Moving Pictures, Silent Films.

There is something in the dark. In the corners of the house, where light shies away. Something that I cannot see. Something I cannot define. But I am certain that it is there. I have heard it, ticking away. Plotting my demise. I've told others about it. They don't believe me. But it's there. Not a trace of doubt in my mind.

In the early hours of the morning, when the sun hasn't risen yet, it's there. I'm terrified to leave the security of my bed. Terrified of what it might do. It's there when I eat. The food I eat may not be food. The air I breathe may not be air. The water I drink may not be water. Maybe it's poisoned. It would be convenient for It. Perhaps every breath I take, every morsel of food I consume brings me that much closer to death.

Misfortune appears to be its sustenance. A dropped plate, a stubbed toe, and I swear I can hear laughter. Faint enough so it might not be real, but loud enough to be audible. The laughter becomes louder each time a rapid succession of incidents occurs. I cannot determine where the laughter originates, because it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. It's unnerving.

In the night, when I turn off the lights to rest, It is there. Drawing horrid, shuddering, bubbling breaths. As if it were trying to suck the very air out of the room, or perhaps my soul. Further under the covers I hide, desperate to avoid any interaction with him -- her -- it. Whatever it is. It, because I have no images to piece together, nor do I want to imagine what monstrosities hide in shadows.

When the lights have turned down and the world is falling asleep is when the nightmares come. The awful, twisted nightmares. One in particular stands out. Perhaps this is due to the fact that It appeared after said nightmare. Perhaps it is due to the fact that it was absolutely nerve wracking.

It had started off seeming normal. A plain, weather worn hotel was my place of residence for the night. My petite room consisted of a small bed facing the door, a bedside table with a tea tray, and a bathroom. On the floor I was located on, the rooms were arranged in a square pattern around a square hold in the center of the floor. Through the hole grew a large tree. Palm, or some other indoor tree. Anyway, from my location in the bed, I could see the staircase, along with any person or thing that happened to climb said stairs. As I was just settling into my bed, I heard a scratching upon my door. Wondering who could be calling on me at this hour, I opened the door. At my feet sat a feline that I recognized belonged to the hotel owner.

"I'm thirsty," purred the cat. "Do you have anything for me to drink?" Now, because reality in dreams does not always correspond with the reality of the world we exist in, this seemed perfectly normal. It didn't seem like anything out of Alice In Wonderland. It didn't appear that I had happened upon the world's first talking cat. No, it seemed as natural as eggs are eggs. But in this tricky world of ours, sometimes eggs aren't always as sure as eggs. Sometimes there are two yolks. Sometimes there isn't a yolk. Eggs have deformities. Eggs aren't always sure as eggs are eggs.

Anyway, I let the cat in and shut the door. I picked up a teacup from the tea tray, filled it with lukewarm tea from the speckled teapot and placed it on the floor next to the bed. "Thanks!" yowled the cat. After a few seconds on drinking, though, the tinkling sound of breaking china reached my ears. Looking down, I saw that the cat's paw was soaked with tea, and the teacup was cracked in two. Had it tried to pick it up? I never found out, because at that instant, the door burst open with a bang and the cat and its drink, teacup and all, vanished with a hiss.

I was thrown up against the wall, pinned by some unknown force above the bed. Slowly, I slid down the wall, but still pinned. The door slammed shut. Yet I was still pinned. The door burst open. There was something on the stair. Bang! The door slammed shut. Bang! The thing was closer. Bang! I heard the dying yowl of a cat. Bang! The cat was now dead, tied by its tail to a branch of the tree. The thing on the stair was closer still. Bang! The sound of metal upon metal reached my ears. Bang! The thing, which was close enough to be distinguished, held something large and glimmering in its hand. A butcher knife. It simply looked like someone wearing a large cloak with a shrouded face. Carrying a butcher knife.

I began to struggle against my invisible bonds, but to no avail. I was stuck here until whatever was holding me became bored of playing cat and mouse. The door didn't slam again, giving me a clear view of the thing's movements. It didn't walk, it seemed, but shimmered in and out of reality. It would fade out for a few seconds, but reappear closer than it had been. Then it occurred to me; I had a voice. I began to shout for help. For a few seconds, my voice made a crackling sound, sort of like television static, and then petered out. I was, essentially, mute. With a phantom cloak carrying a butcher knife floating towards my room. As the thing entered the door frame, the door began to slam again. As it hit the cloak, however, it was blasted off its hinges.

The door hit the wall next to me, just inches from my head. The cloak faded out, and reappeared next to the bed. It leaned down, putting its face uncomfortably close to mine. Although there was no face, as I could clearly see now, its breath stank of something putrid. And from that pitch black hole of a hood issued a laughter that would haunt me for months to come. The same, tittering, bubbling laugh. The knife it was holding suddenly splintered, pieces flying every which way. I raised my arms to cover myself from shrapnel. But somehow, they missed me entirely. I lowered my arms, realizing that no harm had come to me. My arms were free. My body was free, I realized. I looked at the hood again. Slowly, I curled my fingers in, one by one. As I drove my fist into where the head should be, it vanished. Like smoke dissipating in the air.

I awoke with a start, covered in sweat. And the same bubbling laugh that I had heard in my dreams echoed about the caverns in my head. Until I realized it wasn't in my mind anymore. It was real.

Dawn's Twilight.

Sometimes I just want to go walking. In those early hours between midnight and dawn, when the world hasn't woken up and the sun hasn't risen yet. I hope that, one day, the day I pick to go walking, I'll see someone else out. Shying away from the warmth of sleep. I'll wonder why he's out so early, and maybe we'll start talking. But I know it'll never happen.

I guess this is a terrible place to meet people.

The Fates And The Sword Of Damocles.

I used to rule the world. My world, at least. You remember that cartoon that you would watch when you were young with the dancing mushrooms and the ice fairies and waltzing hippos and alligators and Micky Mouse as the magician? Fantasia, I think it was. Remember how seas would rise when that anthropomorphic rodent gave the word? A simple motion of the hand. Do you remember at the end of that ludicrous segment when the mouse had to pick up the pieces of what he'd done?

Every man is his own god. God is dead. I am my own god. Excuse me. I was my own god.

One minute, I held the key to life itself. The wicked and wild wind. The winds of change. They blew everything familiar apart. Like a depth charge. You can't argue with something that works in your favor, can you? People could not believe what I had become.

They call you Lady Luck, but there is room for doubt. Sometimes you have a very unladylike way of running out.

One minute, I held the key. The next, the walls had collapsed. I discovered that my kingdom stood upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand. Everything came crashing down.

I need you to be my sword and shield. I need you to defend me and fight for me, because I cannot do it myself. I need you to be my mirror. I cannot tell what is right and what is wrong anymore. I need you to show me.

There are those who wait to put my head on a silver platter. I am just a sole survivor. A marionette dangling on a single string. Oh, who would ever want to be God?

I believe there is a term for this. The sword of Damocles. You see, Damocles had no control over his life. He was simply a courtier, nothing of significance. After exclaiming that the king was very fortunate and expressing his jealousy of his wealth, the king offered to switch places for a day. Damocles gladly obliged. During dinner, he greatly enjoyed being treated as a king. However, halfway through the meal, Damocles happened to glance up, noticing a sharpened sword suspended by a single strand dangling above his head. Immediately, he requested to leave his temporary term as king.


You see, Damocles discovered that being in a position of power is not all it's cracked up to be. There are senses of impending doom, noticeable or otherwise. In the end, though, it comes back to bite you in the ass. If only I had learned this sooner.

There is never an honest word spoken. Lies. The lot of them. I have to save my hide. I was safe for a while. But that was when I ruled my world.

For some reason I cannot explain, I know St. Peter won't speak my name. My time grows short. And even though I have escaped the sword of Damocles, the Fates are still in possession of my life-thread.

And will they cut it with a pair of scissors? Oh no. That would be too kind.

The sword of Damocles is only fitting.

The Fallen.

Whatever happened to fair dealings? And pure ethics? And nice manners? Now every son of a bitch is a snake in the grass. They double cross you at every possible chance. Why is everyone now a pain in the ass?

We are a strange society, indeed. Kindness is scorned. The good guy never wins. Why not? Whatever happened to "May I, please?" and "Yes, thank you" and "How charming"? The honest are left behind in the dust in the race. Because everyone else decided to strap a saddle on life's horse, rather than riding bareback. To cheat in life's race. When will they get down off their high horse and stop judging us? And the honest fall off. Well, the fallen are the virtuous among us. If they judge us, we're all damned. No one will ever love you for your honesty. They'll love you for your looks. Your money. But never for your honesty and kindness. No one will ever love you, honestly.

It seems all you read about is rape, theft, drugs, and murder. People will sell themselves on street corners to fund their drug addiction. Women will dress in revealing outfits in order to increase their sex appeal. Men will pick out women solely on their appearance. Men grow cold as girls grow old. They all lose their charm and looks in the end. Is there no decency left?

Holy shit.

What a shame.

Whatever happened to class?

Drained.

Insomnia has hit hard these days. Not only has sleep left me, but my ability to write as well. I am lacking inspiration. It may just be a side effect of writing eight consecutive entries. I am not used to this. I may just be drained mentally and physically.

Or my writer's block has come back.

I do not recognize myself anymore. I look in the mirror, and blood vessels have replaced the whites of my eyes. Recently, somebody asked me if I had a black eye. Standing with a straight back has become a challenge. I look and feel more disheveled than I ever have in my life.

There is a weight in my limbs that I have never felt before. I feel like they are dragging me down. Down into something that I cannot define. There is a pressure in my chest that was not there before. I am not sure where these maladies came from, but I wish they would vanish, and in lieu of their absence, inspiration would be left as a baby on my doorstep.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VIII, Finale part I).

Toystore from hell. Awful, terrible place. Outside. Thumbtack rain. Clink! Clink! Puddles of plastic and metal. Shock of incinerated puppets has worn off. Worry. Worry starts. Overpowering everything else. Consuming. What have I done?

Cityscape. Used to it. Morphing. Melts. But differently, this time. Into one grand being. Taller, taller, wider, and dark. Oh, how dark. Void of all light. Seems to absorb it, in fact. Doesn't reflect. Just outside the gate, I peer into the courtyard. Underneath the gathering thunderstorm. Through the iron bars, I see a fountain. But of course, as per usual, not usual at all. Spewing forth liquid dark. Rippling, terror, fear. In the topmost tower, a light burns dim. Someone. Hopefully, it isn't you. Cognizant of necessary actions, I step forth into the umbra of the castle. Just like the Glass Cathedral. Doors open. Sans sound. Second thoughts. Never trust anything that you cannot see where it keeps its brain. But just like the Glass Cathedral, I step inside. The Chateau closes its mouth.

Inside, just as black as the brick outside. At least. Is it brick? Brink. Verge of madness. So many strange, off-beat things. Cannot think clearly. Clearheadedness has committed suicide.
No. I will go on. I must go on. For...someone's sake. I am plagued by something I cannot define. As eyes adjust, stilted darkness becomes not so stilted. Grand Chateau, lobby. Sweeping staircases left and right, joining at a balcony hallway. Enormous chandelier. What's the point? Pitch black anyway. And rooms. Oh, the rooms. Doors to my left, doors to my right, doors on the floor. Ceiling. Walls. Staircases. Everywhere. Portals to another world, for all I know. Filling my lungs with oxygen, I start up the stairs.

Trapdoor. Damn. Halfway up, the stair swings open. And I fall. Fall. Through suffocating darkness. Darker than the house itself. If that's possible. Marshmallow splat. Stand. Light behind a door. Behind a wooden door. A voice. Old, certainly. Man or woman? Seeing no other exit, I enter. Light floods the darkened chamber behind me. In front of me, an old woman. Wispy, white, scraggly hair. In a rocking chair. She looks at me.

There was a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far. Very far. Over land and sea. A little shy, and sad of eye. But very wise, was he.

And then one day. One magic day, he passed my way, and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me --

A voice emanates out of the chamber behind me. Your voice.

"If this is the life, why does it feel so good to die today?"

The door, which I had left open, slams shut. The old woman cackles. Door. Other wall. I start towards it. Woman, with surprising speed an agility, blocks my path. Crazed.

Where do you think you're going, Dearie!

Disregard age. Thump! Threw her aside. Like a puppet. Run. Door opens, before I even touch it. Stop. Glance at woman. She's a puppet. Strings attached. Slap-dash makeup. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slash of a grin. Awful flashbacks of Toyshop From Hell. No. Stop. I bolt out the door, careless of what lies beyond the haven of this well-lit room.

Will-o-the-wisps dance like a hundred thousand fireflies in this room. Illuminating light switches. Great. I flip each and every one. Light floods the room, blazing shadows in the corner. The will-o-the-wisps seem agitated. Moving faster. Sparks fly from flying sparks. Moving towards me. Bzzt! Bzzt! They're charged with electricity. Shocking.

Another door. Off like a shot. Avoiding airborne electric chair. Door springs open on a spiral staircase. Winding up and down. Split moment decision. Up. Fell to get here. Must ascend to arrive at the light in the topmost tower. Figures, however. Ghosts float up the stair, like silent moving pictures. Loyal phantoms of the in-house staff. Regardless of floating spectres. The dead are better than joining their ranks. Up, up, up, up, up, up. Does it ever end? Bolting up and up. Regardless of what horrors lie in wait.

The Chronicles Of A Bohemian Teenager (Part VII).

Red madness. Rose moon. Stretching. No heat. No cold. Just more. More. More. Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Ker-plump. Dust mushrooms. Whoosh! On my back. Looking at the moon. I blink. It winks. Distinctly. And it all dissolves. Melting, like before. When will this end?

Visions of sugar plum fairies greet my eyes. The Steadfast Tin Soldier. Pinocchio. Other puppets. Slap-dash makeup. Twisted grins. Pained grins. Terrified eyes. Cannot bear to look. So many. Tinkerbell. Tinkertoys. Tinkering. KA-FLUMPH! Click. Click. Click. Click.

Creak to life. Manmade. Not controlled. Dancing bears. Painted wings. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Things I almost remember. And that girl. The poster. Her voice. And a song, someone sings. Once upon a time.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. Clink. Clank. Err. Err. Click. Click. Boing! Err. Err. Tink. Tank. Clink. Clank. A cacophony of toyshop sounds. Dancing in three-four time. Around. What goes 'round, comes 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and 'round, and...

BANG! CRACK! Something breaks. Poster Of A Girl halts her vocal requiem. Ring around the rosie. Pocket full of posies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Earthshaking, at that. Forsaking. Someone holds me safe and warm. Horses with painted wings prance through a silver storm. Figures dancing gracefully, across my memory.

Who is holding me? Prodigious marionette. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, singeing the petals of my cerebral cortex. Glowing dim as an ember. Soon fanned into a wildflower blaze. Silver storm of ice hits full force. Dousing the conflagration in an instant. Cold recollection hits. It is you. Shock. Who are you? Scramble like an egg. Away. You collapse, lifeless as a puppet. Ironic. You are a puppet.

The floor show has begun again. Poster Of A Girl begins her bolero. Dancing bears. Waltzing marionettes. Familiar sparks a flower in my mind, catching into a wildflower blaze. Strange, puppets. All around me, familiar faces. Worn out faces. Slap-dash. Faster, faster. Vite, vite! Allegro! Halt. A puppet on a lonely string centerstage. Look up. In the eye. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Slash of a mouth opens.

Never an honest word. But that was when I ruled the world.

It snaps. If puppets could snap. Resumption occurs. Faster, faster. A whirlwind of familiar faces. I cannot bear to look. You are gone. No one holds me safe and warm. Awful sight. I stand, leave to exit. Door. Flaming red exit. Another crack. I look. They've all stopped. Puppet on a lonely string.

Please don't leave. We don't want to die.

It was the wicked and wild wind. Blew down the doors, shattered windows. Scooped me up. Ran out that door like a speeding bullet. Puppet On A Lonely String screams. Unearthly, to say the least. From the bowels of Hell. Tortured scream. Pained eyes. Painted eyes. Slap-dash. Whirlwindish cacophony. Whisked out of the stage.

Then you appear. No longer a puppet. Puppetmaster.

You've disappointed me.

What was I supposed to --

You do realize what you've done?

I -- What?

You've killed all I held dear. Look at them. They're all dead.

And they are. Every last one. Burned. Charred. Incineration. Internal flame. Unearthly scream, indeed. Awful sight. But still. "Puppets?" I question.

This cannot go unpunished. The next time you see me, I shall not be quite so cordial. I shall be aiming to break you or kill you. Whichever comes swifter.

Off like a shot. Again. Swerving this way and that. Looking for something. You are lost. "Wait!" I call. "I didn't --" But you are out of sight. I am terrified. No choice but to take the brunt. Hope for the best. Where the fuck am I? Puppets? Fleeting human contact, I think. I am lost. You are lost. But for a moment, we were lost together.

I wonder who you are.