The Inkstone

This is the place for regrets.

The place to keep every secret and every fear.

This is the place where I’m not afraid because I’m terrified.

This is the place where I repeat the words unsaid.

This is the place where those glances and stares add up only to hurt me in the end.

This is the place where I feel trapped but refuse to move.

This is my safety, my haven, my sanity lays here.

But this is the place that is destroying me.

(by naivename)

my friend sam wrote a few of these words in an old journal of mine, I took them from there and filled in the rest. 

This is the diary of a grey man

in a gray suit

standing on the pavement of

 a grey street

on a grey afternoon

watching the people go by

as the lights change

hes wondering

how many times the world turned

 And grey days become black nights

and black nights fill with grey dreams

but he dreams to remember

so he doesn’t forget 

so tell me now, how old are you

and how old is your child

what is the color of your wife’s eyes

everyday the same

he finds he’s forgetting

the simplest things 

the simplest things.

(by avenueoverpass )

A storm chases their house for three days straight. It rips off window panes and breaks the hinges on their front door. Liza watches the storm clouds bubble up and burst over their crumbling roof. Her husband Joel grumbles as his pickup truck sinks lower and lower into the mud in the front yard.

“It’s gonna screw the whole yard.”

“It’s not that bad,” Liza yawns, lighting a cigarette from the front porch. “We can put brick down later.”

From the windowsill, Joel’s eyes are dark. He watches the mid with a glass of Hennessey pinched between his fingers. The fourth one is missing, blown off in the war. “Who’s gonna put the brick down? You?”

Liza sighs. Her jacket covers a sleeve of tattoos. “Just trying to make you feel better.”

The sky clears by the fourth day and she leaves on her motorcycle for a very long ride.

Joel works nights at a factory out of town. Liza offers to help him get his truck out of the mud, but he refuses.

“Stay inside.”

“Why? I can help.”

A hand grazes over his shaved head, face pinched with tension. He is wound so tight nowadays that she doesn’t even recognize him. “It’s my truck. I don’t want you messing with it. Now stay inside.”

He floors the accelerator, but the truck doesn’t budge. The tires kick up wet mud, splattering the street with runny, cement colored goo.

He swears. “I need your bike.”

She remembers when they used to actually like each other and hands him the keys.

Before Joel comes home from work, Liza decides to try the truck again. As the sun rises over the horizon, she puts the gear in reverse and slams on the accelerator, trying to rock the car out of the hole it has made. The wheels flick mud up onto her face.

It’s stuck.

She grimaces and goes back to the porch just as Joel appears on the bike, swerving down the road, showing off like he used to when they were younger. The tattoo on his neck is visible all the way from where she stands.

He parks the bike and stares at her, his cheeks red. “What are you doing?”

“Helping.”

He rests the helmet on top of the bike, pulling his leather gloves off slowly. “And did you?”

She doesn’t understand why his eyes are so furious, the rage boiling up through his neck and blossoming across his cheekbones.

He glares at her. “Don’t touch my damn truck.”

Liza thinks about that truck all night. She stares up at the ceiling, cobwebs fluttering against the breeze from the fan. Near early morning, Joel climbs into bed and sees her eyes are open. “Sleep,” he commands.

But she can’t.

Her last attempt with the truck comes on a Thursday night. The sky is filled with smog, not a single star visible, and the air smells heavily of sulfur from a geyser off the lake. She pours kitty litter around the tires, but it doesn’t help. She gets sand and dumps it around the tires, but that doesn’t help, either.

Finally she puts two boards up against the back tires and is able to slowly push it out.

When she’s done, the pit of mud is almost four feet deep. Liza lingers, looking long at it, until she sees an outline of something in the grayness. She throws her shoes aside and creeps forward, her head bent down close to the ground.

When she gets to the center of the pit, she sees a rotted hand, fingers black and decayed, smeared with the earth.

Liza sits on the stoop until 8am when Joel gets back from work. She can’t sleep. The phone is heavy in her hand.

The body must’ve been heavy, too. She imagines Joel with the man slung over his shoulders, his brow coated with sweat trudging through the dirt. Finally her bike rumbles into the yard. Joel looks at the hole, then at Liza. His eyes are wide, yellowing around the edges.

“Joel, what did you do?”

He slams the helmet down. “I told you not to mess with it.”

“How long has this been here? Since Thanksgiving? Labor Day?”

His cheeks are red against a bitter wind. “I did what I had to do.”

“Not this.”

“He followed me. I had no choice. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Joel…”

“I had to,” he repeats. His teeth are chattering. “He followed me from the war. He wouldn’t stop bothering me.”

Liza pulls out a pack of Camels. She thinks about the mental health counselor who used to come around a lot and then stopped. He told her Joel was unwell and she didn’t want to believe him. “No one followed you, Joel. He was a friend. He was your friend.”

Her cigarette smoke stains the air, coating the dust with a fine layer of smog and masking the thick smell of moist earth.

(by C. Wait)

dust mote fleets down

silk-spun streets

flash blue fire

eye diamond to eye

silly stomach lightning rod

dewy midnight lightning bug

seven books overdue

you love in electric

(by Ali)

I wanted to write a poem about winter,

One full of snowmen,

Stockings,

And hot chocolate.

I wanted to write a poem about winter,

To tell about when it was so dark and cold outside,

We had to live off a fire.

I wanted to write a poem about winter,

But it’s winter and I haven’t written it yet.

There’s no snow on the ground.

I never wrote that poem.

(by lecteurs)

Roger Williams approached the house cautiously. He knew not how he found himself facing the desolate home, but dare not question his own mind. The house was the victim of years of time, and yet held a rather impregnable structure. The identity of the occupant of the house was a mystery to the man, however he knew that the male occupant of the house was a man of short temper, of depression, and of change. Roger was a morose man, with constantly sad emotion state-of-beings. He was loyal to his wife Caroline, however she was not nearly as faithful.  While a woman of indescribable beauty, she was a cold, demanding spirit who asked more than she deserved, and commonly received more than she requested. A woman of powerful deception, she was able to fool Roger into feelings of passionate love by showing a different, false side of herself. Attracted to his prosperous income, she completed such deception without feeling guilt. In his time before Caroline, Roger was a free spirited man, a man of self-expression, of complexity, and over all other traits, a man of strong confidence. The opinions of others were nothing more to Roger than specks of dust on the mirror of his own personal reflection: not enough to change his image, and easily wiped away.

     These were traits that were fiercely ripped from his spirit, by a woman as malevolent as his wife. He stood before the townhouse, thinking of how he was.  He gazed upon the beautiful, German architecture of the townhouse. It possessed a shade of white that appeared filthy due to years of erosion. A round awning surrounded the peak of the houses two-story structure. He walked along the rough, unevenly textured sidewalk and up the two concrete stairs leading to the front door of the dwelling place. He looked upon the decomposed, flaking entrance, and halted. For he knew not why he felt so inclined to venture inside, or who may occupy the space inside. For how should he know? He has found himself in front of a destroyed, eerie townhouse, and has no connection to the possible occupant.

     He placed aside any doubt towards entering, feeling an urge too strong for him to place aside, and turned the old, rough, bronze knob. Upon his entrance, the beauties that lie before him surprised Roger. While very small, (therefore providing him with a sense of security, which soothed his confusion of his need to enter the home) the hallway he found himself in was lined with edging so sophisticated no man could admire every inch of its artistry. The hardwood floor, smooth and not creaking a single cry, comforted his feet as he quietly sneaked down the hallway. Beyond the hallway was a small, yet once again comforting, room of cooking. He examined the continuing beauty of the room closely. Cabinets, stained with a brown so dark it nearly matched the color of death itself, lined the walls, of which were covered with a warm shade of yellow. Counters lined three of the four walls, the third of which stood erect in a room aligned with the room within which Roger stood, and which he had not yet explored, and felt no reason to. Atop these counters was a countertop colored with a green similar to that of the richest grass in the most beautiful of fields. Also in the area stood a table, colored with ebony so black that it stole a fraction of the room’s light. At the two ends of the rectangular, intricately made table, stood two chairs, matching the darkness of the table.

     In the beautiful space also was a furnishing that did not match the others. For one of the cabinets lining the walls, approximately one foot in width, contrasted the dark earth color with a begrimed white, the paint peeling off as if it were trying to escape from the surface of the door, similar to that of the door to the house. Feeling yet another urge, now to explore the contents of the cabinet, Roger approached it with curiosity. He opened the old, withered door to the space within the cabinet. He found the space to be darker than that outside the cabinet. A black, tenebrous lack of light filled the space, making it so dark Roger could not even see the wall backing the nearly empty space. On the floor, however, was an object vibrantly visible to the eyes of Roger Williams. Astounded by such vibrancy in such a pitiful, dark area, he focused his eyes on the object, and reached out for it. His hand retreated from pain however, for the object was a rose, and he had without caution, grabbed it by one of its abundant thorns. He wiped away the minute amount of blood, and again reached for the rose. He had now successfully placed his blood-encrusted fingertips on a gap between the multiple thorns, and lifted the flower to his face. Roger was simply astounded by its beauty. While the rest of the dwelling appeared to be very withered and aged, the rose appeared to be very recently removed from rich, moist soil. He stroked the soft, hydrated pedals of the flower, and felt the strength of the thick green stem. Concluded in his act of studying the flower, he returned it to its place at the bottom of the dark, depressing cabinet. He then closed the white door and rotated back to facing the main area of the kitchen.

     Upon the closing of the cabinet, Roger was dumbfounded to find that the room had now completely changed. The before deathly colored cabinets now matched that of which contained the healthy rose. The base of the counters now obtained a similar color of white, and the old, lively green that previously covered the countertops was now the color of the deteriorating walls, and the surface of the top was now colored the dark brown. The table, however, remained. Roger, heavily confused and physically uneven from the unexplainable change he had just encountered, went to go rest himself upon the death-colored chairs. In an attempt to pull one of the dark chairs out from under the table, he found that the chairs, and the table, were all merely an illusion. For his hand passed through the chair as if it was nothing more than air. Roger had no time to question the phenomena, for his problem was now at the entrance door to the house. Three knocks upon the rattling door were followed by footsteps from the upper floor of the house. Roger was so overtaken with feelings of fear and confusion; he cared not about a getaway from the house, but more about getting out safely. He stumbled his way down the hallway, and sat next to the door, breathing as if there were no oxygen in the air. A man descended the stairs that stood next to the door.

     The man was not one of which Roger could recognize, for his attire consisted of simply a black, silk, hooded robe, one of which appeared to be used for sleeping. He approached the door, not acknowledging Roger’s presence, and opened the door. Roger shouted out to the man, but his efforts were worthless. The man did not hear Roger’s desperate pleas, nor could the man see him. On the other side of the door stood a man that took any remaining breath from Roger’s lungs. For beyond the door stood Roger himself. He was however, the younger, happier Roger that was aforementioned. Roger looked at the younger version of himself in complete awe. He found himself face to face with the version of himself he missed dearly. The version of him that Roger had lost in many years of time. He screamed desperately at his younger self, trying to receive an explanation for what he was seeing, but again his efforts provided no result. The younger version of Roger pleaded to the man who answered the door, stating that the temperature outside the house was dangerously low. White fog dispensed from his mouth as he spoke, and he quivered as if in a state of near convulsion. The man who answered the door spoke in a voice that was familiar to Roger, and arose a suspicion in his mind, that for the time being remained simply a suspicion. The man declined the offer of shelter, stating that Young Roger’s kind was not welcome in his home. Roger screamed, now nearly hurting himself, begging with all his heart for a response to the spectacle he was viewing. The man who answered the door (Young Roger as well) knew not of Roger’s presence. The man who answered the door brutally slammed the old, damaged door, and shut out Young Roger to the cold air, which was now surrounding Roger as well. The man turned himself to the direction of Roger, still oblivious to the presence of the man. He removed his hood, and the previous suspicion Roger had about the man’s identity was confirmed. For the man was Roger himself. However, the man that stood before Roger was the newer, colorless, blank Roger, as opposed to the younger, riveting Roger. The Roger who sat on the floor, unknown to the other, was so awestruck from the vision of himself, fell to his side, and his consciousness was lost.

     Roger Williams awoke in the same location as that of his fainting, however he was much less skeptical, due to his time alone, without his consciousness, yet with his thoughts. He was awoken by a sudden, quite noticeable, draft of warm air, which surrounded him as a blanket.  He carefully stood up, still understandably confused from his previous encounters, and proceeded to where he felt the heat was emanating from, which was down the small hallway. He followed it, the air around him increasing in temperature, until reaching its peak when he reached the kitchen, and approached a door that he had not previously noticed, yet had been there upon his first entrance. The door was colored with a red more dominating than Roger had ever seen. He had been so amazed at the previous events however, that this strange door was no surprise to him. He felt the knob of the door, and felt that it possessed no dangerous heat. He confidently turned the knob, and found that on the other side was a flight of stairs, not much more than a single being’s width. The walls of the stairs were ablaze, illuminating the room above quite powerfully, yet produced no heat. Roger felt no fear for what lie at the bottom of the decline, and descended quickly.

     What resided at the base of the small staircase provided a shock for Roger, even with him knowing what he had previously encountered. For Roger had found himself facing a small army. The attire of the army did not match that of the time period Roger lived in, for the soldiers appeared to be that of the army of Julius Caesar. This was not the sight that caught Roger’s eye, however. For even beyond the room’s flames that surrounded the inhabitants and produced no heat beyond that of a normal living space, even beyond the small army of warriors from a time long before Roger’s existence, what caught the eye of the man was the leader of the army. A woman stood before the soldiers, holding a spear high, dressed in the war attire of her solders. The woman, who stood before an astonished Roger, was his spouse, his life-partner, and more simply stated, his wife. Caroline Williams looked at Roger with a smile containing not happiness, not containing relief, but containing pure, and unfiltered evil. The evil given off by that smile was that which could cause even the devil himself to shiver in fear. Roger, not being a man of evil, was even more so afraid of the evil he faced. He had no words to speak, for he felt numbed to a level that went beyond his bones. He stared into the eyes of his spouse, feeling more fearful, morose, and weak than he had ever imagined feeling, and was unable to comprehend the sight before him. Caroline raised her spear, and the army behind her charged towards Roger with enthusiasm. The last things Roger Williams saw before his awakening were the two dark pits of hatred which Caroline Williams called her eyes. 

(by Zac Willging)

(Source: bugsythefilmer)

            Young Annie, of only five years of age, sat in the basement of her house, painting a picture. It was quite obviously the work of Annie’s age, not exceeding in the intricacy five years of life. What she was drawing was quite recognizable however: Annie herself, drawn with exaggerated features and nothing more than lines for limbs stared back at the young painter from the once blank canvas. From the room, which Annie sat and painted, occasional shouts could be heard. There were two distinct voices, and the shouts came from a man or woman, anger or fear, dominance or frailty. Annie was not distracted by these shouts however, and remained focused on her work. Seldom, yet still apparent, were occasional signs that the argument had exceeded that of mere words.

     Suddenly, Annie heard a series of “thuds”, increasing in amplification, which were shortly followed one by another. They traveled across the ceiling above her, progressing from one side to the other. The thudding ceased, and Annie now heard the sound of a doorknob being quickly operated. The door to the basement could be heard flying open, and slammed shut, followed by aggressive slams upon it, and finally its locking. Annie could now hear footsteps frantically descending the old wooden stairs, and questioned as to who may be creating such clamor. Then, she could tell simply by the sound of exhausted gasping who it was, and from behind the wall separating Annie from the stairs, stepped her suspicion. Annie’s mother, Laurie, still retaining her natural beauty through a beaten complexion, stumbled towards Annie and collapsed onto a small wooden chair.

     Lauren Jackson, referred to as Laurie by her family and friends, was the fatigued woman across from young Annie. She had given birth to Annie at an age considered young by most, and was now only 26. She had always been very beautiful, and even in her current physical condition held a complexion that would almost certainly induce sympathy by even the most critical man. She was very specific in her desires, yet also was rather understanding if they were not met. This understanding proved to be a flaw however, for she was easily deceived. She was also an extremist in regard to the concept of self-blame, and was unable to look at most situations realistically because of this trait dominating her judgment.

     “What are you doing down here, sweetie?” Laurie asked her daughter.

     “I’m painting a picture!” Answered Annie, with extreme pride.

     “Oh, can I see?” Asked Laurie, slowly rising from her seat.

     Annie scooted back, and turned the painting towards her mother.

     “That’s beautiful! Is that you?” asked the weary woman.

     “Yeah! It is!” Annie said, flattered.

     Laurie had now risen from her chair, and walked over to the bed Annie was on. She took a seat next to her, hugged her tightly, and kissed her head.

     “I wanted to paint upstairs, but you and Daddy were being too loud!” Said Annie with her usual light-hearted tone.

     “Aw, I’m sorry sweetie. You see, Daddy isn’t in a very good mood today.” Laurie replied, attempting to remain positive along with her daughter.

     “I feel so sorry for Daddy, he’s never in a good mood. Why can’t he be happy?” Annie asked.

     Joseph Jackson, a 36-year-old office manager, was the man being spoken of. He did not undergo an instant emotional change, but was not the same man now as he was before. He was once a man of intellect, of creativity, and love, but now he was intellectually drained, dull, and brutish. He married Lauren when he was 25, and in the early days of their marriage he was everything she desired in a husband. Throughout the course of their marriage, however, he lost his generous personality, even more so when Annie entered the world. He did not resent Annie, but was frustrated by his daughter’s individualistic personality and disobedience. She could extract only the truth from him, and the young girl spotted any lies easily.

     “Well, when he doesn’t get what he wants, he gets very upset, and sometimes he asks too much of Mommy.” Laurie asked sadly.

     “Oh, so its his fault?” asked Annie.

     “Sometimes sweetie. Sometimes. Sometimes though, its mommy’s fault.” Laurie answered, losing her optimism.

     “But if daddy asks for something that you don’t want to give him, why does he get so sad?” Annie asked.

     “I don’t know sweetheart. He just does.” Laurie answers, frustrated that she cannot give Annie a more definitive answer.

     Annie sits still, trying to comprehend the confusing answer. She brushes it aside however, not finding a purpose. She looks at her mother, and gives a confused frown.

     “What happened to your face mommy?” Annie asked, confused.

     “Wh-When I tried to go down the stairs earlier, I forgot to tie my shoe, and I slipped and fell!” Laurie answered nervously.

     Annie looked at her mother as if she had been told animals could speak.

     “That’s not why Mommy.” she said with confidence.

     Laurie sighed, knowing she could not put on a false expression in the presence of her honest daughter.

     “You’re right sweetie. Mommy lied. What really happened is, well, Daddy did this,” she answered shyly.

     “Oh, that’s it! I believe you now. Daddy does that a lot, doesn’t he?”

     Laurie looked at her daughter using all possible self-control not to erupt into a sea of tears.

     “Yes Annie, he does.” She answered, her eyes emitting a shine from the tears, which created a reflective cover on her deep blue eyes.

     “Why does he do that, Mommy?” Annie asked, sympathetically.

     “Well, when he gets upset he likes to blame Mommy for it. Whether or not it’s my fault, he likes to.” Laurie answered, angry at simply thinking of him.

     “Why?” Annie asked.

     Laurie paused for a moment, thinking. Indecisive, she decided to change the subject slightly.

     “Do you want to hear a story, Annie?” She asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood of the conversation.

     “Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Annie replied, bursting with excitement.

     “Ok! Well when Mommy and Daddy were younger, we used to get each other gifts on random days because we loved each other,” she started.

Annie snuggled up against her mother, laying her head on her lap.

“And one day, your Daddy came up to me with a big red rose in his hand! I knew he was going to give it to me, so I got really happy! He walked up to me, and held the rose out. He said ‘I give this rose to you, because I love you. I give this rose to you because, I always will.’ I got those stomach butterflies you get when you get a good present, and kissed Daddy. Then, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I was so happy I could just scream, but I stayed as calm as I could. I said yes, and then Daddy and I got married the next year!” Laurie continued.

Annie smiled at the story.

“Is that why you love Daddy?” She asked happily.

“Yes Annie, that’s why I love Daddy.” Laurie answered, finally smiling.

Annie sat still for a moment, smiling at her mother’s response, until suddenly she became very serious, and sat up and looked at Laurie, confused.

“But why?” She asked.

“Why what Annie?” Laurie asked, confused.

“Why do you still love Daddy? He gave you that rose a long, long time ago, and now he gets upset and is mean to you. Why do you still love him?”

Laurie was, once again, extremely close to tears.

“Well, when Daddy’s mean to me, I like to think about that rose he gave me. When I think about it, I feel better. I feel like Daddy can get better. I still have it, and sometimes I like to look at it. It reminds me of how he used to be!” Laurie responded.

“Mommy, that’s silly.” Annie said confidently.

“How’s that silly, Annie?” Laurie responded, quite confused.

“Daddy isn’t like that anymore. Why would you still love Daddy if he isn’t like that anymore? That’s why I don’t love Daddy.”

Crying quietly, Laurie stood up and walked across the room. She pulled out a small shoebox from behind the shelves. She walked back to Annie, and sat down next to her. She opened the box, and pulled out an old, withered and decayed rose. The petals that were once of a rich scarlet color, were now shriveled and decayed. The stem was flimsy and deformed, not resembling the natural green of most flowers.

“When I look at this flower, I feel like Daddy still loves me. He said he would always love me, and I believed him. If I keep showing him I love him back, he’ll stop being so mean to me and he’ll be nice again. Maybe I should show him this flower, you know? Maybe it’ll remind him of how he felt. I think it would help him. This rose will remind him of how he really feels.” Laurie said with hope.

“But Mommy,” Annie began

“Yes sweetie?” Laurie replied

“Mommy, this rose is dead.” Annie said.

     Laurie’s tears were now flowing from her eyes, trickling down her face slowly. She had known, yet forced herself to forget.

     “You’re right Annie, you’re right. This rose is dead.”

(by Zac Willging)

chartreuse colored streaks

flash dizzily across the room
whenever fingers touch keys
in an open homework document

concentration an impossibility
but is it really ADD?
when inspiration crashes down
at inconvenient moments?

Roosevelt is torture
financial markets nauseating
biology is laughable
only english tolerable

maybe it’s just teenage restlessness
revealing its reckless existence
aching heart punching out of chest
to run without destination

but i signed up for this
classes measured by numbers
finance, business, advanced placement
add, subtract, hypothosize

but all i can do is analyze
the smallest beautiful moments
my heart’s deepest troubles
my mind’s darkest thoughts

some may call it procrastination
but things never happen without reason
maybe we’re all just in the wrong places
surpressing thoughts leading us

to where we should really be

(by Ali)