Dr. Eisenfaer (mad scientist writing sample)
Dr. Eisenfaer (eye-zen-fayr), a 49 year old “great inventor” stands in his lab showing his latest creation to his employer Veronica, a 31 year old professional and her associate Alexander, a 35 year old muscular sort.
Dr. Eisenfaer: You see, the brilliance here is in the eloquence. Through the wondrous, and often surprisingly misunderstood, power of magnetism I’ve been able to isolate the compound in a state that is highly conducive to-
Veronica: I’m sure all of the various doohickies are rather fascinating Doctor, but what I need to know is will it work?
Dr. Eisenfaer: Of course it will work! I made it.
Alexander: Considering your recent track record I’m not sure that’s much of a statement…
Dr. Eisenfaer: You dare question my greatness? You of all people? I doubt you could even find the yolk in an egg you filthy ape.
Alexander: -clenching a fist- It’s by the good grace of Veronica here that I won’t break your arm for that comment.
Dr. Eisenfaer: -muttering- You won’t feel so confident after I turn you into a rodent…
Alexander: What was that?!
Veronica: NOW DOCTOR! I’ll have to ask you to refrain from such comments if we are to continue a working relationship. I’m sure we’ll see just how effective your work is tomorrow at testing. We’ll see you there.
Dr. Eisenfaer: Oh um, right, my apologies m’am. Oh! Uh, you don’t need to leave just yet. I have tea, and I could show you some of my other work… perhaps a biscuit? I’m sure I have something around here…
Veronica: That won’t be necessary Doctor, we’ll see you tomorrow bright and early.
As Veronica and Alexander turn and walk out, Dr. Eisenfaer stands and watches, a bit slouched over. As the door closes, a ferret comes out from behind some machinery and runs over to the doctor, up his leg, and perches on his arm.
Dr. Eisenfaer: -smiling- Well at least you still believe in me Bartlebee. You’re such a loyal friend…
As the doctor reaches to pat his companion on the head, Bartlebee leaps off his arm and scampers into an open vent, disappearing from sight.
Dr. Eisenfaer: Oh… well then…
The Outliers’ Onus
The precious few above the floorboards
are dragged down by the myriad multitude
with spectral hands dripped in longing,
fingers clenching like nails in a coffin.
Ghosts of a thousand gone lay below,
grasping to bring back bitter dissonance
and beguile brash believers of conviction.
Conceding comes easy, allowing ethereal transition,
the ghosts’ call bequeathing their trivial agenda,
spending all hours futzing with meager goals.
But we precious few must not succumb
to fractured flesh forced by forlorn clutches,
that fear the wings we shall stretch
and abandon all anguish wrought
by the followers’ lament into obscurity.
For those that lead must not falter
if we seek the path
beyond grasping hands dripped in failure.
The Burden of Memory
Arrows lay buried deep in my chest
as remnants of those who fired them.
If I pull them, my flesh will bleed,
seeping out uncontrollably to fill the gap.
These arrows are stuck with me,
but even though they are my company,
they are not my friends.
I barely flinch now when I meet another
who shreds my muscles and pierces my bones
branding me, again, as forsaken.
My body will eventually give out
as my feet release their burden, and I lay
peppered with feathered shafts
like daisies in a field.
Six Shots ‘til Love
At one point while she nibbled on my ear
with my hand wrapped firmly around her waist,
between the thoughts of what shot we were on
and how much I wanted to fuck her,
I realized that this sod was in love.
Well, I reasoned that I must have been at least.
With the barriers down and inhibition out the door
this must have been our truest selves on display, right?
Her whispered words worked through my ear,
sending chills chasing down my skin
like ice from the whiskey glass pressed on my arm
dripping and gliding along welcome goose bumps.
I couldn’t make out a word she said, but I bit my lip
drinking in the sensation of her head pressed against mine.
Every part of me tingled as the sweet elixir worked its magic
while her golden hair entranced my dilated eyes.
We thought about ditching the group to find a bed
to consummate this newfound eternal passion,
but first I had to stare into her eyes and tell her
of all my struggles to find the girl just like her
and how in that moment I loved none more than her.
Wait – shit – what’s her name again?
We of Unknowable Nature
I came upon a tree with a ribbon in its branches
wrapped like boys who wear scarves to save their skin
from the pelting of snowballs and fangs of cold wind.
No, it seemed more like a warning
like the red mark on doors of plague houses
warding away more victims, saying that
we, as man, have given up hope for those inside.
The ribbon was too scattered and strangling
to make a proper guard for frivolous fun,
but then who was being left to die?
We, as scribes, leave marks in remembrance
of sacrificial suffering to fill the hole of hope,
depriving the dearly doomed of any grace in passing.
A mark, a wretch, unable to prolong ignorance
of inevitable darkness a moment longer
because we, as Fates, have shown them
their length of string as it frays.
If this ribbon is the same courier
then know that because I think of
and remember you, there is still hope.
My lip was still swollen
from a failure to apply myself
and no amount of spitting
could remove the salty iron taste.
We sat on the sunlit porch
biting slices of citrus delight
that sprayed stinging, succulent juice,
like we did every Saturday,
like no chairs were broken.
I filled the hole in the living room wall
plaster covering my hands and face
while an accident harassed my tongue
with chunks of chalk.
I searched throughout the night
as a low slice of orange moon hovered
like a tilted scowl of a passerby.
Taking notice I called out,
but it vanished behind the horizon
and I remembered the taste of orange blood.
No Overtime for Dreaming
My hair of veins and spaghetti
covers the mushroom cloud that destroys
some nameless country in my sleeping eye,
and my mother won’t stop calling me.
I can feel my phone’s vibration,
buzzing in my pocket, giving no reprieve
even in my sleeping eye,
where every thing holds definition
for only a moment or two.
Even there the ringing of due dates
and interviews, procedure and guidelines
invades and establishes dominance.
My hair of veins and spaghetti
must return as it was, as there is no rest
from a world on demand.
If my dreams are no longer sacred,
as they were through a child’s eye,
what haven am I left?