Writing-Rampage

ΖΩΗ ΑΝΕΥ….   Τα παιδικά του χρόνια είχαν χρώμα καφέ, όλες τις αποχρώσεις του καφέ. Απ' το χρυσοκάστανο χώμα της αλάνας που έπαιζε μέχρι να σκοτεινιάσει, ως το μαύρο χώμα κάτω από τις πευκοβελόνες που ξάπλωνε και παρακολουθούσε τη κρυφή ζωή των μυρμηγκιών. Λάσπη το χειμώνα, ξερή σκόνη το καλοκαίρι στα δαιδαλώδη δρομάκια που τριγυρνούσε. Σειρά τα χαμηλά σπίτια με τους μικρούς τους κήπους να μοσκοβολάνε. Η Τούμπα που γεννήθηκε ένα κρύο πρωινό του Μάρτη λίγο πριν η Χούντα στρογγυλοκαθίσει στον κλεμμένο θρόνο. Ανεξάντλητη χαρά το ποδόσφαιρο κι ο πετροπόλεμος, τα ματωμένα γόνατα και τα σκισμένα κεφάλια η καθημερινότητά του. Ο πατέρας βάρδιες στο εργοστάσιο, η μητέρα κέρβερος στο σπίτι, οι ρόλοι ξεκάθαροι και καθορισμένοι. Γεμάτη κανόνες η ζωή του και το "βλέπε, άκου, σώπα" ο σημαντικότερος. Τώρα τελευταία, πολύ συχνά το μυαλό του δραπέτευε στα χρόνια αυτά και περιπλανιόταν στην παλιά γειτονιά. Καθισμένος μπροστά στο τζάμι ολημερίς, ανέγγιχτος από το παρόν, ατένιζε το παρελθόν και όλους τους

Issue 1My name is Randal Ethan Parker, better known to my cohorts as "Clod". I was born long ago into a world of fire and ash, nuclear winters and uncertain futures. America had been overthrown and given way to warring states that fought over land, cattle, women, and water like ignorant school children. The Bronx however, was different. It was a paradise of rebellion and brotherly love. I dream of those days with all my being, unaware that festering beneath this oasis in the miasma of decay were people with alliances to those who would defile such a flower of goodness and hope. When they came, we were ready, or so we thought. Armed with nothing more than ramshackle weapons and an undying fire in our hearts to salvage what we could, we fought back. Needless to say, our efforts were in vain. My friends and I did not survive their onslaught and pillaging. We had died for what we believed in and our bodies were hung in the streets as an example of the foolish notion that peace and love can

In Paper carries the tint or ink of the writing, that can be a mildly rational way for communicating: Before that the code fades away and carry no measure until the power to share exists. This is co completely fundamental. Writing is a record. So how do we choose what to preserve? Really basic but worth remunerating; As much as possible. Exit fornication for now. Every flaw may unravel 1000’s of years, but in a very short time be completely unique. Completely identified by new words. Spelling, pronunciation, meaning...

The man felt the familiar motion of swimming; his aching mind swam uselessly through the blackness stretching eternally, feeling something cold and wet pressing against his skin, faintly hearing water rushing and receding. Then his eyes flickered open; everything was a blur at first as his eyes began to focus. Shaking his head to clear his head, he found himself on the shore of a white sandy beach. He'd looked up, seeing a multitude of blue, silver stars shining the light in the blackened sky, yet this wasn't what caught his attention, for what caught his eye was a moon brighter than any of the stars, if they were indeed stars in this strange realm, but the noticeable detail about this moon was the lidless, pale white eye, mapped across the surface of the moon, staring down on the sandy beach, whether real or painted; it unnerved him. But the sound of a droplet on water shook him back to "reality." The sound echoed from a small cave just a few feet in front of him; slowly, he got to

Amidst the ice, a fire stands,It reaches out with molten hands.We move as one, a fleeting flame, Through frozen air, the spirit lands—A soul and shadow, one and same.