Timeless Birth

The waves of eternity crash against the rocky coast of forever. The rays of love and acceptance are setting, but still wash a warmth over all. Soon it will be replaced with the blue moon of peace and serenity.

A never ending cycle in bliss.

A soft whisper caresses the consciousness. “This is the point between two places. It is here you must decide to stay or go. To leave the peace and love of forever and go back into the turmoil of life.”

The whisper points attention to the obelisk defaced by a single black door.

The door inspires horror and fear.

The whisper no more uttered the sentence then the air around is felt, still questions swirl. Thoughts dip in and out. The potential to live again hums like a long forgotten desire.

Consciousness has come this far, it could travel no farther until answering yes or no. Here and now a decision was possible. In the timeless void counting second and minutes, days and years was meaningless.

Life was what once was. Maybe an empty candy wrapper is an apt description. A wrapper that has been licked clean. Once was. A memory gone, but for which the longing for has never disappeared.

At the start this was fine. A void in which to play. To make sandcastles on a beach that the surf never washed away, but eventually the remnants of chocolate disappeared from the wrapper and nothing could replace what the tongue craved and now Consciousness is here facing the pain of birth, of life, of wound and disappointment, all so that he can fill a need to feel the more again.

He answers yes.

His next thought is pain.

His eyes sting under bright light and his lungs burn, stuck painfully closed. Sticky gloves abrade his soft skin. His mouth opens to scream and can’t. He yearns to breath. To live. A concussive blow to his back. Nothing. Another and he sucks greedily at the cold air and sends the breath back out in a terrified scream. He is swaddled in warm blankets and laid under the softest most loving set of eyes he has ever known and all else about his existence is forgotten and time begins to tick once again.




Photo courtesy of :

Sue Vincent’s  #writephoto


City of Thought

“What is it?” asks the boy. He has asked many questions.

“It is the city that houses the intellect of the Universe,” says the old man who holds his hand. He is patient and kind and has been answering the boy’s every query since their journey began many moments ago.

Time is an illusion. They have eternity. Curiosity is a good thing.

“The whole universe.”

“Well,’ the old man begins wondering how much he should say. ‘This one anyway.”

“There are more?”


“Are we going there?”

“If you want.”

The boy scrunchies his face in thought. The old man loves him a bit more watching him decide whether he wants to visit the great city.

“What’s in there?”

“A theatre that plays every single dream every dreamt. A library of every thought ever had. A gallery of every image captured by all eyes throughout time. Concerts of forgotten conversations between the greatest people ever born. The history of everything written out in long form with no doubts.”

“Would I like it?”

The old man thinks on this moment, before answering,”Not yet. You would enjoy the city you built during your lifetime better. It would be more familiar.”

“When do we get there.”

“soon. We have much to discuss while we travel. Shall we fly?”

‘Yes please.”

And the old man allows the boy his knee and holds his hand is he climbs up onto his back. Once the child is seated comfortable he spreads his great grey wings and with three heavy flaps and a leap they are airborne again soaring through the golden air.




Art: Waterfall city

By: artbytheo


The Cargo ship tips and faces the ocean it floats above with a sense of defiance. It loses, rumbling down the steep wave and crashing, submerging the bow before slamming back prone against the water.

The movement brought everyone in the engine room looking for something to grab onto. Those lucky enough to find something were saved from gravity grasping at them and flinging them forward towards the rumbling grind of the white hot engine.

Keeping somewhat warm under a burlap sack in the middle row of five bunk beds stacked one on top of another, Naxiv sought to keep her grip on the rusty metal pipe she has been cursing since the ship left port.

The last bed open she knew instantly why nobody else had wanted it, the very pipe that prevented her from rolling off and down ten feet to the metal floor, seemed always to find a way to be right above her head when she moved.

It was never a gentle reminder, that pipe found her skull in new ways each time that always earned her a set of tearing eyes and a hate of all things metal.

What she hated yesterday she now loves and tightens the fingers of her left hand as she feels the ship climb another wave.

In her right arm Nativ cradles a sleeping child. She rubs the baby’s back with her free hand and tries to compete with the ocean in a soothing voice.

The child, most likely less than a year old, shakes with a fever and labors to breathe.

She took sick within a day the docks of Karachi disappeared in a setting sun set that exploded across the ocean from left to right in more colors then one would have thought possible.

The child is not hers. Naxiv found her screaming in the engine room unclaimed. All the other refugees turned stoically away from her waiting for the child to find her end. Naxiv couldn’t do that. She couldn’t leave the child to die alone. Plus she could afford to be a mother. There was an empty place in her heart she wanted to fill.

Her children were killed on the same day at some point in the not too distant past. Their deaths brought a timelessness to her life, years stopped accumulating, morning or night stopped having significance. She closes her eyes and still feels the moment they went to Allah. She sees every moment perfectly.

The blue skies

The white flutter of cloud

And a stiff drone from far off that didn’t yet interfere with the chirping resonance of a nearby mockingbird.

The drone was easy to ignore in favor of the chore that distracted her.

With her long black hair fluttering in the breeze she worked her calloused hands by hanging wet freshly laundered clothing.

A basket sat on the red clay ground of the back yard to the house she called home for almost two decades. The basket leaked water making the clay muddy. 

She remembers taking her husband’s white cotton kaftan and flapping it in the air, trying to get some of the wrinkles out before hanging it on a length of rope tied between the house and the lone tree in the yard.

The tree that at one time ripened every spring with sweet dates.

The tree that had been fallow for years now, maybe a decade or more.

The tree that doesn’t exist anymore.

From inside the house she heard frantic footsteps approach. She looked and in the doorway was her son’s diapered two year old on the verge of tears arms held high begging to be picked up.

Behind the child is the father, her oldest, one finger pointing up to a black dot in the sky.

The dot grew larger.

The dot got louder.

The dot brought death.

She tries not to dwell. She tries not to close her eyes. She tries not to think why she survived. She alone got to continue to walk the Earth.

She tries to remember that it is not her place to question Gods will.

God is good. God has a plan.

She has lived a good portion of her life already. Thirty-three years of life all to be brought to constant pain, confusion and disappointment. It’s the definition of her existence now. She is ready for death. She is not afraid. She trusts in Allah to bring it to her soon.

Her oldest would have been eighteen, her youngest twelve. She had four children. All killed. Her husband. Her daughter-in-law. Her grandchild. All gone.

Now what?

That was her constant question as she journeyed from Kabul to Karachi.

The Child in her arms gives off a warm wetness that for some reason gives her a  sense of peace even with the storm lashing water against the ship in what could only be an attempt to drown them all. Naxiv knows death is not coming for her like this. She knows the warmth is a warning that death may be closer to the baby then it is for her.

Maybe the child is the lucky one.

She can deal with death.

She has witnessed it and brought it down on her enemies herself.

It was in giving death that she became okay with the idea the cold sharp talons will one day come for her also.

The face of the stranger who came to offer his condolences at the loss of her family told her all she needed to know. As his body lost its strength a sense of peace fluttered across his face. It was a peace worth more then any moment she has yet witnessed. It was the peace only God could offer. She looks forward to her own peace. She watched the peace wash over his face as his grip on her naked shoulders relaxed and his arms fell to his sides. She was able to breath with no restriction for the first time since he grabbed her.

She rolled him off. Gathered her ripped clothing to her chest and cried deep body wracking sobs.

She hadn’t wanted to kill him. She hadn’t wanted his tongue in her mouth, or his hand under her kanthan either and when she felt the warm smooth flesh of his phallus enter her she forgot to be afraid any longer and stuck him three times with a foot long length of copper wiring rolled up in melted plastic.

It was a nasty jagged length of coil.

It was a weapon of God.

God handed it to her to use to make her attacker stop.

And she used it.

She doesn’t remember finding the coil or picking it up, or if pressed she wouldn’t have been able to retell the event of sticking it in the man’s throat repeatedly, but the deed was done and on the third strike she must of left it embedded for that’s where it was when her mind cleared.

And now she goes.

She rolls over storm tossed seas to a new place where she will live until God hands her another weapon and she will use it and wait to die and join her family.

The child in her arms coughs one last time and is still.

Naxiv says a short prayer for her and lays the body down on the soiled mattress. When the storm clears, she decides, she will toss the ten pound corpse overboard.

Allah Akbar, she whispers, God is Good.



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The R

The R pulled into Union.

I followed a tall woman dressed in black onto the car. I stood at the front and scanned the passengers.

To my left, two empty seats and a woman on whose head a colorful scarf sat. It had many shades but seemed red as a whole. She didn’t seem that old. She didn’t seem abnormal, but I didn’t look that long.

At first she wasn’t the one that interested me anyway.

I was curious about the tall woman dressed in black. She had found a spot right in front of the train door. As the train moved through the tunnel she constantly adjusted her dress. Never moving it in any direction just seeming to pull and settle the fabric against her skin as if she would rather be naked.

She wore sandals scuffed and old and showed slanting wear on the heels. She had long skinny feet blistered and dry. She never broke eye contact with herself in the door window. Pulling and pushing at her clothes.

I knew she would be getting off the train at Atlantic. Somehow knew she was short for this train and Manhattan would not be where her day was heading. I wanted to know why Atlantic. Why the concern. I pictured adultery, misguided sexual adventure, an answered craigslist ad, prostitution, or maybe she just wanted to go to Target.

The train stopped and as I thought she would the tall woman in black got off. I took one of the seats next to the woman in the scarf. The one against the wall giving us the middle seat as a buffer certain no one would sit next to her or me.

As I sat down I got a better look at her face. In her nose, that hooked over her upper lip, was a gold ring. Her eyes were black and weepy. Weepy in a way that didn’t suggest tears. Weepy like thick. Weepy like something medically waswrong. Under that red looking scarf, puffed black hair, immediately reminding me of dolls hair. Dolls hair cut by the hateful actions of an older sister to her younger sibling’s property.

At first I thought she might be going to the airport. She had two bags that together looked to weigh the same as she. They were checkered, tiny white, blue and grey boxes covered them. They were made of a nylon material like a tarp.

My leg brushed one and she moved it away from me. Like my skin had contaminated it. I didn’t take it personally. The bag had felt lighter then it looked.

I ignored her. Like everyone in New York ignores each other, by paying peripheral attention to the ones that make us nervous.

I did so. I could feel her presence. I could sense she didn’t Like me sitting here. As if me here, invaded her space.

As if planned she started twitching just as the train reached the Whitehall stop.

By Cortlandt she began to moan and call out.

At city hall she started speaking again in nonsensical sentences.

I have heard tongues spoke before. At a church in Clarksville Tennessee off Fort Campbell. I was with my buddy. I liked going to church with him. It wasn’t for the God. It was more for the experience. Having a buddy, doing something, going somewhere.

I’d get drunk with the bench dwellers outside the barracks for the same reason.

I don’t know if she is speaking in tongues or even having a religious experience on the uptown bound R train.

I am now afraid to look at her.

I wonder how bad it would be if I did get her attention.

A thought hit me that maybe this was the way she kept people away from her stuff. Or maybe I, now sitting only one seat away from her, was driving her into this frenzy.

There was a Grey Hound bus deep in the remote woods of Canada. A man was eaten by his seat mate. Chopped into little pieces with a hunting knife and snacked on while the rest of the bus’ passengers watched from outside.

I didn’t think that was going to happen here at the cusp of Canal Street. But I imagined her arm jutting out suddenly armed with a large hunting knife.

I would catch it, I thought, catch her wrist in my hand and bend it back making her drop the blade. She would be harmless then. My strong grip and the torque of joints that don’t bend that way keeping her motionless.

I wondered if I would really be able to stop it if it came to it. Or would I just simply look down and see the blade imbedded deep within my chest. A growing red flower spreading. A sense of suffocating. Dark edges gripping the corners of my eyes. Before nothing.

I saw it both ways. And preferred to ninja my way through the situation if it happened.

Prince came. And she yelled at a man standing to close to her. It wasn’t a yell filled with a language people speak but sounds glued together in a structure much like a sentence.

The man shoved deeper into the train and I realized I was able to meet the eyes of the people sitting in the three seats across from me.

They pitied me.

Two Latin woman and a skinny old Asian man. It was more the older Latin woman on whose face I saw pity. The other two pretended to ignore me when they saw I saw they were looking at me like I pretended to ignore them even after the eye contact. That was the difference, the woman next to me wasn’t ignoring anyone. She engaged with everyone. She was a social butterfly interacting with everyone that came near her.

I could not picture this woman with doll hair and two gigantic bags having a real home to call her own. The thought struck me as I wondered if the Asian man was Japanese or Japanese American. Where did she come from? Where did she go? Does she live permanently in the NYC subway system? Bathing in the time square restroom. Switching trains occasional for a change of scenery?

I was not being assaulted by a smell. Or a sense of dirty skin, or the nausea of disease.

At West 8th another thought assaulted me, this was her home and she was welcoming us all in her own special little way.

By 14th street she was calm head on her chest breathing softly and I got off the train.



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The Staircase

The Soul considers himself male.

It’s an echo from the many lives he has lived. It doesn’t matter. It’s a small thing really. And sometimes it is not even an option.

It wasn’t as a Sea urchin living blissfully under a warm sea, or a worm clinging desperately to the hull of Tenervian space vessel, or even matter as a gigantic lizard on a planet with abundant everything, or as a mammalian species with a definite ying and yang living near a star that cast just enough light and heat for liquid water.

A harsh existence that.

But short.

Male, or female, or naught, after each life he can take a step up on the staircase.

He stands on it now.

One step further up.

The stone is chipped and worked hard. He has been up and down many times.

There is nothing else to do.

The light around is blinding. The air has no temperature. But really there is no light, or air, or staircase, or even The Soul.

It is all a construct.

A center for the essence of Time.

Here every step is a nano second of the universe happening all at once.

He chooses a moment at random, hoping only that it is a new existence and not one he has been through before. That is the worst. To relive. To do over again. The variances would all be the same. There is nothing that can be done different. A repeated existence is like being in a straitjacket, confining, imprisoned.


But he still chooses, because choice is forced, life happens, it just is and he is off to be born and live and die and repeat until he reaches the top of the staircase and once there he will turn around and work his way back to the bottom, because his existence is life and there is no death.

Until there is.

The Legend of the Hessian Soldier

Four billion years ago a mold formed. It was the perfect circumstances for it to do so. Moist and warm with plenty of yeasty goodness to suck off jagged rock surroundings. Plenty in that there was no need for it before the mold. As the mold grew and devoured sugar movement in search of more sugar began.

Some mold began to die off. Murdered in fact by its fellows in the search for survival.

Dominance was expressed in what made the old successful,  eating enough sugar to produce offspring.  This continued when parents sought the necessary ingredients to further life. In furthering life the traits that made them successful accidentally rubbed off onto their kin.


Eventually the tools to be successful become more complex.

In time the single cells began to cooperate with one another.

They joined and reproduced traits to achieve various functions which allowed them to gather sugar more effectively.

Its hard to look at Tomas and see a single cell devouring sugar in the hopes of one day being the original progeny of this man.

So many little things collectively amounted to this process of his birth and  one day death where sometimes death meant forever with traits falling off after having been defeated in the struggle for life making billions of years of effort moot.

Moving fast down a cobbled lane, having confessed and taken communion, Tomas stands a good shoulder and head over most of the citizens of the German state of Hesse-Cassel.

He has been absolved of all sin and is ready for war. War against the next state over for the sugar both citizenry need to survive.