Friend-of-the-turtle

Prometheus, The Betrayer, The Savior... Eyes squinting against the black. Torso torn, and wet. Jagged rocks raking his back like a thousand biting snakes, snapping at the scarred flesh. Hair falling in wavy locks, the pain driving him too far. The eagle would return in the morning, ready with a fresh bout of torture, it's beak sharpened. Ready to tear out his liver, over and over again. Eternity awaits. He cries into the night, a restrained animal howling at his captors, tugging at the irremovable bonds. Claustrophobia, even in the open air, he is suffocated. The God's thought themselves above mortality, above the pains and tribulations o

The factory-like office reeked with the fetor of hot metal and gun powder. Cogs turned, spilling heaps of miniscule rocks and diamonds- most of which worthless- into large rotating sieves with tiny holes, separating the useful from the unusable. A small coal burning fire whimpered in its black cage.  In the corner furthest from the commotion of the primitive machinery, sat an old man. Pursed lips, brow furrowed in concentration, he scribbled intricate drawings onto his paper, occasionally drawing arrows, and an explanation of the design. Behind him, mahogany book shelves reached up to the ceiling, leaning dangerously from the wall under the w

Maybe the reason that we rarely get the time to truly contemplate the world, is that, subconsciously, we know that if we ever really thought, we would discover so many problems... so many problems with humanity, with the way we live... too many problems for one person to handle. Maybe that's why it takes us so long to realise such simple things, because we're so afraid of what might happen once we've opened the gates, and let everything flow and twist and bubble. I opened the gates. I want my ignorance back. These thoughts... they plague my dreams... my mind... my existence. I'm no longer the person I was. I can't go out with my friends for

When I was younger, my father grew tulips. He'd tell me they were like docking ships, and one day the gates would open, and all the seeds would fly out like little balloons. This is how insects move home, he said, they climb inside these little pods, and then they catch the wind, and fly all the way out, as far as they can. Some only go as far as another field, but a few go right out, for miles, before settling. It's important not to open them before their time though. The tulips died that winter, and it made me sad. But he told me it was their time to go. Everything had a time, and only it knew when that was. Thinking about what he said th

Life is a pointless charade of choices and indiscretions and feelings. I don't want to play anymore. We're stars. Big, beautiful stars, with stone hearts.  Burning. Full of "meaning". Huge solitary masses in the sky. All with our own place. But would it really matter if we weren't there? None of us matter. Not even those bright stars. Not even our brilliant Sun, keeping us alive. None of it matters. The Earth could eat us up right now, and it wouldn't mean a damn thing to the Universe. It wouldn't matter if I jumped. It wouldn't even be a jump. Just a step. So little effort to carry out an ill discussed deed. Then I would be gone. Erased fr