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Just Like You part 4I know what you’re wondering, how does a quiet depressed teenager with a nob for an older brother become a killer? Well I’m getting there. Perhaps I am rearing slightly off topic but this background is making me all nostalgic. What? You did not think killers could feel nostalgia? Well I can. But I have already told you I am just like you. I am not a psychopath or a sociopath the only thing slightly different about me is I am dyslexic. Something I only recently found out. Before a test confirmed I had a disability I was just called stupid.
Throughout my childhood and even into my adulthood that is what everyone believed of me. But I am not stupid. I have killed fifteen people. And if anyone cared at all they would have noticed I was clever. That it was my disability not my intellect holding me back. Perhaps if they cared they would have already caught me. But I have already told you no one cares. Not about me or you or even that my victims are dead. No one even noticed
Just like you part 3I do not know when my desire to die began. All I know is that I did not have it when I was a child. I was too young to understand what it meant. Too naïve to appreciate its beauty and serenity, I was taught to be afraid of it. As I grew older I became more and more curious about it. Just like the word nice, death is a fairly elusive term. What lies beyond the great unknown has always captivated me and while some fear that unknown I welcome it. Life was never kind to me, but death is still full of opportunities. As an early adolescent that is what I believed death to be, a heaven and hell type concept. An afterlife of some form. An opportunity for a second, better life.
And as I grew older my perception of death changed and so did my appearance. By the time I was thirteen I had already had my first growth spurt and already was desperate to die; anything to take away the pain of life. I no longer believed death to be a world beyond my reach, like a fantasy world from the
Just Like You part 2I was 14 years old when I donated my kidney to my older brother Phillip. When my parents had asked me I had said yes immediately without even wondering if his disease was genetic. See back then I was still a good boy and that’s what good boys do. They donate their kidneys to save their brothers.
By this point I had already acquired a fascination with death, enough to fantasise about my own but not enough to wish it upon anyone else. Phillip, who was so like me in some ways, was my polar opposite when it came to views on death. He was desperate to live, I was desperate to die. He struggled every day to survive while I struggled with living. In that way the Kidney transplant was perfect, Phillip got his life back and there was a chance I could die from the operation.
But that is where the perfections ended. For better or worse I did not die. Nor did Phillip, although he did come to resent me and my kidney – sorry his kidney. He was my big brother he was sup
Just Like You part 1I never got to choose the circumstances of my life. I chose them no more than I chose the DNA that created me. Somehow between two aspects I never got to pick I have ended up here. Thirty four years old with nothing but a list of the people I have killed and a desire to die myself. Do you blame me for what I have done? For all the people I have killed? When you factor in the circumstances I encountered and mix it with an unfortunate batch of DNA, one can only wonder – did I ever have a choice?
My name is Watson O Riley and this is my story.
My life started fairly averagely. Unlike so many of my kin I was not a born a killer. Life pushed me to become one. My childhood was nice. That one word can condense the entire content of my early years. Nice. A fairly elusive word; don’t you think? Like my childhood it has no substance, no content and yet we use it so frequently. No one really comments on how you can evade a question so easily with such a simple word.
The Smiling GameI’ll Smile for you if you Smile for me
Lets play a game
Its called Happiness
we can brush of the rain with a Smile
and drink that champagne with a Smile
poison has never tasted so sweet
and don’t you just love that queasy feeling
I’ll Smile for you if you Smile for me
And we can plaster our Smiles across town
Your beautiful : Smile
We are both smiling in that photograph
Ill hang it on my wall
But as the years collect the memories fade
and all I recall is the Smile
I’ll Smile for you if you Smile for me
We are playing a game remember
Did your mouth twitch a moment?
No cheating in this game
And once you begin you are playing for life
Its called Happiness
I’ll Smile for you if you Smile for me
They call me the memory collector
But all I have collected is Smiles
Hanging on my wall
Like words chiselled into stone
Am I happy you ask?
Of course I’m happy
Cant you see my Smile
Im playing the game
I’ll Smile for you if you Smile for me
Come play wi
Molten MemoirsYou never feared ghosts would haunt you
Phantoms appear only in myths
But of times too distant to forget
And Memories built on satisfying guilt
There a phantom that exists
Etched in truth and deep regret
it sneaks and mocks you from behind
Yet when you turn it pounces from affront
And although years pass it does not age
Like a recurring scene in an unsettling dream
Beware - you are the hunt
And the beasts are easy to enrage
When the ghosts come calling we are all children
Molten memories leak from the head
Lava taunts snare at the heart
Veins explored by phantom’s sword
Fear in place where blood once bled
Pride quavers. Defences depart
Like a shadow in the darkness
Youth’s vices are loyal to their crown
Summoning to sweet return
You’ve been served what you deserved
Pride cannot drown
Fear cannot burn
You thought phantoms false
But ghosts tell secrets only memories could know
Spreading lies incites no dread
and truths that bind can also blind
memories fester cold and
Insidious pleasuresYou keep relaying the fact that you did not pressure me into anything. But you have said it so many times that I am beginning to feel that your words are only there to protect yourself from a lurking feeling that says otherwise.
"you don't have to do this" you reassured me, as you ran your hand across my thigh and caressed my breast. You insisted it was my decision, but you heavily implied what you wanted and heavily encouraged it as well. Not only with gentle whispers that brushed my skin with the same softness as your lips. But with your entire body every time you pulled me that little bit closer and I was amazed yet again by your ability to control me so fluently and how easily I was willing to bend my integrity.
I cannot place how it started, but in hindsight, although I do not entirely regret what happened. I wish it never had. Insidious pleasures are the worst kind of satisfaction. I recoil from myself, embarrassed, as I think of your subtle touch. In that elusive mome
Even at deathWill they come to my funeral? I wonder.
Will they lay flowers at my grave?
Cry at my headstone and eulogise my life?
Remembering me for being crass but brave.
Will they scream laments?
or will this poem be my only one
Will anyone care than I am no more.
but lying limp and cold under the tepid sun
Will the only proof that I once existed
Be these words I left behind
Of things I once though significant
In structured prose and stilted rhymes
Will there even be anyone alive
To remember the person I had been
Before I left the world a phantom
of old memories of what I'd done and seen
But you, dear, are vibrant even at death
And I envy you for it. You, like a static wave
Because now that you are gone who is left?
And who will lay flowers at my grave.
Fighting for freedomBANG! BANG! BANG!
The thudding on the door came suddenly but not without warning. We had been waiting for them ever since nightfall. Outside I could here their shouts of encouragement to "push harder" their thirst for blood evident from their voices alone.
"We will never be free if we keep on running, Thomas. Wherever we hide they will always find us." In spite of her wise words and matter of fact voice, she made no attempt to conceal the fear that was flickering in her misty grey eyes.
Freedom. It's a funny word isn't it? I turned it over in my mouth a few times trying to understand what it tastes like. I wonder if it is something that can be experienced at all, or rather just a sense of longing whilst enduring captivity. To me, at least, freedom is a beacon of hope and perhaps a lack of more appropriate wording. Though, I prefer to consider it hope.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"Thomas, we have no other option. It's time to fight."
"No! Have we not already killed enough people?" My v
this is a warning.i.
The first thing you need
to know about people is this:
If you cut off our head,
we will grow two in its place.
We will divide and conquer
until there's nothing left
but tiny gaping mouths,
clacking and salivating
at the crumbs of an empire.
They tell me hurt is like
a paper cut:
quick and forgotten,
Hurt is the first step
off a balcony,
the first gasp
in a chain reaction
screaming from the railing
to beyond the pavement.
When I finally hit the ground,
I looked up and saw my halo
dangling from the edge,
He said, she said,
I wanted, he lost, she won,
I ruined this, I broke your heart,
he left me,
I miss you.
This is nothing new.
Your tragedy is always
what's it like to realize
every slash on your soul
has an identical twin?
What's it like to know
you're going to die
the same way everyone does:
scared and alone?
We are disposable.
The hydra g
Peter Pan EnvyWe molded pirate ships
from heavy storm clouds,
flags puffed up
and scooped out
like handfuls of sand
while the car windows
steamed in the cold.
You told me stories
of a boy in green
and his war with
the hooked man,
said they took
those like us
to the first star on the right
and straight on to morning.
You made me believe
and when life got hard--
mom hopped up on pills,
nights filled with demons--
I breathed wishes
to be stolen away.
No pirate ever darkened my stoop
with his wayward compass
or water-stained maps;
no fairy ever left glitter
smeared on my skin
like good dreams.
I look to the sky
when the wind blows
and hold my breath
with his name on my tongue
all the same.
War and CancerI want to go back
and meet us one more time,
before the war and the cancer
took up so much of the day -
before my father could no longer
remember what the present
was supposed to mean
and your mother
could still get dressed
without losing her way.
I want to know
what it felt like
to board a plane
to somewhere hidden
and not care
if our names and faces
to walk as long
as we wanted
without the sun and moon
creating an argument.
I want to feel you
roll into my arms
where I forgot to cut the grass
and you did not
water the flowers;
to hear you
watching the cardinals
unearth the spring.
And to know once again
how this place
started becoming new.
The Re-Prettify ProjectBreathing in silver filaments
will not make you pretty on the inside.
You cannot polish and buff
lung or aorta
until it is shiny and new.
If you have filled your life with toxins
and allowed your eyes
to cloud over with coal dust
do not, my friend, do not
seek silver linings from anything
but penance and kindness.
Throwing gold-dust over your head
will not administer you a halo.
thirstYou tell me to breathe in
the scent of my tea:
Apple Cinnamon Spice,
it is crisp and infusing
the aroma into my lips.
Honey coasts along my spoon,
apple biting into its
golden flavor. Cinnamon bursts
forth for a brief moment and I am
SeptemberThe summer was so hot
the dogs stuck to the sidewalks
with the newspapers
and the black metal cans
everyone left waiting on the curb.
You could smell it
in the glass pitchers
on table tops,
and the sheets that never
dried on the clothes lines;
the canvas beach bags
mothers dragged wearily
across the sand
and the ice cream trucks
melting across the highways.
Children felt it open
up the windows at night
and find a corner
of the bed to smother,
while fathers baited it on hooks
or mowed it down
in flat, dry stripes
as if begging each other
And the crickets just hummed
beneath the corn silk
and the dry mouth
daring the cats to play
hide and seek -
searching for September.
It was so suddenIt was so sudden.
It was so fast.
It was so scary.
We were so happy.
It was the best.
But the thunder fell.
And now there’s nothing left.
Note to SelfDate a librarian; they'll read you until your spine falls apart, and still love every page. They'll underline your highlights, your endless seas of profound poetry, as if they've mistaken your manatee appearance for a mermaid. They'll hang off the cliff of your chapter 15 and dive into the next page as if you're about to reveal what they've been looking for. And when they don't find it, they'll tear out your words letter by letter with a hush, asking you oh so sweetly to stay quiet. Finally, they'll bind your broken spine with tape and set you on the shelf for misplaced books until they forget you were ever there, but they won't be done with you. They'll never be done with you; even when it seems your pages, your rib cage and heart, is filled with nothing but dust.
How It Began"God, your two o'clock is here."
"I have a two o'clock?"
"He's been here since 7:45. I figured it's only polite to... sir."
God sighed. "Fine, send him in."
While He waited God cleared His desk of papers and blueprints; no need for outsiders to see His plans. Soon enough the door to His office opened and God stood, smiled, held out a hand towards one of the two visitor's chairs.
"God! Great stuff you're doing in sector 2-7-0! Great stuff!"
The man's hands were clammy, his handshake limp. Rumpled suit, porkpie hat, briefcase... oh Jes-- oh dear, a salesman. God's smile slipped a little but He soldiered on gamely. With luck He could shoo the poor guy away in a few minutes.
"So, what can I do for you?"
The man sat, briefcase across his knees. "Sector 2-7-0! Everyone's talking about it! What do you call it? Man and merman?"
"Man and woman, actually. And thanks. But we're pretty busy around here, and..."
"Oh! Right! No time for the wicked, eh?" The salesman winked and popped his briefcase,
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More