Deceptive Play
By Glenda Grande
This game of deception we play
As we lay the cards on the table
Played in silence; deception an ally
The darkness in our hearts dominates.
A King of Spades, a Diamond Ace:
The tricks held reflect complexities of life.
A Queen of Hearts, Jack of Clubs:
What we truly feel disguised by our hands.
We continue to spiral in this downfall,
Unable to place our cards face down;
A forfeit which we cannot accept.
We play on in the game of destruction,
Unable to think, feel and step back;
Why must we play until the end?
This game of lies and seduction
I want to put it to a final end.
Yet you keep dealing, regardless
Watching me in the still silence.
Let this eclipse in my heart cease.
Drop this game and let the lies go
You and I; me and you; the two of us
A deception from the start till the bitter end.
- - -
'Come with me and I'll take you on a stroll. Let me reveal the world to you in my perspective'
Lend me your heart, and allow to cast the angelic illusion.'
A collection of poetry and prose written by a young woman, telling the tales of life with artful words.
By Glenda Grande
This game of deception we play
As we lay the cards on the table
Played in silence; deception an ally
The darkness in our hearts dominates.
A King of Spades, a Diamond Ace:
The tricks held reflect complexities of life.
A Queen of Hearts, Jack of Clubs:
What we truly feel disguised by our hands.
We continue to spiral in this downfall,
Unable to place our cards face down;
A forfeit which we cannot accept.
We play on in the game of destruction,
Unable to think, feel and step back;
Why must we play until the end?
This game of lies and seduction
I want to put it to a final end.
Yet you keep dealing, regardless
Watching me in the still silence.
Let this eclipse in my heart cease.
Drop this game and let the lies go
You and I; me and you; the two of us
A deception from the start till the bitter end.
- - -
'Come with me and I'll take you on a stroll. Let me reveal the world to you in my perspective'
Lend me your heart, and allow to cast the angelic illusion.'
A collection of poetry and prose written by a young woman, telling the tales of life with artful words.
Dinner Spat
By Paul Handley
Carve me another slice
Of that hambone.
What in the hell is a
Hambone, Rufus?
Well, Beauregard, it don’t
Mean nothing in particular,
Just what present itself,
Like that twitchin thigh
Part, the fire done singed
The sweat off. And don’t
Call me Rufus.
Don’t call me Beauregard.
And Rufus is my name,
But I don’t like the way
It sounds in your mouth.
Now cut me some or I’ll
take off the gag and you’ll
hear a squeal that will
split the oaks.
This was your idea.
Don’t suppose that
Matters if the authorIty
Were to floss your teeth
Right now. You do floss,
Don’t your Beauregard?
You’re right and you were
Right about keeping him
Alive. Tastes like
European chicken without
The steroids.
And preserves, right?
Right.
- - -
Paul Handley spent a career as a student and a student of odd jobs. He has an MA, an MPA, and is ABD. He has driven a cab and sold meat door-to-door. Paul has work included or forthcoming in Apollo’s Lyre, Boston Literary Magazine, Ophelia Street, Poesia and others.
In His Image
By E.S. Wynn
When they take you, it's like being eaten alive.
The machines. . . I remember the way they move, each limb flexing, stabbing, serrated, cruel. I remember the way they hummed, the way they pierced and knitted skin. I remember the sensation of their nanomechanical venom as it ate into my body, shredding flesh and bone into protein mush for the synthesizers. There’s a lot of the process I don’t remember, long gulfs of depthless darkness that hang between shattered fragments of memory. Most of it is images, flashes, bundles of flexible hose surging with neon liquid, slowly replacing thickening crimson with nanomechanical life, boiling away everything that made me human, everything that made me different from them, from the surgeons. They only take certain parts of you, only use the nanites on certain areas of your body, parts you don’t need once the new machinery is wired into what’s left. You catch glimpses of them sometimes during the procedure, patchwork faces silent and impassive as they wash in and out of the foggy crimson vertigo, but you never see their tools. You only feel them, hear them as they work, always clicking as they cut, clicking as they sew. Clicking, clicking.
Very little of what they stitch back into you is meat, and none of it is your own. Long, flat fingers as cold as sterile steel trace lengths of viscera, make tiny incisions as they go. Cut here, the marks say, and the machines obey. They remove each piece so carefully, so precisely that it seems almost as if it were a form of art. The graft comes just as gracefully, and it is only when it is allowed to grow that the graft becomes cold and inhuman, distended and pregnant with a festering and insidious potential.
Other hands excise will and spirit, graft sheets of dull composite to cover the empty spaces, sheets that provide a wall against the festering growths within, keep them from spreading. These too are processed into the machinery, reworked and forged into a sense of self that meshes well with that of the surgeons. Only in the end, when the last machine withdraws and the last pair of cold hands lowers you into your case, do you realize that you are now one of them, that you are one of their drones, part of their machine, a surgeon. In the reflection you catch on the edge of the case as they lower the lid to seal you in, you are confronted with your patchwork face. The urge to scream builds and builds within you, and yet in the reflection, your lips never move. Your face is an immovable patchwork mask, silent and impassive.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of the Pink Carbide Trilogy and the long running series The Cygnus War. He lives in rural California and is slated to graduate with his B.A. in English in May of 2010. He works as a part time author, part time editor, part time sword salesman and part time broker for Pre-Paid Legal services.
By E.S. Wynn
When they take you, it's like being eaten alive.
The machines. . . I remember the way they move, each limb flexing, stabbing, serrated, cruel. I remember the way they hummed, the way they pierced and knitted skin. I remember the sensation of their nanomechanical venom as it ate into my body, shredding flesh and bone into protein mush for the synthesizers. There’s a lot of the process I don’t remember, long gulfs of depthless darkness that hang between shattered fragments of memory. Most of it is images, flashes, bundles of flexible hose surging with neon liquid, slowly replacing thickening crimson with nanomechanical life, boiling away everything that made me human, everything that made me different from them, from the surgeons. They only take certain parts of you, only use the nanites on certain areas of your body, parts you don’t need once the new machinery is wired into what’s left. You catch glimpses of them sometimes during the procedure, patchwork faces silent and impassive as they wash in and out of the foggy crimson vertigo, but you never see their tools. You only feel them, hear them as they work, always clicking as they cut, clicking as they sew. Clicking, clicking.
Very little of what they stitch back into you is meat, and none of it is your own. Long, flat fingers as cold as sterile steel trace lengths of viscera, make tiny incisions as they go. Cut here, the marks say, and the machines obey. They remove each piece so carefully, so precisely that it seems almost as if it were a form of art. The graft comes just as gracefully, and it is only when it is allowed to grow that the graft becomes cold and inhuman, distended and pregnant with a festering and insidious potential.
Other hands excise will and spirit, graft sheets of dull composite to cover the empty spaces, sheets that provide a wall against the festering growths within, keep them from spreading. These too are processed into the machinery, reworked and forged into a sense of self that meshes well with that of the surgeons. Only in the end, when the last machine withdraws and the last pair of cold hands lowers you into your case, do you realize that you are now one of them, that you are one of their drones, part of their machine, a surgeon. In the reflection you catch on the edge of the case as they lower the lid to seal you in, you are confronted with your patchwork face. The urge to scream builds and builds within you, and yet in the reflection, your lips never move. Your face is an immovable patchwork mask, silent and impassive.
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of the Pink Carbide Trilogy and the long running series The Cygnus War. He lives in rural California and is slated to graduate with his B.A. in English in May of 2010. He works as a part time author, part time editor, part time sword salesman and part time broker for Pre-Paid Legal services.
As Editor-in-Chief of Weirdyear and all the other publications of Thunderune Publishing, I believe in the power of the written word. As such, I make it my duty to provide services which give new and established writers a leg up on finding new readers and customers. I’m always looking for new ways to promote emerging writers, so check back here often and take advantage of these awesome promotional deals!
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- - -
*New!* Sign up to get featured at www.weeklyartist.com and www.purchaseprogress.com and get your work seen by the kinds of people who will want to buy it today! It's free!
$9.95Grab a product-oriented interview by Author E.S. Wynn which will be featured not only on his official author blog, (www.eswynn.com) but also on a number of other high traffic sites. If you're looking to get your work out there where people can see it and buy it, this service is a must!
Check out other writers and authors I've interviewed (click here)
$25.00Get your book reviewed by Author E.S. Wynn and see it featured not only on his official author blog, but also on a number of other high traffic sites. I pride myself on my speed and my ability to provide a thorough review that is fair, honest and powerful. Is this a great deal? Heck yes! You'd be paying $150 or more for this same service anywhere else!
Check out other books I've reviewed (click here)
$65.00Your purchase guarantees you to up to 3,000 words of material (no more than ten individual pieces) transcribed to audio by a professional voice actor (me) and featured not only on my official author blog, (www.eswynn.com) but also on a number of other high traffic sites. Note: I don’t do pornography, bizarro or other forms of offensive material.
Check out other audio clips I've done (click here)
- - -
