The Bounty The shovel rises, specks of its edge glinting in the moonlight. The man, our hero, scoops the fine dry earth into the boy’s grave. Overhead the parched leaves rustle before autumn’s discontent winds. Crickets chirp all about, stubborn to recede against the cold. The digging was hard, but the burial is easy. If only this body would stay covered. He wipes his brow, glances about the wood, and pitches earth like coffee grounds upon the child’s still blue face. All of a sudden he becomes quite certain it was he who slew the boy, but he can’t remember how. The notion passes as quickly as it came, and he pours more dirt. The innocent dead face stares up at him, repelling every bit of earth.
Gadren Amon opens his eyes slowly, with intention. Dispelling this old dream has become as routine as shaving. No longer holding the adolescent charm it once did when o
Ars MateriaLeaving your country starts with getting rid of as many things as possible. You give your old CDs to your sibling’s friend. Donate your art books to a teacher. Throw out as many childhood mementoes as your mother allows. Sell your car. Swap your thick hoodies for your sibling’s t-shirts. Donate the rest of your clothes to a homeless shelter.
You pack books from your old lovers and birthday presents from your current lover. You pack art supplies because they’re expensive to replace. You pack your country’s flag. You buy power adapters.
You cross the world with everything you own in two suitcases and a messenger bag.
On the other side, you rent the first decent apartment you find. For a few days you sleep on an air mattress and eat sandwiches off paper plates. You buy a used table and chairs from an Irish couple down the road who are returning home. They give you scratched pots and pans for free. You buy a mattress new.
You get a new phone and a cheap data plan be
Rise Of The WomanI grew up wanting to be a boy,
but only so my father would approve.
He couldn’t love women,
and kept them chained in his shadow,
to worship under his feet as the benevolent GOD
he saw himself to be.
We were all lesser creatures
that clung to his darkness,
allowing his beliefs to dictate our own.
He broke us,
his three wives and his only daughter.
The fallacy of a god will eventually find you,
and I ignored his faults in my years of servitude
until his final proclamation,
“I don’t have to keep promises”
shattered my faith
and I went in search of something better
because goddamn it, I deserve better.
And I learned to love women
and I learned why I flinched when men walked by too close
and I lost my god
but I am learning to love myself.
I will still hear his decrees of my insanity,
of my dulled intelligence,
of my less-than-ideal weight;
you can’t overcome twenty-two years’
worth of abuse in one month.
But I am woman and I am proud,
and we women are str
ID by Thiefoworld
Current Residence: Kansas
Favourite style of art: Italian Renaissance and Dutch Golden Age
Favorite visual artist: Rembrandt
Favorite bands / musical artists: Jethro Tull, Type O Negative
Favorite writer: Poe
Other Interests: I like pirates. And art history. And cute fuzzy things.