Every Writer's Dream Job

A crow visited me again. Fearful though it was, it squawked nevertheless. Obeying the bidding of its master, it came perchance to see my state of affairs. Choice morsels bedazzling its eyes, fear brought it hunger and hunger brought it fear.

Restrained my hand though it was, with calm demeanor I spoke to it. Fire glistening in my eyes. I'd love to see those black come to roast.

But I spoke to it instead.

It squawked.

Wanting, wanting, obeying its master.



No, it's not yet dead. The remnants of the ruins still remain, I said.

Squawk, squawk, it said again. When are you going? So I can have my fill? I badly need my fill, says the vile creature.

I smiled at it and I told it, I would wait for you to go first before me. Perchance another day we'll see, whether he will take you or me.

Squawk, squawk, my fill, my fill, said the vile creature.

With downcast eyes it went, fluttering away. Looking hereabouts, looking thereabouts, looking perhaps to find its loot.

The heavens are dry and the ground unforgiving, soon it would be him or me. In the steel sky the permutations reign. The trade of the master, goes hereabouts and thereabouts. Raise your hands and touch the fragment of a dream, of thoughts of sounds and of pictures.

Of dreams that are afloat in limbo, in a purgatory where freedom is slavery and slavery is freedom.

Thou Shalt Not Think
Armed with a crimson smile the lipstick laden clowns twiddled their fingers, and in their darkness eagerly await. Numbers floating about, of currency, of possibility, of meaningless potentiality. Away with wanton care and of statistical improbabilities.

Escape.

Looking to escape.

I want out.

Off to Neverland. On to a distant land of dreams, cows and accountants. Literature has to be quantified. Profit permutified. Domestic. International.

Wattpad does not pay.

But it will get your name across. Like a tombstone bent sideways. Visitors mumbling, walking, living while you are dead beneath, below and listening.

No, there aren't enough originals. They don't want originals. They want what they want and it would be their doom.

Big butt this.

And a specific crowd from the populace goes wild.

Teen werewolves falling in love with vampires and teenage girls with identity crisis. There. Gold coins fall from the sky as if you clicked them and they fall with twinkling sounds inside your pocket. Click pa more.

No. In the age of distraction, this. This...

This torn and aged page, brown, dusty and musty will be relegated to the cobwebs of Neanderthal non-existence.

The world converges and explodes. Aha, a brilliant moment.

Multidiversity, multiculturalism, no, the Americans want an American sounding or perhaps an exotic name. Something exotically European with a dash of Brazilian. Then throw in an initial or two.

I've lost my rhythm, the beasts are out cutting some trees with their infernal blades yet again. The sounds of mechanized farts will stop my rhythm. Oh yes, how I long for the freelance writer's dream.

Up on a mountain, or on house by the cliff. Away from global warming and the people, yes, the people who cause them.

All in the name of consumerism, money, and this dratted system. And oh yes, indeed, I know that the system fuels this. This...

This page.

This writer's dream job.

Like a wispy cloud jeering for you to grasp and hold on to it.

Nay, I cannot write.

Illegal loggers are logging beyond the walls. Go look on Google maps and see some real estate development....

Image credit Sven, Unleashed