Tag: Quick read

The Vampire

~ Yanagi Studios

By D. S. Johnson

I met, last night, an avatar of Death
He woke me rapping, gently, on my door
His hands were long and cold, as was his breath;
His eyes were deep as oceans, maybe more

“My son, I seek a fire and a friend,
Someone to whom my woes may be revealed”
I sat him in a chair and made to tend
The fire when he proffered scroll, unsealed

A chill I felt like none before as I
Saw artfully my name inscribed in red
He took my hand and looked me in the eye,
Said “By midnight, my son, you shall be dead”

I choked a scream and swallowed back my tears,
I struggled for what seemed eternity;
To face, like this, the darkest of my fears
Was much too cruel a twist of destiny

“What, now, can I be expected to do?
By what method may I still save myself?”
“There is but one path open yet to you
But should you walk it, you may lose your health”

“What care I, health, if life I still may live?”
He closed his eyes and loosed a twisted curse
“These rules, not mine, are no less mine to give
To live this life, not die, may well be worse”

Unheeded then, his words now chill my soul
Though soul is not a thing I now possess
Never again shall I be halfway whole
This soulless husk, a shadow is, or less

Lost

~ Yanagi Studios

By D. S. Johnson

Voices raised and voices shook
Words were read, hymns were sung
Casting, now and then a look
Towards where she now lay

Heads were bowed and tears were shed
Hearts were bruised, hands were wrung
Deep beneath the flowerbed
We buried her away.

O, simple loves and simple joys
May, fragile, be snubbed far too young
This little girl, amongst her toys
Was hope, another day

Now joy is dead and hope is lost
Our hearts are left forever stung
With clouded minds we bear the cost
We must forever pay

Twins

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

You’ll feel better when you look they say
Hands shake, knees about to buckle
You stare into the casket
Her face made-up, red lips, ghost white skin
She’s dressed for a wedding or a party
She sticks out where everyone’s dressed for a funeral

Her last words, ‘I can’t feel my leg’
The peritoneum flooded with blood
Like invaders rushing the city walls
A liver ripped in half
So violently, so casually

The twin thing, the special connection
Sensing her never again
Two sides of one coin, with one side scratched off
The tight knot in your stomach
The snake crawls along without a care
Inside of your skin
This is what emptiness feels like
Hands grip the coffin
Despite all the laughs and smiles that will hide it over the years
You know that some part of you will forever feel
Some small part of this endless emptiness
Always

Sleep-walking

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

The man in the suit kisses his wife and kids goodbye in the morning
The sludge factory beckons him and the other humanoids in suits
Their lids are unbearably heavy, and life is so heavy yet empty
A strange contradiction

The lady from accounting and the bloke from HR
flirt between puffs on a fag break with dead eyes and forced smiles
They have an affair out of a mutual fear of death
only at the office out of respect for the kids
When the bloke’s piss starts to burn he wonders if there’s others…

The numbers droid wearing chinos and a polo for dress down Friday
inputs the details on the form, declining the benefit to the mentally ill
lady from the South-West, a single mother and paranoid, not working
Her upcoming suicide will be buried in the ever revolving news cycle;
the weary creaking of clogs reporting lucrative arms deals, polluted rainforests,
a cure for a form of blindness only accessible to the rich

The man in the suit wonders the point of it all
He doesn’t love the strangers back home
The commute is so exhausting, every meal so tasteless
yet assuredly containing this, and lacking that, so it must be good
Trips to the gym and smoothie bar with the new intern
She’s 21 and wants to see the world, ‘god, I just want to die’ thinks the man

If he woke up, he and all the others, perhaps the heavy would become light
He’d tell his boss where he can stick his job, he’d donate his suit to the Oxfam on the corner
He’d give his coat to the homeless fella outside Greggs, and when he went in for a sausage roll, he’d buy him one too
He’d actually hold his wife and kids, feel a warming sensation inside his veins where his soul’s been sleeping, he’d run outside screaming ‘fuck the sludge, fuck the quarterly report!’

Seven Years

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

The monk had kept a vow of silence for seven years;
chastity, and poverty as well
The adventurer stumbled upon him in his cave
stumbled is right, as he moved too eagerly
A rock from above loosened

‘Ow shit!’ exclaimed the monk
The rock had fallen on his big toe
The adventurer turned as red as paprika
‘I’ve kept silent for seven years till now!’

‘Oh Christ, I’m so sorry’ mumbled the adventurer
The monk smiled as he nursed his red toe
‘It’s my fault’ he said
‘I left my toe where your rock was going to fall’

‘It’s not my rock’ the flustered adventurer protested
The monk replied ‘the rock fell because of you, you are
the rock as far as I’m concerned’

‘How can I make it up to you?’ the adventurer asked in full earnest
‘Let me join in your adventure there Rocky’ said the monk
‘Umm yes of course wise one’ the newly christened Rocky replied
feeling quite astonished

The monk stood up and brandished his finger
‘just make sure we talk non-stop for seven years,
for I have learnt so much from thinking nothing for seven years
I don’t know where to begin’
Rocky nodded his obeisance

‘One more thing’ the monk said wagging his finger
‘I’ve not drunk or smoked a thing for seven years either,
that rucksack of yours best be well-provisioned’

Wow thought Rocky he is as wise as legends foretold

Trying to Wake Up

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

Craving the false signifiers of sincerity
is like sustaining yourself only on the thought of food
it carries no weight
substance is found in true compassion
and it may not always glitter
or make itself known to those
who chose blindness
because it was easier than bearing witness to suffering

Waking up is easy once you know how
impossible when you try
for when you try you do not know
wakefulness is in the sun, in the smiles of those you love,
in the warmth on your skin, in sex and birth,
wakefulness is in the darkness, the fears, the pains,
it is in all the deaths, it is the way of things

Things Change

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

I am conscious of everything
I am conscious of nothing

There was a reason for each night of tears
There was a reason for years of fears
There was no reason for any of the above

Some beings love your soul
Some beings hate you
There are no reasons really
There are too many reasons to count

In being alone, loneliness dies
With the deprivation of the basic things you need,
all your basic needs are satisfied
Your endless lust and greed are satiated
by the endless void of nothing

The silence is deafening
until it isn’t
The darkness is blinding
until it isn’t
The soul is wanting
until it isn’t

Take the time you need to learn
but once wise please return
to play with the other children
and guide them
teaching them not to fear the goddess of change,
cling to nothing at all
befriended life and death, not fearing change at all

November Twelfth, 2120

~ Yanagi Studios

By D. S. Johnson

Fresh, cold steel presses against each temple. A reassuring glow fills the visipod and sight is softly restored. Far off alarms. Shouting, muffled by layers of cloth and plastic and doorways and distance. The distinct and sickening smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood. A moment for things to sink in and Harvey springs to life, to action. On with pants, shoes, shirt. Up and out of the room. To the right flashing cold, artificial red; the left burning hot, hateful scarlet. Hubbub and hullabaloo, mayhem and madness, panic and pain.

“THIS IS NOT A DRILL” flashes through hearing and across eyes. The nearest exit or to help? Harvey stops, unsure, for a second or more. The screams are dimming; footfalls growing closer, louder, desperate.

“Harvey?!”

“I’m here, I’m safe.”

“Oh thank the Universe.” Henri, Harvey’s sister. Unhurt, red eyed beneath a blue visipod glow, dishevelled.

“How many hurt?”

“I don’t know, I ran.”

“Should I help?”

“You should leave.”

“I should help.”

“You should GO.”

Her hands grab his and drag him away, over shoulder a deep rumble, increase in pressure, warmth and cold dancing back and forth. Lights flicker and fail, cold visipod torchlight instantly restores vision. Henri’s face is slick, tears and sweat mingled. Harvey pulls away, turns back.

“I should help.” Henri grabs again and pulls him away, reluctantly but silently – secretly – thankful. Sat in the rescue shuttle Harvey’s nails are chipped from the morning’s panic. Henri’s hands are chapped from constant wringing.

“I – we should have helped.”

“Nothing you could have done. Anyone in there was dead the moment it went live” – a static-clouded but still intelligible voice over the intercom. The pilot is also a Harvey, Harvey Johnson or Jonas or Jefferson.

“He’s right, I saw it on the Loop.” The other passengers chip in, beginning with a kindly older woman. The reassurances are strained, forced. Each person aboard feels the same – relief, fear, guilt, shame.

Many Things Are Disgusting

~ Yanagi Studios

By Thomas Caterer

Many things are disgusting
but a rotting corpse is not one
trust me it’s just as pretty and serene
as wild flowers or the sun

Nothing like the tragedy of birth
or the trauma of life
the need to fit labels
navigate mourning and strife

Many things are disgusting
but not a smiling skull looking up to the sky
it’s realised its one with all the stars and all the entities
no longer caught in the existential trap of asking ‘why?’

Many things are disgusting
like the gentlemen in Giorgio Armani suits and Ted Baker shirts
pissed at 3am in Subway, hurling misogynistic and islamophobic abuse
at the girl behind the counter, peering up her skirt

She would be mad but she’s okay
she woke up this morning after a dream of a dear, dead friend
she woke up this morning and realised she’s God
‘so are these tossers’ she thinks
just less awake and less aware

Dreams Are the Opposite to Reality

~ Yanagi Studios

By A. O. Wallat

The man minded the gap and stepped onto the train. He sat down and placed his bag beside him. The doors bleeped, hissed, then slid closed and the train left the station.

The journey was bumpy. The carriage rocked from side to side and the man, wary of his luggage, held the bag in place to keep it from falling. Soon the train stopped at another station and the carriage filled up and the man had to move his bag for another passenger.

Then he had a problem. The bag was too large to rest on his lap and if he laid it between his legs other passengers wouldn’t be able to get passed.  So he opted to place it by the sliding doors. This made him nervous.

 What if someone snatches it? He asked. I would have to chase them down, he answered. But what if I was too slow? He wondered. Well just make sure you don’t lose it. He agreed.

So he chose to watch his bag the whole time. But the journey was long. And soon his eyelids began to close. He had to keep watch but couldn’t. Instead, he made a compromise. Between stops he would sleep. No, rest his eyes. And at every stop he would watch his bag. And so he did.

The bag was there. The doors bleeped and hissed. He shut his eyes. The doors bleeped and hissed. He opened his eyes. The bag was still there. The doors hissed. He shut his eyes. He opened his eyes. The carriage was empty. The bag was not there. The train leapt off the tracks. It flew. Then he was flying. The doors bleeped and hissed. He opened his eyes. The bag was there again. He waited for the hiss and then closed his eyes once more. He was outside. Running. Running after the train. It stopped. The doors hissed. He got on. The bag was still there. The doors bleeped. He opened his eyes.

It was his stop. The doors were sliding shut. He jumped up. And got out just in time. He closed his eyes. The bag was still there.