Archive for the ‘Chimems (Toy Fiction)’ Category

The Spider Coins

October 19th, 2011 by Sharkchild

The spider coins were laying there upon the moistened soil. I knew they were the true compensation of my underpaid, strenuous toil. They glistened and gleamed with the shine of moonbeams and held a crystal valor. They sung a tuneless song to eyes that met the mind in uncontrollable clamor.

My luck had finally come, I thought to myself with a grin, so I scooped up the coins and soil and celebrated with aged and delightful gin. I placed the coins upon my mantel and watched and watched for their work to persist, and soon the coins did give way to wander and began to multiply in rhapsody and thunder. Before not long, my home was full to the brim with wealth, but with so many coins, I had nowhere to go; I was stuck in the prize of the legions of my dreams and not even a nearby animal could hear the horror of my screams.

I was desperate and scared when the Coin Collector came. He slithered through the coins like the slither of flames. He slithered to my prison and stripped me of my name; he left me without worries for my mind he did forever maim.

That Mouth Inside

April 21st, 2011 by Sharkchild

I kept digging and digging and digging at the wound. The pain of its secretions caused my temples to pound. I had to see what was there beneath the skin; I had to know the color of that darkness within. It was hard at first, to dig in myself, but as I got deeper, I cared less for myself. The closer I got—the more I could feel it in my bones—so I continued to dig and chiseled into my bone. The flaking of my frame was like the sweat of my toil and the sweat on my skin was like the release of my inner coil. Blood kept blocking me from the task at hand, so I kept taking drinks to clear off the body’s land.

When I reached my internal darkness, I was filled with ecstasy. What there was before my eyes was truly incredible to see. I was not such a firm believer of fantasy and ghosts; I had always been a promoter of the holier, scientific hosts. But what I saw was this, and it comes not from fairytale: within my bone was a mouth speaking in reverse. It said, “Crime death’s to yourself give and yourself eat to time,” which correctly heard would be: “Time to eat yourself and give yourself to death’s crime.” So I began to feed myself to the mouth within myself. I ate and ate away, so in my own mouth I died and stayed. It seems everything is controlled by That Mouth Inside; whatever is done in life, within it death resides.

The Dreadful Division

December 6th, 2010 by Sharkchild

I saw my love across the way; she was so close, but I could not hold her or touch her face. There was a river between us, raging with monstrous force. It was a small, but Dreadful Division. My voice cracked as I screamed to her and screamed to her and screamed to her; it was all I could do: scream her name, scream our love, scream against the separation and the pain. She screamed back, but it was hard to make out her words.

There was no one near to help and the river raged for miles. Our minds were turning frantic and logic began to stray. There was desperation between us—anxiousness and impatience. All we wanted was the fulfillment of our feelings: touch—to fulfill love’s reality, to prove its existence. We could not stand the disconnection, this Dreadful Division of love.

We decided to jump together and ride the river until we could meet, but it was not a well-thought out plan for such a dangerous feat. A waterfall awaited, high and mighty the fall, with its base as a village of rocks that stood sharply tall. We did not have the chance to hold each other or call the other’s name. We saw panic in one another’s eyes, but even the sight of each other in turbulent waters we could not accurately aim. To die together would not have been a full loss, but I lived on while my love got buried beneath a cross.

Handed to the Frost

November 30th, 2010 by Sharkchild

I was once quite warm wrapped in blankets and scarves. I had a beanie on my head and mittens on my hands. There was even a fire in my thoughts of coziness and home—a place where I dwelled, comfortable even amongst the most torrential of storms. The Frost could not catch me no matter how hard it tried; I was just too well bundled, soft, and dry. I would laugh at the Frost because laughing was warmth and if something was warmth, then it was for me to perform.

But one day I awoke to nakedness unknown; some thief while I slept had come stolen things sewn. I had lost my blankets, scarves, mittens, and beanie. There was nothing on me but the grip of my enemy. That Frost held me and caressed me and toyed with my flesh. I could not escape it, not even with what I thought was warm breath. I had never felt such discomfort in all of my life. I thought surely that I would die, but the Frost upon me knew more than I. I kept on living and living and living in cold. Another day would end while a new one began.

That place in my thoughts once filled with flames was now a cemetery, stone frozen and cracked. While inward I died, outward I lived. I rasped with a cough because that is the sound that Frost made me make. I just stood without reason; I stood in the cold. In the cold I grew old, and the more old, the more cold.

The Wriggle from Within

February 17th, 2010 by Sharkchild

The Wriggle from Within came quite suddenly in my mind. It poked through thoughts and memories and dreams with curious longings and ambivalent probing. I felt it there as pressure in my head—a headache but worse—a migraine, but still worse. I liked it, that wriggle from within that came quite suddenly in my mind. I liked it not because it was there or that it was not; I just liked knowing that it was what it was.

As fast as the Wriggle from Within would come, it would leave. I had no control over its whereabouts, or comings, or goings. I knew little about it other than that it wriggled from within. When it came, I wished it would leave. And when it was gone, I wished it would come.

It toyed with me—that thing that wriggled, that thing from within. It was what I wanted and hated, and what I loved and loathed. Oh, how I wished to tear at my head, to rip it in two and find inside what might have been mine or might have been lost in membranes of time.

On my deathbed I sang to the blue of the sky and the brown of the earth to hold inside my death the Wriggle from Within. But Death told me sternly that I could not bring with me such a nuisance of discord. It would move on, Death said, to new lands and new things. I defied those words and held on tight, but when the light came to take me, I could not go. So I stayed with the Wriggle from Within long into the deep, dark night.