Kern Carter's Blog, page 43
April 30, 2022
April 29, 2022
The Nightmare in the Woods
Photo courtesy of Davis Beck and UnsplashThe silence is ominous and oppressive; a heavyweight pressing down upon me.
That, along with fog so heavy it lays like a blanket, eclipsing everything from a sight ten feet and beyond, seems sinister, and sentient, threatening to swallow me whole.
This familiar patch of woods seems almost alien to me like I have strayed from the course I know like the back of my hand onto unknown terrain.
Due to the encroaching fog, the sound is distorted and the occasional scamper of some animal scurrying might be right beside me or just at the edge of my ability to hear.
Traffic coming from the street beyond the woods might be ten feet or ten miles away.
My imagination, overactive and quirky at the best of times is now running rampant, the part of my brain where survival is pure instinct is screaming at the rational half to go. Now. Right now.
Fear that my mind is creating and feeding have me both frozen in place and on the verge of running screaming to the safety of the highway less than half a mile away, my racing galloping heart the only part of me racing anywhere.
The skeletal trees with their barren limbs added with the fog and the unnatural silence, all come together to recreate a nightmare I once had but had forgotten, instant Deja Vu accompanies the cracking breaking sound made when a heavy foot walks on dry limbs, the sound far away at first but approaching quickly, and in my mind’s eye, I can see what’s coming next.
It is with that thought that I feel the cold touch caress across my neckline, feel the stale fetid breath across my exposed flesh, feel the ill intent emanating from this aberration behind me…nightmare fuel in fleshy human form.
[image error]The Nightmare in the Woods was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
April 28, 2022
Loneliness is a Painting
Loneliness is worth a thousand words it never gets. The pictures of loneliness all line up one after another to speak to me in my coffin. They burn at my edges of reality. They scrape at the paint and fabric holding my seams together.
I put my brush to canvas and begin to paint.
Loneliness is the girl outside in the glum snow with a soggy notebook in her hand, frantically trying to get words onto the page. Thirty minutes and a wandering mind are all she has before the thought of people come back to her. Wrapped in her oversized black jacket, she hangs by the doors to the charring building, scratching a fang as she wipes snowflakes off of her thin pages and scribbles words she’ll never read again.
Loneliness is the girl doing her work around a loud group of friends. The friends bicker and chatter and gossip. The crack of her mouth silences the group to the abyss. Black computers so old they barely run and assignments she doesn’t need to work on right now wrap their arms around her slender torso and keep her company. If only class would end.
Loneliness is the girl waiting for a group of friends to walk home with, only to be denied on the reason of another drama. Her face burns red, an unusual colour on lifeless skin, and she turns around and runs home. In the amber of the sunset, it’s easy to forget the pains others cause because staring off into the backyard is too mesmerizing.
Loneliness is the girl being asked for advice on a birthday she’s not invited to. The cold floors of the lilac-tinted school and the dirty magenta sofas almost whine. She smiles. She hides every inch of poison in the friend’s voice under her tongue. She replies like honey, making sure that she would be there in spirit. Maybe laying in her coffin with headphones blasting made for a better night.
Loneliness is the girl noticing frail glances between friends. The stained floor is glossy now. The glass that the friends rummage upon is a translucent yellow, faded from years of misuse. She knows and she’s tired. It’s high school anyways, everyone’s tired. The glass is slowly removed when she changes the subject and talks about something tiring, something irrelevant, something useless.
Loneliness is the girl watching a group of friends laughing, chatting, and losing their smile when they’re around her. The classroom is small. White paint cracked along concrete walls with black edges smeared with tiny specks of red paints. Slippery orange drawing boards. A stage set in the middle with a model much happier than her. First year was supposed to be better, why does it feel like everyone’s avoiding her? No one should know her. She thinks.
Loneliness is the girl reading her work aloud in class and feeling the shameful cloud called silence. Everyone else stares at black squares. Not a word, not in chat, not in person. She doesn’t belong here and it pains a heart that doesn’t beat, a lung out of place, a hip cracks too many times. She’s actually just an imposter who hides in the shadows and cries until the class is over. The bath is a much better crying place.
I put the finishing touches on the painting. I hate self-portraits but loneliness is easy to paint. I just look in the mirror and it smiles back at me. I embrace her.
— Heleza
[image error]Loneliness is a Painting was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
April 27, 2022
My Flower
“Over my love for you?” No.
When I said I’d go to the moon and back for you, I meant it,
Because love isn’t the late autumn leaf that falls off its branch, trailing in the wind, forgotten.
It’s a flower.
A flower I poison every day, for I must KILL,
Kill what I long for —
Kill what I lust for,
Kill what I need.
I must kill the flower; I must kill the love,
The love I can’t take —
The love not given,
The love, I’ll never know…
And I do it for you.
Photo: Unsplash[image error]My Flower was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
April 25, 2022
Call For Submissions — Your Life Without Writing
I think about this from time to time; what would my life be without writing? What would I do? Who would I be? Writing has helped me express my thoughts in ways I could never do verbally. It’s made me more brave and has turned into a career that has helped me provide for my family.
My writing and my being are forever connected.
But you know how we do at CRY. This is all about you, so tell us what would your life be without writing? What would you be doing? What has writing meant to your life? Your mental health? Your career?
Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]Call For Submissions — Your Life Without Writing was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
April 24, 2022
April 23, 2022
Who Is It? I Am the Courier Of Love
The starting point for this little text was born during a nice return home
