Gale Pyke's Blog

Image Created with AI.

A few things will turn your blood cold amidst the darkness of the night.

The yells of the nightmares that emerge from the forest? Scary.
The clattering of soft-paced steps that announced the presence of an unknown entity inside your house? Frightening.
Hearing the throat-ripping screams of your sister and little brother pleading for help, while they ran across the night, covered in sweat and blood? Terrifying.

Whoever has defiled my bloodline’s dwellings would likely come for me now. All the demons in the world, and I have to face the worst of them all: family in need.

I can hear the howls of that foul beast crying for pain and blood, accompanied by the raging chaos that has lit the entrance of the woods. The shadows betray me, and among the specters of the night, I fail to recognize the silhouette of my sister dragging my little brother. When fear takes over your common sense, hope restores your sanity, suggesting that you may find a friendly face in the darkness. Yet, life, in all its infinite reservoir of uncalled irony, teaches you not to expect it. So, following the instincts embedded in every fiber of my body, I close the door and bolt the passage into my home.

Yet, the night howls back, and it tests my faith.
Loud banging and broken screams reach my entrance. I can hear my brother begging and my sister praying, but I have been tricked and enticed by similar devices before. So, I can’t be too careful now — the wolf is craving flesh, and I am the last one in the food chain. Whether I am ready or not, the hellhound hungers, and mine is the final lighthouse across this sea of blood and fire.

And what do we know about demons other than they are drawn to the light?

Steady my hand and allow me no miss, The words escape my mouth as I grab the fourth and youngest sibling I have: a corroded yet trustworthy two-barreled shotgun, the one with the word chinny edged on the comb — a joke directed at my brother since he was never able to pronounce the word chimney correctly. Now, that dumb joke written on a piece of metal is the only companion I have. Humor and death, mankind’s most intimate and loyal friends, I think as I aimed the shotgun toward the entry.

No room for doubt or error.
I take one deep breath, and, fighting my own sanity, I open the door.

Do you trust the reasoning of your mind to be able to arrange chaos into awareness, or do you allow your instincts to take over your pulse and act at once?

Click.
Turns out, I am one of the latter ones.
I pressed the trigger right in front of my brother’s face, and he would’ve faded away from the terror if he had any of it left on his body. My overwhelming anxiety saved his life, for during the commotion, I forgot to reload chinny. Yet, my relief was quickly replaced with dismay when I saw their wounds: He was covered in blood, and she was severely burnt — He was missing his left hand, and she was missing her right eye.

“Where is he?!” My brother mumbles. His body might’ve survived two encounters against the wolf, but his mind wouldn’t survive a third. “Is he inside? I can hear him howling everywhere! Everywhere, he is everywhere! Do you also hear him, brother? He has smelled us, and we brought him here! He is watching us!”

He presses his ear against the solidified clay, for my lodgings parades no windows, no ventilation, and no view. I knew the importance of having a fortress when you live near the woods. After all, what good use is a home if it invites all those things you wish to keep outside? However, even through the brick walls, I can hear him howling and thrashing. The wolf has arrived — our blood has led him here.

“You have brought me more food!” The killer sounds thrilled about having chased my brothers around our homes, and I can tell right away he isn’t here to kill us. He wants to inhale our suffering, taste our desperation, and defile our bodies. “You will melt under my teeth and my desire! You will be inside of me! Inside my body, I will fill my flesh with your cries and tears! You and I belong, piggies. Squeal, for I will huff away your skin until we are all as one!”

I direct chinny’s open mouth to the door after I’ve made sure she is well fed and ready to shine. The wolf’s knife starts carving the wood in my front entrance, and chinny follows the sound — never faltering to find where the next note will be. Yet, his howling becomes more violent, and my own brick walls are enhancing the requiem to our deathbeds.

I am almost tempted to pull the trigger and tear apart the killer’s head, but if I miss him…
No. I cannot lose my temper for the wailing cries of my younger brother and the disguised sobs of my sister are there to remind me that there is a way out of this. I can see now that the forest will demand my payment, but in exchange, it will allow us to live through this night.

“You will be mine, piggies,” He mutters with palpable hunger and sadism. “Fight and cry, for it only makes my lust grow! If not today, then tomorrow, or the day after that one, for I will fill you up and then eat your bones clean! You will rejoice in fulfilling my hunger and my thirst! I will huff and puff until your house is no longer where it should be. Until it comes crumbling down and you beg me to be inside of me.”

And then silence — nothing but silence.
My brother finally exhales, and he smiles at my sister, but if I’ve learned something throughout my life, it is that harmony is often loud and chaotic while sadism is voiceless and straightforward. The worst is yet to come, for the wolf isn’t here to bathe his knife in blood, but his own beliefs in sin — wickedness demands a restrained atmosphere before allowing the desecration it craves.

But the only way to know what lies in our fate is for one of us to open the door and invite the unknown inside. Who is most suited to carry out such a task, but the owner of the residence?

“Take one of the oil lamps, and light one of the wooden sticks in the chimney so I can — ” But there is no need for me to finish my sentence, since we all hit our foreheads with the obvious realization: The beast is going to crawl through the only air tunnel my home has.

With a trembling hand and a vast amount of anxiety, I see how my sister quickly pours water into a pot and ignites the oven, but not before she cuts a rag from her clothes and cleans the wound on her eye. She does not bow or hide her face, for she knows that it is her trophy for surviving a demon like this one — she will carry her souvenir proudly until the end.

A loud gnarl breaks the atmosphere as the wolf begins laughing and cackling once he has reached the top of the chimney.

“Now, scream for me!” He barks with a menacing attitude. “We will be one forever!”

I dart toward the chimney and throw the oil lamp over the wooden bed, so the smoke will choke out the beast that descends through the throat of my home. Yet, my plan fails, and among the heat, the killer emerges from the flames with a sharp blade, slashing my left thigh until the bone is visible. Blood bathes the floor, and as he rubs his face against the warm liquid that leaves my body at an alarming rate, I begin screaming away my pain.

“Shh now, little piggy,” He mutters as he comes closer to my face and buries the knife deep inside my other thigh. “No need for desperation. Your purpose is almost done.”

Tears come out of my face. But I am the oldest one, and I am supposed to keep my brother and sister safe. So, with whatever strength I have left in me, I lift chinny and press the trigger.

Is faith meant to fulfill one’s prayers, or is it meant to bolster the need for more praying?

The recoil hits my shoulder, and I miss his face.
I miss him entirely.
But my sister doesn’t.

She throws the boiling water straight at his face, melting the wolf mask against his face. We both howl, for the water burns my body too, but I am already in pain, and my own body has numbed itself against further torture. With shaky hands, I offer my payment to the forest and press the trigger once more, puncturing his chest and pushing him back into the raging flames of the chimney.

“You will all burn with me,” The wolf forces a smile as his mask continues to melt over his skin. “Join me and melt your flesh against mine.”

“No,” I pull the blade from my leg as my brother helps me get back up. My sister stands next to me, and the three of us watch as the beast howls and thrashes to little avail. “No...”

We might be survivors, yet outlasting our demons doesn’t mean we get to recover our sanity. Nobody comes out of hell craving for a piece of heaven — they all want the rest to fall into the flames.

“Come,” The demon whispers one last time.

“I am afraid not,” I add. Then, with a wicked smile, I look back at the knife and start salivating.“What were you saying about eating our bones clean?”

[image error]

Season 3, The Wolf’s Shriek was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Image Created with AI

No good deeds, she thought, as she watched him move closer. She caught a glimpse of a rotten smell coming out of his coat.

“It seems that you could use a friend,” He hunched his whole body as he moved closer to her. The stranger’s movements were dense and crude as if he was dancing to the sound of those creaking old boots of his. “And, curious enough, I am a friend.”

But in this cell, there were no friends. There were no good souls, and there were no good tales. Her father had sold her to the king, with lies and promises of greatness, triumphs, and wealth. She was a good seamstress, but even her own talent couldn’t spin gold out of straw, as her father had claimed. But men’s greed has no boundaries — in a world ruled by men’s lies, women’s truth has no power.

“Have you come here to laugh at my misfortune, friend?” She pronounced the last word with disdain. After all, she didn’t need another friend. What she needed was a miracle.

“I have come here to influence you into accepting a covenant,” He said with a deep and resonant sound. His movements were even more disturbing than his body. “For I can turn all of those riotous acclamations into notorious accomplishments. And I will demand a negligible belonging in return.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s hear it.” She replied, still not convinced but intrigued.

“Your son.” He cackled, moving inhumanely as he pronounced those retched words.

“My son?” She laughed. “Sorry friend, but I am all out of kids. I belong to no man.”

“Oh, but you will,” He smiled — a smile that will forever haunt my dreams. “For the king will ask thy hand in marriage when he unearths the talent you possess. When the time comes, he will ask for several sons to protect the lineage. And I will demand no more than one of those, for all my wives haven’t been able to bear a child, and I wish too to protect my heritage. For as long as a king sits on the throne, one of my own must carry on with our tradition.”

“And what is your tradition, friend?” She inquired. But the creepy resounding man merely took a step forward.

“Do we have a deal?” He stretched his hand.

Against her better judgment, she shook his hand and touched his skin, feeling his furrowed skin pierce her tenderness. The roughness in his hands caused her nausea, forcing the heartbroken prisoner to retch violently as she shook clean her hand on her see-through dress.

“You didn’t throw up,” He cackled with a gutteral sound that generated goosebumps in her legs. “I take pleasure in such a quality.”

“How is this going to work?” She asked, as she cleaned her mouth and ignored his commentary.

“I will acquire the gold strands,” He smirked as he walked to the entrance and began breaking his body, so he would be able to fit through the iron bars. “In the meantime, it would deem wise of you to disappear all the straw.”

“How?” She asked. In spite of what the populace gossiped on rainy days about the castle and it’s riches, there were no candles inside of her room, and the windows were too high up for her to reach and throw it away.

“A problem worthy of your solution, future princess, for I have my own deal to fulfill.” The darkness swallowed him whole.

And so, knowing there was no other way to get rid of the evidence of her treachery, the prisoner started eating the straws — mouthful after mouthful. With every swallow, she suffered from asphyxiation as she forced the hay down her trachea once her mouth was voided of all saliva. She started using her fingers to push the pasture down while holding the need to throw it back and release herself from this suffering. Yet, her desire to shame the king and her father was greater than her physical unconformity.

She used her tears to soften the harsh nature of the golden fodder until her body was dehydrated. Then, she began squeezing her hands together, so the wounds on her palms would bleed over the undesired food until they became numb and useless. Enduring the need to spew the contents of her stomach, she used the nail of her index finger to cut the upper side of her mouth and allow the blood to lubricate her throat, so she could swallow the remaining straws.

With fierce determination, she ate all of it. And it wasn’t until the last piece of golden hay had disappeared from the stone floor, that she heard the horrible sound that had given her hope entering the room— the reassembly of broken bones.

“I brought a set of golden strands,” The uneven voice muttered. However, even before he could lift his right hand and show his present under the moonlight, the demoralized prisoner noticed the golden glean behind him.

"How did you…" But there was no need for her to ask. The man wasn't holding strands made out of gold, but a golden wig — almost as golden as the sunlight on every winter's morning. She was almost tempted to accuse him of stupidity for she was certain no person would ever fall for such deception. But the men of the kingdom were oblivious to reason, and there were no golden-haired ladies in the vecinity, only dark-haired women. “Where did you acquired that?”

“It took many moons for it to lose the horrid putrid smell, but alas,” He smiled once more, as his face contorted in a way she didn’t know was possible. “Take it, future princess, for the moon is leaving us, and the sun is almost rising to gaze upon your fate.”

Image Generated with AI

And so, when the King came, and his entire court awaited for the unknown countrywoman to be hanged, they were all left speechless by the miracle performed inside her cell. The golden strands were observed and felt, yet no one spoke their doubts — whether by fear, ignorance, or pride, the gleaming hair was revered as a sign of the girl’s divine power. So, she was asked to perform her deed for two more nights, and once the moon had reached its highest position, the curious and hideous man would crawl inside the cell and offer the girl more golden manes to deceive the entire kingdom.

The test was passed, and since those in higher power cannot conceive a world in which they do not own that which is valuable, the girl was forced to marry the King, giving him a son after their first year of marriage.

No good deeds, the girl often repeated to herself, for she knew that just as he had once crawled inside the cell of the highest tower when she was a prisoner, the crooked man would eventually come to reclaim his prize. Now and then, she could catch a glimpse of him at night, staring at her through the darkness of the night. Everywhere she would go, she could feel a pair of eyes that couldn’t leave her alone. She knew he owed him, and the day of compensation came one lonely night of spring. The queen entered her royal chambers and found him standing in front of the prince’s crib.

“A son of yours was promised to me,” He made that gutteral sound that haunted her dreams. “Yet, I’ve grown fond of the benevolence you have inflicted on the King. The kingdom has thrived, and so, they are less scared of what lies inside the forest. They are less scared of my home. My actions are no longer spoken, my face is not longer pursued, and my voice is no longer silenced. If I want a son, I merely need to lure the sons of the kingdom away from their homes.”

“So, what do you wish?” She replied hastily, deciding not to waste his impulse of good faith. “Is there anything you lack? Is there anything you can’t get?”

“A name,” He smiled, showing all of his rotten teeth.

“How can I give you a name?” She bewildered. “What makes you think I am the most qualified for it?”

“You have known me for the longest time.” He replied. “How would you describe me? What are my most terrifying features?”

“Aside from the eyes that follow me even in my dreams?” The Queen walked around the room, being afraid that if she came near him, she would remember that horrid smell that used to fill the cell. “The way you seem to remain still, watching into the void and being able to not move a muscle, as you keep emanating rumbling noises and shedding off your dead skin.”

“My skin, yes,” The man smiled. “I always get the skin wrong.”

“I guess, Rumble-still-skin,” The Queen suggested, deciding to ignore his latest commentary. However, the man was already heading out of the window.

“Close, dearie, very close,” He cackled. “But I can work with that.”

The kingdom continued to enjoy its prosperity, and the prince grew to become a man. Yet, it wasn’t long before the words of a demon started circulating in town. Words of a demon that haunted peasants and stole brides and sons from their houses. And the Queen heard those rumors and heard the name the young kids gave to this demon: Rumplestiltskin, for they couldn’t pronounce it correctly.

And he forever watches, from the dark and the shadows that surround us: A set of eyes that smiles as he watches us sleep.

[image error]

Season 3, Rumpelstiltskin was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Season 3, The Candy HouseImage generated by author using AI

“They all come,” The house would whisper into the darkness.

With nothing more than a candlelight, shining brightly in its interior, the old structure enticed foreigners to seek shelter from the terrors that lived inside the forest. But the house didn’t allow passage so easily, for the flesh lacked its taste if it wasn’t covered with sweat and desperation. Which is why, the front door needed to be locked — there wasn’t real despair until these souls started profaning the anatomy of the building. And what could be a better trap than the illusion of a safe shelter in the middle of the unknown?

“Humans are so predictable,” The house would often mutter when its roof creaked under the weight of the rain.

But these two kids…
Well, they had been resilient to the agony of their misfortune. The house had watched them refuse their fate for too many moons, and It had almost given up on them when the male flesh started tearing the wood and glass with its own teeth — eating them as if they were nothing more than bread or…

“Candy,” It creaked. “The Candy House, yes.”

And so, with every bite and with every swallow that the female and male flesh took, the old lodge started to squeak and screech, excited with pleasure as the shards of glass ripped apart their intestines. It chirred with intoxication as the wood expanded inside their trachea, slowly asphyxiating them. It crepitated with desire as blood drooled down their entire bodies, bathing them in jelly and making them tasty — making them ready to be cooked. Yet, before The Candy House could savor their recently fed treats, the male flesh lunged on top of his dear sister and started biting her shoulder off.

A profound scream tore through the wood, the rain, and the wind.

After all, that wasn’t the deal — it wasn’t what was supposed to happen this way. The house needed, it craved, to feel them inside. It always demanded the first bite, and now they had taken that pleasure away. So, while It watched the two well-fed survivors bite their blood-soaked flesh off, The Candy House began calling them, whispering their names as it creaked under the pressure of the ravenous wind. Almost answering the house’s bawl, it was the female flesh that grabbed the male one and threw him through the window, piercing his torso and legs with broken shards of dark glass.

Oh, how the old structure yelled and relished itself by the moist texture of the blood over its wooden floor. “More,” He whispered into the woods. “I have fed you. Now, you have to feed me.”

The sister climbed over the window sill, and tearing a large shard on her way inside, she began cutting small pieces of skin from her brother’s leg. The screams engulfed the forest’s atmosphere, which only aroused The Candy House into demanding more sacrifice — more flavor. So, taking advantage of the rage and the madness, the old lodge allowed a gust of wind to enter the dry interior and knock the only source of light into the floor.

In a crow's cry, the candle became an inferno, and the cabin’s creaks merged themselves with the blazing light that came from within.

“You’ll cook real nice!” The Candy House screamed! “I’ll leave you like a pie!”

The male flesh tried to get away, as he screamed “Leave me alone, Witch!” over and over, but it was futile. His sister pushed him with enough force that he fell once more and collided with the chimney's hole. The old lodge immediately allowed some of the rafts to fall from the ceiling and trapping him inside while the fire began scorching his skin.

The agony was nothing more than a melody.
The burning flesh was the crisp exterior.
The open wounds were the soft stuffing.
The boiling blood was the gravy on top of the pie.

And it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter that the female flesh burned both her hands trying to get him out. It didn’t matter that they crawled themselves out of the burning building. It didn’t matter that, on a last attempt at sanity, they ran back into the forest, trying to get away from the house. Because It had already eaten. And now it could go back to what It was always meant to be. Now, travelers would be relieved to find the old lodge standing in the middle of the clearing because both, the pilgrims and the house, would find what they needed.

They would find shelter. It would find a feast.[image error]

Season 3, The Candy House was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo found on Pinterest

All stories are as good as their villain.
Ruthlessness and brutality will always be crowd favorites. Arrogance is overused, selfishness is a given, yet psychopathic tendencies are often misrepresented. Manipulation is complicated to get right, and patience can generate a passive development. Religious and racial profiling are such endearing concepts for vile and nefarious characters, yet due to our human history, we writers avoid those sensitive topics since they tend to hit a little too close to home. However, in the end, villainous core traits are composed of three strong drivers: ambition, notoriety, and misguided morality.

I remember reading a YouTube comment a while back, which for most might’ve been just another random user criticizing for no apparent reason other than to spread hate. Yet, for me, it established a before and after of how I looked at characters in general.

Stop giving tragic backstories and redeeming arcs to all the villains. Why can’t evil stay evil? Not all of them need to be justified.

It will always amaze me how our generation fuels the need to eradicate all traces of sinful and wicked acts by telling themselves that every monster can be proven human if you look deep enough into their past. I see all those unbelievers walk between blood and sadism with their eyes closed, claiming the world is fine. Because if we can’t see it, then it doesn’t affect us — if we don’t see it, if we are oblivious to all of those scary things that surround us, we won’t suffer them.

Oh, how would Ben Linus, Joffrey, Moriarty, Azula, The Master, J.K. Simmon, and Hannibal eat all of them before the daily forecast.

However, I’ve discovered that not all heartfelt aspirations are off-base.
We all have the capacity to break and be broken. Isn’t that how God wanted us in the first place? With the greatness of plotting the cruelest deeds, the determination to overcome the strongest obstacles, and the aspiration to achieve unbelievable victories. After all, darkness must always be defeated — in the end, all great stories are nothing more than pure derivatives of the clash between heaven and hell, angels and demons, good vs evil. What is more opposite of ambition, notoriety, and misguided morality than selfishness, humility, and integrity?

Readers and Crunchyroll viewers often complain about the outcome of those great stories, where a perfectly crafted villain is defeated by some weird, shy, unknown student who is not old enough to order alcohol. And I often thought that it was to grant those unique, geeky introverts, who feel that they don’t fit in anywhere, a chance to dream of greatness. Yet, it is not until you reach a critical moment in your life: a battle against depression, money shortage, public humiliation, uncurable sickness, and so on, that you find true strength to go on. And that strength is not found inside of you but in the people around you. That willingness to rise once more, and keep placing one foot in front of the other, is not born by itself. It is nurtured by those who care about us.

And so, just as evil must be alone, good must be accompanied.
In the end, I guess the joke is on me since suffering and foulness can be defeated by the Power of Friendship.

Picture found on Pinterest“I have found that it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folks that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”

— John Ronald Reuel Tolkien.

[image error]

P.O.F. was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo by Denis Trushtin

Don’t you get the sense that you would be a coward?

“These new generations,” Our parents say, looking at the rise in demand for psychologists, spiritual guides, and social media managers. They see us as weak — a bunch of fragile and unreliable adolescents who never knew how to grow up. The same words (a couple more) that millennials use to describe those in the advanced stages of delusions of greatness, or as they would call themselves: delulu. Hell, can you even picture your grandparents using that slang, and so many others, in the middle of WWII?

In a world where depression and anxiety are more common than owning a house, we are willing to spend millions in the hope that our favorite character returns to the MCU. In a world where feeling burned out at the age of 25 is a lifestyle, we are willing to spend three hours scrolling through videos of random strangers doing debatable social-accepted pranks. In a world where being ghosted after a first date can start a worldwide social movement, we are willing to block all those accounts who dare to spoil us the HOTD ending.

I can’t go on.
You said my head’s too heavy.
I need that song.
Those trusty chords could pull me through.

I still remember the smell of powder in the afternoon. All those guns loaded and reloaded, not doubting their tribute to the memories of great deeds. Scarring and embroidered badges as a legacy while all I have to brag about is the amount of likes my latest Instagram post just got. There’s an embedded force that makes you think about life when it is faced with the harshness of death. We forced ourselves upon this world, but they had the world forced upon them. They did, so we had the privilege of choosing whether we wanted to do or not. The game is rigged I am afraid, and the masses need to win the first few rounds before the few can collect all their profits.

Not surprisingly at all, yes, I would disappoint Godric, for I believe a void rests upon that inside of me that calls for strength, endurance, and bravery. I often look at my forearms and recall that I am a survivor of Modern Times, but not of Harsh Times. Truth is a fickle little b*tch, ain’t it? The only thing that seems to enjoy hiding itself among lies and noise. And, for the low price of a month's worth of meals in third-world countries, we can afford some good earphones that keep that sucker out of our heads and away from our conscience. Inexactitude and propaganda is a well-studied art, and nowadays, anything is a masterpiece if it's masked under the hashtag “social & political criticism”.

The meteor is well under way. We simply have chosen not to deal with it.
We are still stuck in step one: Denail.

Yes, we are the weak generation.
And sadly, we do have some hard times ahead of us.
The world didn’t fail us, because we failed it. Science is accelerating our growth, but socially, we are stuck in the Modern Age. Which, has already happened, only it was called The Middle Ages back then. Kind reader, do you recall what happened during that time? Spoiler: you will not like it.

Turns out, our predecessors may have a point. Whether we like it or not, we are the weak generation.

But, hey, as long as we’re getting the right Superman cast, who cares, right?

[image error]

And Early On was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

https://medium.com/media/14702eee9045054bfe92e75742efda95/href

They promised us heavy rain,
Instead, we got this light drizzle for five consecutive days. Not strong enough to carry the smell of wet soil into my bedroom, or to wake the craving for hot chocolate on the afternoons. Gray enough to lower the decibels, but not so colorless to demand working lightbulbs. A growing precaution that you shouldn’t abandon your bed, but a fierce betrayal that you are wasting precious time. You know, the type of rain where you don’t know how fast you should set your windshield wipers.

Photo by Alice Castro

The soft wind carries a comfortable nostalgia, cold to the skin and warm to the heart. We are taught how to survive all the clattering and racketeering that await us on the other side of the looking glass, but not how to endure causeless sorrow. Sometimes it all seems pointless — sometimes we are not the main character. The book club has forgotten to mention our involvement in the story, in our own story.

Okay,
You think I matter less than politics.

They promised us heavy rain,
Instead, we get to hear the gentle sounds of the droplets against the glass. So, rest your head against the window seal and stare at the cage that you have build for yourself. Don’t you feel joy at feeding all those wild fantasies that remain trapped inside your past? You can almost see the mirages of your alternate lives walking and dancing underneath the mizzle. None better than the other, none worse than reality. But if you could choose one thing for all of them to share, what would you choose? Would it be your own smile, or someone else's?

I’m afraid that is all I have for myself today: the irony of feeling homesick from being locked inside your home. Yet, I bet no one will question my lack of talent if I decide to hum alongside the strumming rainfall. After all, these days are made for playing that one song on repeat.

The feeling’s gone
It’s all your fault I’m moving on.

They promised us heavy rain,
Instead, we stopped our lives for a senseless voyage to the hidden corners of our minds. Deep emotions seem to be hibernate when caught between hot, cloudless days and violent thunderstorms. These are the days that remind us of all the secrets we hold, and the pointless battles we have fought. The afterglow doesn’t seem so enticing from this distance. We did our best, and whether we like to admit or not, it was more than enough. And the hard truth? They did as well.

Hey…
You said it wouldn’t make a difference whether we can be together or not.

They promised us heavy rain,
Instead, we got a “What If” novel.
Instead, you got to escape the madness for a couple of hours.
Instead, I got to write once more.

[image error]

I Heard This Song… was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Imagen obtained in wallpaper website.

There's a myth among gamers.
It is said that Death was nothing but an old friend of those who roamed endlessly between the borders of the Rift. Born out of solitude, and forged in realms constructed by sin, the day came when the weight of his obligation couldn’t be withstood by himself alone. So, he took a mangler of past crimes and mirrored his own existence with such resolution, that two different beings emerged from the affair: a lullaby, in the shape of a lamb, made for those who wish to part from this life as equals, and a distortion, resembling a wolf, that would forever haunt those who does not willingly go.

Might seem a bit too farfetched to believe such an illustrative idea of the way we will meet our end, but once you see the silhouette of Death waiting for you on the other side of the road, you either take a step forward, or unsheathe both swords. Some say that you see your life flash between your eyes, almost as if your brain is desperately trying to find a memory that will root you to this existence. Sadly, I wouldn’t know, since I have a nasty habit of selling all my good memories, so I can replace them with guilt and sorrow. But I still remember the orchestra, taking over my thoughts and muting all other voices, almost daring me to acknowledge a peaceful demise.

The Lamb and The Wolf.
The only fairy tale that makes sense — the only one worth believing.

Those days are long gone, but the symphony never goes away, not ever since that instant. And on those quiet nights, I can hear the tempo increasing, the violins down-bowing their staccatos, and the thrill of the hunt being called upon. I know that those aspirations promising a peaceful and quiet passing are long gone — the silhouette doesn’t frequent my dreams anymore. For now, I see it in the shadows, forever chasing and growling at me. I hear it drawing near, breathing on my back, and craving a small taste of what is close to happen.

The hunt has started.

However, old friend, you better be prepared this time, because I am not going down so easily. I will squeeze every second of time I have left in this borrowed skin. I will endure the pain that comes with age and past decisions. I will push my body further way past the finish line and into the victory lap. I will tear every bit of my sanity and lay hate upon those who wish to take me, for I am not fading away. This time, I am not taking the easy path.

I’m sorry. I truly am. But you had your chance to reclaim my fate voluntarily, twice if I recall correctly. Yet, third time is the charm, and I hope you sharpen your teeth and your claws, because you will find it difficult to reclaim my soul.

From now on, you better put one hell of a show, because I’ll be waiting for you, dear Wolf. Always.

Image from Wallpaper Access[image error]

Always, Dear Wolf was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

How am I loosing you? ♫

The shuffle setting never seems to agree with me.
I keep trying to listen to all those new songs the cool kids are talking about — you know, the ones that do have an active twitter account — , but this bloody app seems to know where I belong. I think fondly of the age where you would scroll through a thousand songs, and feel like there's nothing worth playing. Now, all the hot releases and all those grammy nominations, can't get me to stop listening to the same 30 fucking songs. Oh, how the summers have gone by — the irony of feeling an old man when you hit your thirties.

Crazy about Elvis ♫

But I feel like all we do is share music…
So for once, I will let the playlist do its thing and tell you some of the few things I've discovered over the past few months. For our time is short, and my memory isn't what it once was. You'll soon learn there's nothing like a good breakup to really snap all those braincells out of place. Am I right, Cornerstone — Arctic Monkeys?

Tell me, have I ever told you about the biggest addiction of my life? It’s not drugs, or porn, and believe or not, I've always sucked at sex. And no, gorgeous, it’s not even alcohol. Sadly, my biggest addiction is sadness.

But I can put my arms around you ♫

Opening Scene from Stuck In LoveOpening Scene from Stuck In Love

I remember that it hurt. Looking at her, hurt.

Those 9 words make the opening lines of my favorite movie.
Every now and then, whenever I feel like picking myself up from the bottom of the well, I stay up late at night, and watch this simple one-hour-and-half movie. I noticed that my addiction compels me to see it, at least, three times a year. Pathetic, isn't it? But hey! We all have our kryptonite — our hapless fantasy. For some, it is The Notebook, others enjoy Bridget Jones Diary, and I remember you crying over P.S. I Love You on those gray days. But I think you will be pleased to see that I've moved on from my One Day phase into something a bit more hopeful. And, as Bill says in the movie, “Younger and dumber model.”

Long journeys wear me out ♫

Damn me, I really miss my AirPods.
Hey, did I ever tell you that I managed to learn that song you always wanted me to play? I wasn’t able to sing along to it, but I hope it makes us even for turning it off on the night we were playing cards at your friend’s house. I often go back to that moment, and feel ashamed of how much of a poser I used to be. But back then I was in the business of impressing people. Now, I’m on the path of meeting impressing people. Who would’ve thought?

Easy come, hard go, then…♫

Wait, if you didn’t know about that, then I never told you that I’ve found the concert we watched together on the living room of my house! Yes, the whole thing is on YouTube. Can you believe it?! I still recall you smiling foolishly as you watched me sing to all those acoustic songs while I was wearing a shirt two sizes too small for me. Would you believe me if I say I still have footage of you dancing over those beige cushions? Is uncanny the details we remember when the months start to go by without a word in between.

Like a tattoo on my waistline ♫

You know, there’s something I never told you. It may seem dumb now, but back in January, I was determined never to come back. I know it sounds harsh, but back then I was a badly hurt, and I turned into a version of myself that could pull me through the chaos. But, going to your house that night, is still one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my entire life. Things didn’t quite ended the way I thought they would, but I am happy I still have stories to tell you. And who knows, maybe one day we will celebrate Halloween on Christmas.

My T-Shirts always fit you just right ♫

My anxiety has gotten worse, you know?
I know you never believed me, so I’ve chosen not to bother you with it. However, I spend most of my days relieving my past mistakes. I recall most of our former conversations and realize I wasn’t very good at sympathy back then. Shit, you would laugh at the thought of how often I just burst into tears now. I guess being harsh at you was the only defense mechanism I knew to avoid showing how fragile I really am. But I’ve come to learn that we don’t do apologies, apparently. So, let’s hope time finds a way to cross our paths once more.

Don’t get me right, don’t get me wrong ♫

Yes, you heard it right.
I have replaced my traditional habits for meditation, afternoon tea, and Turkish novels. Go ahead and laugh, we both know I’ve wasted my money in worse things than romance and late night snacks. Turns out, we were both wrong about the endings, but one of us has gotta try and keep all those promises intact, right? I know I still have a long way to go, but history seems to have more meaning when your happiness is at stake. So, I still believe in what I told you several months ago. You’ll see — we both know my sixth sense is much better than yours.

Won’t stop until the angels sing ♫

I know you don’t understand. I barely do.
Nights like this, they turn my mind into a void of nostalgia and paranoia. For once, I don’t have explanations or excuses for my behavior, shit I’ve utilized all of them before, so I hardly have any left. Although, it is satisfying to admit I have no use for them anymore. Life is getting simpler, and while my fears are crawling closer, I am learning to live weightless.

I hope someday you can believe such sentence. Miracles do happen, my sister tells me. But for now, I will keep you company in silence. Because you may not dare say the right words, but I know how your tone works.

Didn’t flinch, and the lights didn’t flicker ♫

I guess that’s something to think about, huh?

[image error]

Pillow Talk was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Un poco de Soundtrack

Hoy es uno de esos días.
Uno de esos días donde todo está mal sin estarlo.

El cielo se viste de colores rosados, el dolor de cabeza ha disminuido, los boletos han sido comprados, la gasolina ha bajado de precio, y hasta las conversaciones poseen mayor fluidez. Oh, la ironía de buscar la tristeza en un día ridículamente perfecto. Debe ser frustrante saber que la realidad nunca podrá superar la fantasía de los artistas — y por más que el presente lo intente, el futuro oprime y el pasado asfixia. Crecer es entender que el luto no se encuentra en el saco y la corbata, pero en la ausencia de la melodía que nos puede traer una sonrisa.

Pausar, repetir, reproducir.

Detesto los días como hoy.
Días donde tengo que explicar el porqué me siento tan triste sin ninguna razón. Momentos donde tengo que alegrar el ambiente porque me aterra el silencio profundo que produce la paz ajena. Instantes donde debo recordarme que debo respirar entre cada suspiro, porque todavía queda mucho camino que recorrer. Fechas donde debo buscar desesperadamente la canción adecuada que me haga sentir como un ganador, cuando me encuentro en una racha de derrotas. ¿Dónde esta la magia de la página 55 cuando se necesita?

Pausar, repetir, reproducir.

Hay un pensamiento que constantemente corroe mi poca juventud: ¿Qué pensarán las personas cuando ven que escucho la misma canción durante dos horas seguidas?…Cada día, ese pensamiento pesa un poco más, y a medida crece, se convierte en una obsesión insoportable, que parece no tener fin — algo similar como ver tu nombre en la llamada entrante. Pero ambos sabemos que sólo soy una excusa para sanar tus heridas y limpiar tus lágrimas, porque el guionista no es quien sale al final a recibir los aplausos. A estas alturas, he perdido la gracia de poder explicar y me limito a asentir los comentarios ajenos. Curiosamente, uno pensaría que eso traería armonía, pero no hay caos más grande que aquel que se esconde en las apariencias.

Pausar, repetir, reproducir.

Que dia más detestable.
Solo veo el reloj, esperando que esta tortura acabe, para poder recorrer las calles que me llevan lejos de mi hogar. Después de todo, la gasolina está barata, y algunas carreteras poseen más recuerdos que asfalto. Y quien sabe, tal vez un día, entre truenos y gritos, nos encontremos bailando descalzos debajo de la lluvia, en un día gris, lleno de tráfico, donde no hay nada que ver en la televisión, y no tengamos dinero para acompañar la cena con un vino. Ya sabes, como en los días donde suelo encontrar mi felicidad.

[image error]

La Playlist was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo by Mo EidPrólogo

“Tengo miedo,” Afirmó.
“Perfecto,” Suspiró. “A mi también me aterra.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Introducción

“No me gusta el café” Reveló.
“¿Y el de tus ojos?” Coqueteó.
“Tampoco me gusta lo cliché,” Frunció.
“Que suerte la mía,” Asintió. “Que yo lo vuelva poesía.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Juventud

“¿Lo hacemos juntos?” Dudó.
“O no lo hacemos en absoluto” Juró.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Desenlace

“No me gusta el sabor del vino,” Protestó.
“Es un gusto adquirido,” Clamó.
“¿Como tú?” Bromeó.
“Y míranos ahora,” Rió.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Madurez

“Ahí me duele,” Confesó.
“Pues ahí te amo más,” Prometió.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Climax

“¿En este momento, me quieres?,” Enrojeció.
“Te quiero en cada instante,” Estremeció.
“Antes no me mirabas,” Sollozó. “Antes no era suficiente.”
“Siempre lo hice,” Pausó. “Siempre lo fuiste.”
“¿Qué ha cambiado?” Interrogó.
“La diferencia es que ahora lo escuchas en voz alta,” Explicó.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Giro

“Dime que no es cierto,” Enfureció.
“¿Acaso cambiaría algo?” Rechinó.
“¡¿Por qué me has hecho esto?!” Gritó.
“Porque tú nos fallaste primero,” Exclamó.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Crisis

“Yo cumplí todas mis promesas,” Habló.
“Yo me quede a tú lado,” Exhibió.
“Yo di todo por ti,” Contrarrestó.
“ Yo deje ir todo por ti,” Enfrentó.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Final

“No te vayas,” Rogó. “Encontraremos la forma.”
“Se que sí,” Exhaló. “Por eso mismo debo irme.”
“No sé como perderte,” Suplicó.
“Y yo no sé como quedarme,” Denotó.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Conclusión

“No te quiero olvidar,” Lloró.
“Yo recordaré por ambos,” Aseguró.
“¿Y si me pierdo en el camino a casa?” Tembló.
“Me encontrarás donde solíamos escondernos,” Sonrió.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Epílogo

“¿Nos veremos allá donde viven las estrellas?” Preguntó.
“¿Alguna vez fue diferente?” Respondió.

[image error]

Ariel was originally published in Sex Songs and Gasoline on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.