Tag: writing

Time Wizard

We do what matter to us

And we remember things we’ve never done

Time doesn’t matter

And the person that I am

Is infinity

There is no beginning

No end…

We continue to forge the path, endlessly.

Some people are better at remembering that journey

what they were and have been

They do the things they shouldn’t be able to

with an uncanny confidence, never doubting themselves

My father is one of them

but doubt is the affliction of all mortals, eventually

It’s inescapable no matter who you are

We know

Every body knows this

Yet it is the biggest mystery in the universe

by Stamphers

I live with a snake

The pen is such an abusive tool

it demands so much of me

all my attention

and my cognitive thought

It’s a snake!

and it slithers out of my hand,

scares my half to death,

yet I continue to go back to get bitten.

The poison, it fills my veins:

Instoxicating

Hallucinating

It’s scary but I keep wrting

because not writing is even more scary

and I would rather hold the snake

then let it slither away and hurt

somebody else.

by Stamphers

Everything is escapism – Essay

No matter what I do, I want to be somewhere else.

It doesn’t matter if I watch a movie, write or draw, my mind like to take me to places. Even in my sleep I just want the quiet part to happen. I’m drained when I wake up and can’t write – won’t write! I take a walk instead, a long one. The mind begins to empty and fill up again with funny stories because I’m bored. It’s the best to be bored. Sometimes I amuse myself by going down a strange path, into an alley and find a quirky looking tower from the last century or something or a driveway with a lot of junk on it that tickles my imagination and a story takes form about the person that lives there. The stories are endless but making them understandable for you guys is the biggest drag in the world!

It’s only in books that I find some sort of peace. My head keeps shouting but the words I read drown them out, partly, sometimes totally. They just won’t shut up and I’m too scared to tell them to. The things in my head might be better than real life, after all, otherwise I wouldn’t be bored to begin with.

by Stamphers

The Boneyard

Cigar smoke sailed across the tombstones

Their names faded

Their deaths not apparent

Their lives not easy to discern

but they are dead anyway

but time is not done with them

their tomestones are dirty and worn

and here I sit,

smoking a fat cigar drenched in my spit

the smoke taste good

the dead is still rotting

some of them are just bones

some are not even that

just a stone

one guy has a crypt

and a skull engraved on the stone lid,

partly broken

another guy’s coffin had chains

now rusted and the links scattered in the grass

if he was lucky his heart was pierced before

they buried him

but he still appreciates the smoke

smoke of the dead.

Everything taste a little better

with a drink

I bet 99% of them died sober

poor sods.

by Stamphers

Let me wander

It’s summer and it’s hot. The sun glared through the blinds of the window, creeping in like a pervert insisting on making my blood boil. The blanket underneath me was cool until I had to flip it over to make it cool again. The ceiling was plain grey and it was nothing to look at but it allowed my mind to wander. My body was soon soaked by the heat, I was doing a good job feeding the microbes that live in the bedsheets but I didn’t notice it.

My thoughts thrashed around, making a mess in my head, my thoughts often running into each other and making weird thought babies. Sometimes I write them down, birthing them into existence – I had to, otherwise they would cry and I would not know peace for a while.

I try to jot them down because they simmer at the surface of my consciousness for a long time and if I don’t pick them up they’ll sink deeper until I can’t get them and I would never be able to get them out again. They get stuck down there, merging with the doubt and fears until they are an intangible mess. Someday my head will get full of those thoughts and I won’t be able to think straight again.

by Stamphers

There’s nothing to figure out

Why do we think so much?

Often I find myself giving up and

I want to do something brainlessly

like doing the dishes

Driving is also a favorite

When you drive you look at things and can’t do shit

your brain can’t be hijacked by some intrusive thought

something you have to do.

Imagine being a woodcutter

or painting fences for a living

it must be bliss.

What’s the cause of this malfunction?

are all humans born a little broken?

or do we break bit by bit as we grow up?

life’s hard

When you try to figure it out

by Stamphers

Only consider writing if

You hate waking up in the morning

If sitting behind the computer makes you puke

If you prefer drinking over eating

If you are alone

If you are alone

if you are alone

if you hate standing in line

if you rather huff paint than work

if you take too long on the john

if you refer to the toilet as the ‘john’

if you think you’re god

then everyone should listen to you

And do what you do.

by Stamphers

When people don’t ride bicycles no-more – Very Short Story

The sky was red and bright. The paint had come off on all of the buildings and the city was brown and grey. The trees were just sticks but a few leaves still clung at the tips as if struggling but the trees were definitely dead, or so they said. Perhaps they’re just waiting for better times?

Long ago Jom remembered when there was a lot of green and the rivers were full and a lot of birds back then. The only bird he saw these days was his mother’s parrot and it wasn’t even green. All and all, he didn’t mind the change. He liked the red sky, the wind of course made his lips dry up, but other than that, not so bad. You could still breathe the air but you get quickly winded so everyone carries around Breathers, just in case, and goggles in case of a dust storm. Goggles were very popular, fashion-wise and there were many different colors, even green.

He looked at his belt and the number on the Breather was flashing purple and he started walking towards one of the many air stations. There was a line but he wasn’t worried, purple just meant he had an hour left, not that he’d suffocate if it turned red. The line got shorter as the others filled up their tanks. There was a bicycle leaning against the building, it was rusty without a chain or wheels. Long ago they filled tires with air to get where they wanted which sounded fantastical to him even though he could recall using one, once. Nowadays the wheels doesn’t touch the ground.

As he stepped out of the way for the next one, someone cut in line. The woman’s eyes were wide and it looked like she was in a lot of pain. People stepped away and let her fill her tank. She slowly calmed down and got color on his cheeks. Some people use their Breather too much and now she could not live without it. Jom shook his head and put on his goggles, his were green. Some people sure are irresponsible even in this day and age when nothing was wasted and everything was valued.

It was so much better this new way, he thought, breathing was just one more thing to think about.

© Christopher Stamfors

by Stamphers

One outfit fits all

The elbow of my shirt broke and I was very sad.

It was my favorite one and I got a lot of compliments because of it.

I also have some t-shirts that are basically rags

nobody have seen those

but I keep them

odd socks too

but not underwear.

Don’t want my cock falling out, suddenly.

Other than the underwear, I don’t really care much

at least I’d like to think that I don’t

still, when it get noticeable, I guess I do.

by Stamphers

Once upon a bar

he looked glumly into his mug

there’s music playing

and a skimpy dressed maid 

– whose breasts popped out of her cleavage –

hands him a beverage.  

Lit candles rests on every table

and men scurry outside.

Their armour clattered as they ran

and their weapons bonked on the the armour.

There were calls from the wall and

a projectile whined across the sky

exploding nearby.

Fire erupted and people rush out with buckets.

He pours the ale down his throat

in spirit of their struggle.

The bar is fine.

Another explosion

not far from the first

people died.

He drinks

and the maid looks awfully

worried.

The church tower crumbled

and people are crying.

the colored windows shattered

and the fire spreads to the buildings nearby.

The fire reaches the bar

and his nose get scorched

and the glass he was holding blackened

as they put out the fire

across the table

other than that,

he was fine.

by Stamphers