As I Die

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

I breathe water, I drink air.

The world is mine, none to spare.

But what will come when time is spent?

Am I alone, will I relent?

Ticking memories, passing cries.

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

This world is mine, inherit flies.

And yet I find myself at peace.

This sweet surrender, my death release.

Hot as ice, frozen steam.

I walk the rungs, my fingers clean.

The flesh in which I lived so long,

It’s melted off, my unheard song.

Sing to me, my dying light.

Hollow sounds, tortured night.

Before I’d worried where you’d gone.

But here you rise before the dawn.

By: Yours Truly

What does today’s music say about you?

I have been searching, listening, re-listening, and disengaging in various musical genres since I can remember. Does that make me a master of music, um- no. Am I still going to stereotype different musical interests on a person- YES!

Let’s begin with country:

If you like this music, you are lost to me…forever. “Why”, you might be asking- “country music is the best in the world”? I don’t know, person who clearly is not a musical genius. Can you remember the last time country music has given you something new? Let me give it to you this way, if I wanted to hear about your great-grandma’s cheating ex cousin’s rockin’ chair, way way out in tha’ chattahoochie…I’d ask you about it. Currently, however, I do not care. Swift love and Urban living is not for me.

So how bout some classic rock:

This continues to be a confusing genre. One person’s classic rock is another person’s metal band. Let me explain… Are we saluting rock n’ roll, ridin’ hot on the surf music, or stuck ‘in-between years.’ Of course some people contemplate the ole british invasion, garage interpretation, pop-blues-folk, psychedelic persuasion. So who are we in this category, Soft, hard, early heavy? What class of music dedifferentiates from our origins, our golden age lyrics, the progressive strumming of chords- or even our ‘new’ wave punk? I guess my question is, how old does it have to be before it’s considered classic?

Lost on confusion, how bout some indie:

‘Indie’ music, for purpose of clarification, is considered music produced independently from a major commercial record label. So WHAM- you own a drum, got a tape player…get on wit’cho bad self. You an’ indie music star! That being said, thank God for youtube and spotify (among others). We wouldn’t know who you are otherwise! A million wanna-be-bands later… I’ve discovered that all music meshes into one sound. So you better be ahead of the game.

There are a trillion other musical interests out their… EDM, Classical, Popular, Reggae, Latin, Religious, Orchestral, etc… So what are you’re thoughts? Got any stereotypes yet ;)

Symphony Man

I believe in two things: Life & Death. What I have discovered about the two? They are both unbelievably far and incredibly close.

Symphony Man

The strings of the piano grow louder, strum, strumming the tune of the masked man. A candle 

flickers in the distance, tombstones rising from the upturned earth. Wriggling worms draw nearer. Voices of the damned rising above a silent reverie. This is the silence of the children, the flailing limbs of resting corpses. Rot. Oozing pestilence of unkempt flesh. Your deathbed, your soil ridden divan. Tip of the hat, your demise will not be commiserated. 

Condolences. Grievances. They usher you forward with offers of remembrance and fulfilling 

gratification. But these words are not for you, not your own to consider or accept. Poor student of reality. Have you entered a world in which you cannot escape? The coffin awakens near your side. Eyes like dusty marbles. Something you had expected? Considered? No, no she had swayed to and fro with the rest. A flower in the breeze, her twirling color of life slowly subsiding around her. You too have begun to fade. 

Fingers sleepily caress the piano keys as the crowd awaits your answer. The finale! Begin slowly, 

arise, crescendo. Sharp, sharp notes, high and low. A wave of trumpets filling your ears. Pounce on the 

ivory squares. Demand the attention. Push them higher, the twirling flowers dancing across the stage. The coffin closes, worms drawing back into dark holes. Children’s laughter erupts around you. B flat, E minor. Strum, strumming the keys! There will be no earthbound settee for you on this day, no pity. 

The notes linger in the air, rebounding between the seated ruby cushions. A woman holds her 

breath; the note cannot escape. She reaches, her arms open wide, a plumage of hair resting atop her 

powdered forehead. You watch the tension rise beneath her chest as the last upsurge builds beneath your fingertips. Her lips draw a breath, and then a magical bravado. The trill, the flowing F. Three octaves above middle C and your fingers grow persistent. Swaying harmony between pianist and libretto. Joy in this moment! 

Resting corpses be damned, this is not a day of demise. Never a day of failure. Tip of the hat, you 

have mastered the keys. Choral symphony of brilliance, Ode to joyous jealousy. Vienna’s jubilant 

applauding audience wishing you well. Ovation, yield to concentration. Your ended fortissimo, avoidant of musical limbo. Success, the crowd awaits your reception.

By Yours Truly: Michelle Salyga

Friends Know Best

I had a friend whose mother died.

I had a friend who often lied.

I had a friend who couldn’t hide.

I had a friend who barely cried.

I knew this girl for quite some time.

She was pushy, and did hard crime.

I knew this girl had been hit hard.

She was bruised; her life was scarred.

I wished this girl would suffocate.

She had no love; she gave off hate.

I wished this girl would leave me be.

She had no mirror; she could not see.

Instead I drove down empty roads.

The air was dense; the night was cold.

I parked the car and dug in deep.

The earth was soft; it did not seep.

This person I knew had failed to hear.

Her soft white skin, those eyes so clear.

I laid her body down to rest.

I was her friend; I knew the best.

  

-By Michelle Salyga

Anonymous Wants to Know:

Dear World,

Today I found myself in the same bed as the night before, the same sheets pulled up to my chin, and the same man lying beside me. The room is a pale beige color, struck with accents of black furniture and brushed steel. To my left my phone rests beside a blue owl candlelight. In a few minutes the alarm will sound. The sheets are cream- which match the headboard- and the comforter is the duvet style. There is a masculine appearance to the bed cover, being that it is plain and white, but a hint of feminism shines through the lightly embroidered seams- which can been seen with intensified concentration.

I wake up with the same contemplations as I had fallen to sleep with beneath the fluff of down. Work. Play. Future parties. Past promises. Goals un-kept and goals just made. I’m careful not to move to abruptly. The light seeping in is bothering me. I can see blonde tufts of hair using my side-eye vision. Today is Thursday and I don’t feel like getting up.  I turn onto my side, the side that faces the wall without windows. This side of the room faces the closet, some doors closed and some open. I thrust my knee into the side of this man whom I sleep and wake with everyday. He responds and moves over exuding a faint grunt, which is barely audible. I rest my head between his armpit and chest; the faint scent of sweat and deodorant is still there. This spot is comforting to me.  He has the softest skin, much like a fresh born baby, and it feels pleasant against my cheek.

I am afraid of these moments, these comforts that have become a rhythmic piece of my life. I am afraid that one day I may not wake up to this familiar routine, this familiar touch. Each moment that transpires through time is another minute closer to an infinite number of unknown outcomes. Should we hide in these moments that give us satisfaction? Should we eliminate the possibility of loosing the rhythmic pieces of our heart? What would you do if you knew that when you died- you would never see him again? How close can you roll the dice, when the ending is already known?

-Anonymous

How to Begin a Proper Killing Story

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Many stories begin this way- you know, with an announcement of how most stories begin. So how about we start with something else, for instance, this stapler. I would first like to describe it to you, being that you may not have come in contact with one until now- and because it is polite- that is, it is polite to describe things one cannot see.

This stapler is black. The kind of black you imagine at the bottom of a frozen lake lost in the middle of nowhere. It is the color of night without stars, the black of a voided space- it is the black of charred flesh just before a dusty grey ash settles upon it. Yes, this stapler is black…and because it is polite, I have described it to you- because you cannot see. I may have, however, left out a few important points. For one cannot simply recognize an object by its color, unless you believe the only object suited for red is an apple, which I can truly assure you- is not the case.  One example is its shape. See, if I had described this to you, you would’ve known that it is not your typical desk stapler. It does not sit perfectly proportioned to your stacks of paper in the corner of your cubicle. It does not await endless amounts of recycled parchment; click, clicking away at their corners. It does not jam when you press repetitively for its’ release of staples. It does not limit my creativity. It will not limit your appearance. So now you have it, as I stated earlier- my stapler has been described to you.

I might agree with you at this point that my description, being quite rudimentary, was both strangely placed and inefficiently described. But this too was my point about a story’s beginning. If I simply began with your death, would you have continued to read on? If I stated that you have moments left to live, would you have continued to read about my stapler? I think not. I believe you would have walked away, turned your nose up in amusement. Though at this point I find you to be rather a bore, you simply aren’t as talkative as I would have imagined. Even if I have turned you inside out…aren’t you happy I selected with care such a versatile tool to piece you back together? And you thought red was only suited for apples.

The Short Life of X & Y

Sometimes, you just think to yourself. You can’t help it; I mean come on- you didn’t wake up one day and program your brain to function this way or that. It does what it does, it is what it is; but suddenly you can’t remember what the ‘it’ you’re referring to has done to stimulate your life.

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel her mind racing, thinking about the next day, and the day after that, and the things to follow the days to come. It was hard to focus, but there was an aching feeling tucked somewhere within the confounds of the squish best defined as a brain. The light tapping she felt on each of her temples was enough to begin the worry itch.

You know that feeling, when the worry itch starts to creep in. There’s a light pressure behind your eyes and a pounding in your frontal lobe. It is this exact location that contributes to working memory tasks and an influx of Dopamine. It is also this locality that presents dysfunctional motives and altered egos. Some choose to refer to this as an exploration, some choose to submit the conclusion of schizophrenia, but you…for you, we will call it Y.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel. She could think. Days passed by, and things remained. Clarity was the focus. She had developed a hypersensitivity tucked somewhere within the confines of the grey wrinkled matter best defined as intellect. There was a muffled hum resonating in her ears, a subdued shrill of the beast within.

In this moment you have a choice. You can lie back and wait, pondering the significance of the things to come, or you can react by suppressing the aggressor. As you peer into each of these options, you must realize that the effected part of your brain is growing in both power and command. Action is key at this point. There is no time to contemplate, though if you choose to do so- you may wake up in a sticky solution of plasma and platelets, the ingredients of which may or may not include both human and animal material. 

X rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. She could feel the heat rising behind her eyelids. It was hard to concentrate, the familiar taste of bittersweet pills tingling her tongue, a distinction that can be noted as overdosing.  She watched the grinning shadows form above her, their soft silken grey melting into the walls.

It would appear that you no longer need advice, and have consequently provided a noose for your own neck. But in the case that your noose was tied with a slipknot, don’t lose hope- many victims of the frontal lobe have lived to tell their story. Though this story is sometimes repeated within the confines of a prison wall, have faith that you might begin your repetitious rant inside the borders of an insane asylum- no doubt you would fit in well.

Y rolled over onto the cold spot of the bed. Tonight she had been awake, re-energized, and empowered to work her crimson magic, but she too could see the silken grey silhouettes that rose into the ceiling. There was a faint cry that had escaped from her mouth, a distinction that can be noted as defeat. She reached out into the dimming gloom of failed escape, no slipknot could be found.

Perhaps during this attempt to suppress your alter ego you have forgotten the key to success. Victory can only be achieved in the realization that you are now alone, that this choice was both pre-meditated and solely your own. However, dear friend, you have failed to realize that in your attempt to squash Y, you failed to question your resources for advice. The advisee, being myself- and therefore the ‘I’ in this equation have defeated you both. So yes, my X, I have slipped your knot and will remain on the working end.

A Heart of Grapes

 

Do we die alone, or in being alone do we die?

She reaches for the last sip of wine, placing her mouth on the leftover lipstick stain. There’s a faint aroma wafting into her nose as it sinks further into the glass. For a moment there is no movement. This elixir, this sustenance of pleasure, awaits her lapping tongue. She breathes in, tilting her head back as the warm drizzle fills her mouth. And for a second her cheeks feel rosy and firm. But when the tingle weakens and the color fades, she remembers.

She remembers how many paychecks the bottle took away. She remembers how many bottles demanded a broken glass. She remembers how many broken glasses resulted in unresolved arguments. She remembers how many arguments led to a broken heart. And she remembers how many broken hearts it took to mistrust love.

 Tonight another bottle will be poured, a glass will break, and hands will run crimson. Tonight… a heart will die one more time.