11/27/05

I met the Empress of China and she was two-feet tall. She had a cute pudgy face, with iny little eyes, and I couldn’t see her feet because her gown went all the way to the floor. And her guards kept her locked up in a little gold box so she wouldn’t get hurt.

11/26/05

A man is coated in an oily residue, his lower body completely lost from sight. The only reason I know he’s bare-chested is because his abdominal and chest muscles are very distinguishable underneath the tar-black substance. His left arm is outstretched, upward, as is his face – in a silent, agonizing scream – every feature on his face coated in darkness and his mouth is filled with spilling, black oil.

11/26/05

Overcast, gray, brooding. A slight breeze carries the stench of decay, playing with the tendrils of her hair. As she walks gently, barefoot among the decaying corpses, the bloated fingers of the fallen snag the ragged hem of her chemise. Is she dismayed by the death and carnage around her? Not at all. This is her domain; the putrid visage her Glory. As she sidesteps a gray, rotting foot, her chemise strap falls from her shoulder – and she smiles wickedly as she delicately slips her foot into a congealed pool of blood – sighing as if it were an old comfortable slipper. And darkness begins to settle further, so she sits down, giggles as she smooths the hair of an unfortunately decapitated soldier. And the feasting ravens laugh.

11/26/05

A beautiful fall day, walking along a mountainous trail. Leaves dance on the forest floor before my feet, and my eye catches a glistening beam of red. Bending closer, I found a beautiful tendril of red hair, dancing in the breeze among leaves of like color. Sweeping the leaves aside, pushing aside the soft earth – there lay an eternally sleeping beauty, brutally cut down in her prime, and unceremoniously buried along a forest path.

11/26/05

I sliced my wrists open, lengthwise, several inches long. Rather than blood, there are hundreds of pomegranate seeds spilling from my veins. And on the table next to me sits a ruptured pomegranate in a pool of congealing blood. Now to an onlooker, was I originally filled with these seeds of mythological fertility, or did I stuff them inside myself as blood poured freely down my hands?

11/15/05

There was a fire in a hut housing experimental chemical warfare. Everyone who was inside the structure was already afflicted. One man’s eyes were bubbling and drooping out of his sockets, dripping and sizzling onto his upraised fingers. One man was crawling on hands and knees, trying to get out of a liquid that burned away flesh and bone at the touch. A comrade wanted to help those stuck inside and began to run into the structure, unable to hear as his superior yelled at him to avoid the light. As soon as he made it to the entrance of the hut, gasses met his skin and he was already standing in sunlight. Immediately his skin darkened to a putrid black, began to monstrously swell, and as he lay in the entrance bloated and screaming, no one could do anything but watch in horror until he was a mass of blackened dead flesh. And the screams of those trapped inside continued to wail. The men outside the hut could do nothing but listen under the hot desert sun.