He reared his head to titter and pointed sharply to a tree. From the tree protruded a knob; the hinges barely visible. “One man’s home is another man’s prison,” he said, and invited me in. A crow perched in the middle of the single room and shouted through the valley. I declined food and drink but he insisted the road ahead was a wasteland, the vegetation scarce and waters poisonous. Shadows and death in the valley, magic and craft in the hills. Fear said the crow. So I had some tea. The old man clinked his overgrown nails on the surface of his mug and gazed through the window. “You’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “And continue onward in the morning.” He watched the sun set and my bones iced over to the sounds of a creature’s howl. I rested my head on the cot, forcing my body awake, as the old man howled back to the sounds of the night.

Cheaters on Ice, and Justice for All

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 13:46:00 -0400

There was enough of a lull between rain drops for the detective to light a cigarette and take a deep drag. It tasted like rusted copper. She fingered it until it burned out while the cop with the familiar face was briefing her. The body of a headless man was rotting in the dumpster.

“He’s got no ID, either,” said the cop. “We’ve got a ring on his finger. Two hearts etched inside in the middle. Forever Loved written before and after.”

“I’ll take the ring,” she said. They would have found the body sooner or later. “Am I the only person you called in on this?”

He nodded his head.

“Are you good at keeping secrets?”

He nodded his head, and told her about some paper work. She said she’d take care of it, as long as he kept quiet about this Jon Doe.

“You knew him?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Did you…”

Kill him?

“Too many question will send you back to pushing papers,” she slammed the dumpster lid and hurried back cold and wet to her apartment to put the ring in the freezer beside the head of her husband. She grabbed a quart of double chocolate ice cream abreast some frosted hairs of the head and sat down at the kitchen table, thinking. Maybe letting the cop go was the wrong decision. Trust is a hard bond to share, even after years of yarning it can wear to shatter. This cop had the same looking face as the one in the freezer. The detective made room for the ice cream and an available space for another head, and walked back outside in the cold, rainy night to once again make the wrong things right.

"Gossip Boy" Coffee Through a Straw

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 11:36:22 -0400

"Gossip Boy" Coffee Through a Straw:

Check out my new blog post! Read while drinking a coffee for the full effect.

renscribbles: oliphillips: Coffee Could do with one now. I...

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 10:36:37 -0400

renscribbles:

oliphillips:

Coffee

Could do with one now.

I like this.

Two Sentence Story

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 17:31:20 -0400

The night was once for sleeping, dark and full of dreams. Now there sits an hour where the wolf will come, the hardest time to remain awake.

The Daily Doodles: "The Monster in the Attic"

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 13:04:24 -0400

The Daily Doodles: "The Monster in the Attic":

thedailydoodles:

Clifford wasn’t sure what it was, or whence it did came
Why, the Monster in the Attic didn’t even have a name.
It demanded the boy feed it babies, and if Clifford didn’t comply
The beast would eat his parents, and his entire family would die.

So Clifford brought it some infants; but only just…

Doors of Darkness

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:37:00 -0400

Insanity has possessed me; by evidence of this imprisoning institution, but also perchance a dream, no, a nightmare, carrying with it the revelation of a dark knowledge proved unavoidable. My friend, Arthur, penned many marvelous works up until his last few narratives, which held the weight of a strange and unnerving burden, shown course by his haggard face. They found his limp body swinging from the limb of a tree outside his estate. He had been a distant memory until he appeared in my dream. He led me to a dark place below several flights of winding stairs, a cellar place, oozing with black slime, interrupted by red puss, all flowing from the source: a locked chamber door, hinged and latched, ready to collapse under the weight of the pounding from what was behind it. One wall was fixed with a makeshift desk of rotten wood, a typewriter holding a block of papers with etchings of ancient hieroglyphics scrawled in blood. Arthur screamed and scratched his face until it bled. I retreated to one of the walls and felt the slime reaching for my skin. He wrote with a crimson dipped finger on one of the pages and ordered me to complete what he was unable to finish. “They demand it,” he said, and pointed to the door. “I must go, leave now, or they’ll take you, too.” He started for the door and opened the latch. I chased in rescue but was too late. There on the abysmal edge was an evil too gruesome to describe. The recollection of which pricks my spine with ice. Screams from that darkness fills my mind, even now. I sleep to dream, to replay this horror, to finish what they demanded. I dream to hear their whispers, that Arthur may find peace.

That I may find peace.

Kingdoms of this World

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:36:00 -0400

He called forth the four most competent blades for an order to go into the city and slay all who proclaimed allegiance to the insurrection. Women and children, old men and young men, virgins and harlots, the frail and strong of heart. Start from one end of the Kingdom, He said, and fear not the screams of the traitors. They have refused my mercy, and so I shall give no more. The chamber doors opened to a blind man dressed in white robes, transcribing in haste the words of the King. Defile their homes, He said, for they have ravaged mine. Go forth and fill the city with the dead. And so they went to slay the city. As their blades met with flesh, I was left with the scribe and the King, where I fell to His feet and cried, will you banish all who do not reflect your authority? This path is beset with more bloodshed than there already is. Wise King, heed the consequences. He dismounted his throne and struck my skull with a scepter. Man is doomed to the sins they will continue to commit after I am gone, He said. Look, here, the land is already drenched in blood, and not one is blameless of perverseness. What misery I declare on an already miserable people means nothing more than a droplet of rain in the Oceans of the West. Greed is to greed, as murder is to murder, as treachery is to destruction. We destroy ourselves. I have little to do of the matter other than accord order. This world will soon be a desert. When the bells of the church sounded, the blind scribe stepped up and said, it is done as You have said, my Lord.

The Lake off the Path

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:36:00 -0400

A mother calls her daughter from play into a fatherless home. Bring this basket to grandmother, she says. Stay on the path, the woods are dangerous. The daughter peeks inside the basket. Is grandma ok? she says. Yes, says the mother, if you hurry. The daughter leaves for the path and looks back to the house for the last time. Her mother stands on the porch with her hands covering her face. A woodsman makes camp not too far through the woods. His dog barks and trots to the little girl. Hello, puppy, she says, and pets him. A little girl like you shouldn’t be out here alone, says the woodsman. Excuse me, says the girl, I should go. Scream for me, says the woodsman, if trouble finds you. He strokes his axe handle and spits tobacco. The dog pouts as the girl continues on the path. Gray clouds collect up ahead where a thick mist has settled just before grandma’s door step. Something ruffles in the woods. Hello, says the girl, is someone there? A girl in white glows with pale skin laughs and says, come, come, then darts into the dark. Wait, says the girl, and tries to catch up. Through thickets and trees, ditches and trash, she follows the glow to the foot of the lake. Hold my hand, says the girl in white, and walk with me. The water is cold, says the girl and squeezes her basket. You will get used to it. Not so bad after a while. Only hurts at first. Soon enough, you’ll never want to leave. The woodsman never heard the scream. Grandma remained unmoving in her rocker. The mother still cries.

Hate in a Bottle

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:35:00 -0400

Dad liked the bottle so much he never let go. I didn’t enjoy the taste, some kind of stale licorice, bitter, thick, and smelling of death. That’s how he died, too. Kidney failure, liver damage, yes, but choking on his vomit is what did him in. Since Mom has been gone longer than I can remember, he was alone that night, and I don’t want to take responsibility, since I was out with friends, but I can’t help myself. Not that I feel bad about it, I’m glad–and I think I feel more funny about that than not being there to see it finally happen, to see his suffering finally end. You can consider me an orphan, now, I guess. Technically, I have no parents, and that’s what an orphan is, right? Excuse me if I sound rash, but I’m supposed to feel something, aren’t I? I never loved my father–who does at my age? But, with the help of my mother, he gave me life! He always said–between his drunken stupor–that I have her eyes. Her eyes, I’ve been told were beautiful. You can look into them and just get lost. These eyes of mine have gotten me in trouble, so far, just like Mom. It’s her fault, that’s what I say. If she hadn’t left that night, she would still be around, and Dad wouldn’t have had to find love at the bottom of a bottle. I hate her. I hate her for leaving. I hate her for the qualities I’ve inherited from her. I’m alone now, and it’s all thanks to her. This is my strongest feeling, when I should be mourning my poor father, I’m hating my wicked mother, who left our home for something that was more appealing. Nothing will bring them back, neither of them. Even if she’s still alive, today, she is as dead as Dad. They were weak and so am I. Does that mean I hate myself as well? That smell, it’s not smelling so bad, now.

Conquistador Aumento

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:34:00 -0400

He rises from his grave underneath the looming arm of the willow tree. His armor, once waxed to a blinding lustre, now rough with rust and dents, clinks and breaks the silence of the narrow land between the sea. The ground is soft and disturbed, from where man came he has also returned, only to have risen again. The one he loves is found elsewhere; he seeks while his heart, as withered as his chain-mail, aches. In love we die to ourselves, like sleep before waking. There sings a dream within a haze amidst the lucid glow of images, recalling a time where what was once real has long since passed. Since that passing, decay has taken hold of his life, like wisteria to a pocket of lattice. The ground was cold, as chilling as his broken heart, and what reason there is for his timely waking is known only to the God who watches above. The sun is warm and colors the sky in burning orange, just before it sets behind a cloud. In his mind he sees his love, her shape, her touch, her smile, and opens his eyes to the willow’s trunk. There in the bark, he sees his love, her shape, her touch, her smile, and with his worm eaten hand, unsheathes his sword, brittle yet as sharp as in the day of its forging. He says a prayer in an ancient tongue, and whips the air with his sword and stabs the heart of the willow. Like an earthquake’s rumble the tree splits in two. In the opening holds a skeleton wrapped in yellow lace. He has found his love, yet weeps for she is not the same as he. She will never again be who she once was; for, she has returned to the earth, where all men go to die.

The Catch

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:33:00 -0400

For thirty-three years, the old man tangled salty fingers through a thicket of beard in anticipation for taciturn fish to tug his taut line. What once began as an escape from a woman–more barren than the water–turned into obsession; for, he never caught a fish. Teetering on the lapping waves of insanity’s edge, at the docks, the little girl bearing greetings of childish reverence exuded an essential ingredient to boil his perseverance: innocent tranquility. The moment arrived when his wife demanded he ensnare a fish or seek board elsewhere. What love they shared drowned in the icy depths of her heart long ago. After futile contemplation, he accepted her offer from a lack of options, and made ready preparations for the next day’s venture. He and the little girl admired the ominous sky. The morning sun painted orange and red embers on the dark gray clouds looming the distance. The little girl promised to wait for his return, but the old man was confident he would be swallowed by the oncoming storm. He gave the girl a look of final appreciation before embarking the horizon. For three days he battled the stubborn fish below perilous waters. All believed him dead, even his wife, but the little girl embraced ignorance to converse protests. On the morning of the third day, from the shore rose the old man lugging a carcass of a fish half his size. The girl cheered as he marched up the withered path to sprawl his prize on the porch of his home. His wife gawked with the fish at her feet while he turned back for the sea, a place he had learned to love.

When the Snow Thaws

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:32:00 -0400

Winter births death and masks life with dread. The night welcomed an odd appointed storm, sharing with the region flakes the size of feathered pillows blanketing farther than any gaze; which, given such bizarre weather, was not very far. The condition of the roads mimed that of the once green fields and farm lands. Trees bowed against the whipping winds in exaltation to a God who breathed life into them, sprinkling the powder into the air and onto the ground. Between the frozen lake and the old Harper house idled a patrol car. Inside, a pair of weary officers more inclined to pass the drink rather than needlessly searching the Great Plains’ in response to the lack of action. A thundering boom broke the silence that followed a flash of light from the abandoned gray Harper home. The officers questioned their senses, but concluded since both of their wavering eyes were disturbed by this twinkling light, this was as much of a request for them to do their duty and investigate the disturbance. The windshield fought to clear the packed snow with the swish of its wipers. The wheels cycled in place, hindering movement, if only an inch or two to give forward. The driver rocked the vehicle, yet to no avail. With one last swig of the bottle, they secured their firearms for speedy availability, zipped up their parkas, and exited into the storm for the house. The closer they trekked, the worse the storm grew, and the more their eyes played tricks on them. A woman poked her head out of the second story window, and refused to answer the officer’s request for identification. They entered the previously abandoned house and left the patrol car, as well as the lake, to thaw until spring, when things would become clear for those still alive.

Love: Recognized at Last

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:32:00 -0400

She wants a spark that isn’t there, that never was, but always burned. Routine remains in comfort where love should have reside, a mistake more common than a cold. Two hearts turned frost are made warm when one, and only joined together when separate. This truth implanted like a Holy Revelation to a girl who is as broken as the lives she’s left behind. Intentions are fueled by the hope of a road clear ahead of the fallible thicket their feet fall on now. Toes are scarred from entangled roots scattered the width of the path. To stray is to stay on course, she says to him. He accepts without ado. The fill of a thrill from a chase already deemed triumphant balloons his wings from underneath, and soars in the sky to rival the eagle. However, even she cannot ignore the threat of temptation. Indirect iniquities thrive in the life of the one who began the experimental feat by fault of suppressed ignorance now made alive. Infidelity envelopes the lackluster relation between the two. They wonder if there ever was anything there at all. A friendly companionship confused as love? What is love but a connection between friends. His protests fall on deaf ears. She has felt the flames, and they are warm. Their paths are clear, but not as they had predicted. Into the sunset they walk, between them another heart, more cold than the one once shared.

The Plane from which I Came

Wed, 14 Sep 2011 12:31:00 -0400

I caught a butterfly and ate its wings. Everyone wants to fly; the sky is not as big as you would think. Though it may have been a moth in disguise, the difference between is subtle, insubstantial. The sun mocks my stance on this cold, solid earth–the plane on which I had been born and where I will be returning soon. Unless, of course, I reach my desire to ascend above and touch the hand of God. The hand of God, much like my own. The crevices filled with dirt from the work commissioned from the potter himself. I am clay; formed and fingered; meshed and mashed; handicapped. My limitations set in place for conquest. This the greatest victory, residing over all: death. To prevail over death is a victory already won, by the one I will soon meet. Therefore I take flight, with the wings in digestion and the way made clear. I see the ground change shape into the sky and all of it ending in a thud. The shining light waves the welcomed feel of my savior. What pain that followed is temporary at best, and death has made its stay as short as pain. Heaven is as everyone describes: white on white and smiles beset on all. All so accommodating. All so helpful. All so happy. They are pleased with my progress, they tell me, but want to keep me for a couple of days. Now I feel like an experiment. They rape me with their scanning eyes, with plugs and needles, these angels not so different from you and I. Heaven is much like earth–the plane from which I came.