Monsters are drawn so easily in burnt embers and the taste of ruin. And is this what it is to be human? A bag full of nothing but noughts and crosses? Philosophies of ghost-glass searching for that one last game of cyclic snap? Glory chained? Beauty crushed? Alliance written Dickensian in the fear of folding?
And so the golden haired sons became monsters. Not because they were inherently evil, but because they had taken that one first step beyond the threshold of their battered conscience.
Stand silent. Scuff out cohesion in tempests of contrition. Words we have inked, stories we have scraped raw into weeping flesh. Crime told. Guilt carved. Memories drawn in rusted nails and forgotten gallows. Them. Us. Us. Them. Allegories and flags torn down, sunk with the catastrophe of truth. And future fold and future fable entropy in perpetual sandcastles. Stand silent! Stand silent! The behemoths cry. Dress defeat in the colours of ignorance. Roll out the canons. And call victory.
©2017 Jac Forsyth
Perilous Reading 
I can’t draw or paint worth a damn. But if I could paint what you write, I’d be a millionaire.
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Thank you. Could you maybe talk more? Please! The world needs to hear you.
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Haha, mate, you are utterly splendid. The central paragraph is taken from the book I’m editing my way through. I’d forgotten about it until today.
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Ha! Such words you write!
I have a chance to take TPRS out into the community, but it’s easy to get caught in the excitement of that and forget the point of it all. Need some punk stabilisers on this strange bandwagon.
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Truth tearing down flags. I like this.
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Oh, ffs, Jac! This is an excellent bitch slap. ❤
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Thanks, mate. You know you inspire me every time I read your work.
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Haha, thanks babe. We live in strange times, I’m not sure the pen will ever be mightier than embraced ignorance.
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Thank you Jac! That feels good to hear:)
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Smashing piece of writing yet again, Jac! Been thinking a lot about entropy lately for some reason – yay to the perpetual victor on the arrow of time ;-).
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Good old entropy,. I figure Chekhov had it right, only entropy comes easy.
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