The Scarecrow

He crept to the window in the darkness of his room and peered out reluctantly.

It stood there like it had during the day, and the day before that. He searched desperately with his eyes in the moonlight for something to confirm his fears, but he was too afraid that it would see him.

Dressed in his late fathers clothes it was a haunting sight out in the field and the crows felt it too, they kept their distance for the fear of his father had been greater than their need to eat. He thought it odd that they did not fear him the same way, even when he chased them waving his pitch-fork, they just moved away and he heard the laughter ring from their beaks as if they were mocking him being half the man his father ever was.

The scarecrow was something else, it watched him work in the day and he sensed the disappointment in its look every time he stopped to rest. He felt the burden of its judgement on him and the weight of that pending failure churned a loathing within his soul that burned with a furious passion, and he feared for where this may eventually lead him.

He looked at his sleeping wife and knew that she worried, that this concern was affecting her mental state and it was all the fault of that monster out there and the hold it had on him. As the anger grew, he faced the window again with confidence, ready to put aside his deepest fears and challenge the beast whom he had lacked the courage to face his whole life.

He crept out of the room and into the outside porch where he slipped on his boots and moved like a thief to the barn. He grabbed the pitch fork and clutching it tightly he made his way back outside and faced the field.

It knew he was coming. It always knew because it had found a way into his mind, had played games with his emotions, toyed with his ability to relate to people and forced him into breaking down. The hate was rising within him like a cobra ready to strike, he felt the venom build and his thoughts became clouded with the evils he suffered in childhood.

The scarecrow watched him approach.

Locusts chirped like the roaring crowd of a gladiatorial arena.

He held the weapon before him and moved through the corn, then stopped to look up at the moon and then back towards the house.

He knew that it ended here, that he would either fail or destroy the waiting demon.

It stood before him a towering silhouette against the glaring moon, its dominant presence hammering blows at his ego, and torturing his emotions with frightening feelings that tore at old wounds. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, it took all the courage he had to look the beast in the face and say that he was not afraid, but he was.

The scarecrow was defiant, it looked down at him and its laughter shrieked in his ears until he thought he would become deaf from the agony.

He muscled his strength and charged with his weapon, and just for a moment he thought he saw fear in its black eyes, fear because the creature could not physically fight back, for all its power, and might and cruelty, in the end it was just a sack of hay dressed as a dead man.

The knives of the pitchfork penetrated deep into the monsters heart, and the farmer felt a powerful force be released from its depths. Light flooded all around, and the cries of loved ones now filled his deafened ears.

He pulled out the fork and began to unleash years of pent up anger by embarking on a frenzy of savage attacks in a bid to destroy everything in that scarecrow that embodied the villain that was his father.

Tears rolled down his eyes, and in his screaming aggression, he became in just that instant the very portrayal of the monster he set out to destroy.

When it was done, he fell to his knees sobbing and yelling in anguish as his wife stood behind him holding a lamp, calling out to him. He looked at her face and then down at the face of the beheaded monster and he knew that it was done.

She came and put her arms around him, and slowly they walked back to the house.

The scarecrow lay as it was, its one remaining eye as black as the night that shielded its disembodied carcass from the glare of the house, still laughing for when the crows returned, they would now fear a new monster, and they would see the evil in his eye, and they will know of the child in the woman's womb.

Robotic Lives

One day we will open our eyes and realise that we have been living in a repetitive mindless world that f***ked with our emotions and made us slaves to materialism, self fulfilment and endless search for pleasure. Then when we look around with our newly opened eyes and regain consciousness, we will realise that being a prisoner of the old system was not so bad after all and we will close our eyes again promptly, and fall back in line.

That place in my brain that lurks and prowls

There is a place in my brain called boredom; it surfaces every now and then. Lurking and brooding, trying to drain my motivation dry. It's like a demon from within who prowls my subconscious mind. I'm not sure what tempts it to emerge, but when it does there is no controlling it. It hides like a predator stalking its prey, slithering and hissing in the background until it feels the moment is right, and then it unleashes a deadly fury, its lethal coil strangling the very breath from my soul, the poison seeping through me, numbing my reflexes, contaminating my thought processes, killing my productivity.

I submit to it, submerged in its dominance. Powerless, weak, and frail in my rationale to resist and overcome its tightening grip, I become a shadow within a shadow, a victim to this hungry beast that will stop at nothing to engulf my waking mind, to bite chunks out of my sanity and paralyse me to a state of vegetation. I sit twitching, my focus on the clock, that slow turning wheel that will eventually become my saviour and draw the beast back to the abyss of its lair.

As I cowl under the might of this beast, my brain; now a soiled sponge, drips away my thoughts like raindrops on a sunny day, they gather in a collective pool, magically bright and building in strength, and the beast of boredom recoils and snarls, it hisses and slithers and puts up a fight, but the thoughts rise up, they spin and they brew into the storm of storms, and from within that madness emerges a new creature, mightier and bolder, unstoppable in its quest to imagine and create a world within worlds. It towers over the beast of boredom; it’s menacing presence forcing it to retreat and drain back into the deepest depths of my mind.

Now that I have surpassed this boredom, I write to my hearts content, words that flow like never-ending steams which burst over the rocks and merge to embrace into a powerful waterfall that runs deep into the sea of creativity. The more that I write, the greater it flows, and all the while the beast of boredom lays quiet in its place, just waiting, the hunger expanding.

Life on a Sinking boat

I feel as though the whole world is being snatched away from my grasp and yet it was never mine to be taken

I feel the weight on my shoulders but never prepared myself for the impact

There is so much to lose and yet I cry over things never gained, I am a poor beggar in a rich mans society

The things I crave are the needs of many at a time when dreams are crumbling and hope fading

I am not selfish, I care only that my boat does not sink in an ocean that is riding the storms, that the people I carry do not sink beneath the waves of uncertainty and loss

I yearn for something hopeful to emerge from the depths of this chaos and carry us to safety, yet I understand how utterly unlikely this is to happen, and as the distant horizon disappears within the dark growling storm clouds,

I paddle on regardless, blind and helpless to what lies ahead.

Misguided Soul

It is hurtful to be told that you are a lesser man. To feel her blows chomp with great force at my ego, whilst her anger driven words, strike at me, again and again like an axe to a tree. I am helpless in my defence, speechless and totally absorbent.

We see our buried treasure at opposing ends of the rainbow, yet I find that she does not value my gold; she does not believe that it is a path worth pursuing.

The path that she follows is not the wrong path. Our goal is the same, the mission affects us both. She is not wrong that I should realign my goals to hers, walk the journey with her and mostly lead the way. We would both reap the benefits of this.

Yet my focus is magnetised to the path that I leave behind. It is a sacrifice that I have to make for the greater good, but it tempts me so. I feel the pressure of it’s presence behind me like a burden I cannot shed. Leaving it behind is like suppressing an element of my true self, of shielding me from the fruits that define my character and give depth to my true inner self.

The real me does not touch her soul. It is not a wavelength she can tune into, and it does not play the kind of music she would listen to. If she looked deep into my mind she would probably scream and run away.

Yet this is precisely the anchor I cannot raise, its weight bearing me down, sinking me and everything that is important to me into unforeseeable depths. How can I wrestle this monster that is selfishness? How do I shake off this snake that is arrogance and blinding me with its poison?

LAND OF JUNK

A Man came into the room of junk. He looked; Amazed, he continued to stare until it dazzled his brain. He scratched his head.

This was insane.

He opened the door and dived into the pool; he swam to the bottom and balanced himself on the floor. He looked up and watched the ducks float past above him.

Around him half floating half sunk, lay junk. Huge amounts of junk. He scratched his head. A small shark came up and circled around him, tasting the water for signs of food. He asked the shark what it thought about the junk. The shark scratched its head, and then swam away. He made his way to the surface, and climbed out.

He stood in the office, soaking wet and dripping. The others watched him for a moment and then continued their work. He walked across the hall leaving a trail of water, his shoes squelched as he passed the quiet workers, but they noticed him no more. He walked around the junk that was piled on the floor, and had to climb over other parts. He made his way to the door, but it was barricaded with the junk. He stood there scratching his head. He looked back and watched the madness. A window was open. He climbed his way to it and jumped out.

He was lucky that the sand broke his fall. He gathered himself and looked around. Seagulls screamed up above. The ocean was calm and the tide was in. Dark clouds loomed overhead and the beach was deserted. He walked out towards the water making sure to avoid the junk that was strewn all over the rusty sand. He had to walk in zigzags to get around the masses of it randomly placed all the way up to the ocean and further still. He walked until he was knee deep into the water. The waves splashed against him forcing him to sway and rock as he walked. He could feel the junk around his legs, and so he followed the trail until he was submerged fully in the water.

He swam in the deep dark water searching for peace. The junk floated all around him. He dived deeper until the light faded completely. He stopped and looked around. He could not see very far and he risked getting lost in the maze of junk that was now swallowing him in. He panicked slightly, and looked for a way out. The shark came back. It had been chewing on the bits of various junk. It watched him floating in the dark cold water scratching his head. The shark offered him a ride to the surface and so he held its fin whilst it speedily swam to the top.

A boat was sailing above. The crew noticed him floating and picked him up. By now it was raining heavily. He shivered with cold. The captain wrapped a towel around him and placed a hot mug of cocoa in his hands. He looked at the junk on the ship. It was some what different to most of the other junk he had seen but the captain explained that they had travelled far and wide. He drank his cocoa whilst the captain stood near scratching his head and gleaming at his huge collection of exotic junk. “All over the world” the captain was saying “They have so many different kinds all over the world, what is in the oceans is different to what is on the land”.

“Did you encounter any free land or clean ocean?” the man asked the captain. The captain looked at this bizarre man and laughed hysterically. “Are you serious?” he asked when he had caught his breath. “Free land, and clean ocean?” he repeated.
Then he seemed to stare blankly out into the far horizon and drift away in his thoughts. “…..free land…clean ocean….” He murmured.

The man stood up and put his head up into the rain letting the cold water soak into his skin. He watched the sky. It was never without dark clouds. He looked at the vast amount of space in between and closed his eyes in despair. Then he made his way to the cabin and walked in.

The Madness Within..

He emerged from the depths of his own madness, seemingly refreshed and then quite suddenly became frustrated to have been rudely awoken back into a world from which he had mentally escaped.
Realisation in his short moment of sanity struck him of what chaos surrounded him. He felt immediately threatened, and recoiled into a corner like a wounded, but dangerous animal.
All of his senses went into overdrive, his heart pounding as the rush of adrenaline fuelled his fear and desperate need for self-preservation.
He blinked continuously as his head moved in all directions, his eyes trying to acknowledge every inch of matter that existed between him and the full length of his vision.
His mind switched back and forth like a flashing light between this world and the hell of insanity which threatened to imprison him forever.
Nothing made sense; he could not focus on his environment or shake himself off this feeling of disillusionment and insecurity. His head felt like it was about to explode, strange sounds echoed in his ears, vibrated in his skull. His vision became blurred and images of the white demons towering over him made him scream in horror. His whole body became rigid, pinned against the wall as the demons overpowered him ready to escort him back into the underworld of nightmares. An excruciating pain in his arm followed by numbness and a loss of energy as their venom seeped into him finally persuaded him that it was over. He stopped fighting and gave in against their power, switching off his mind to the darkness and the deep abyss of nothing…