Silas' body shriveled, feeling his bones, his skin, melt off of him. He would love to stay a human, but there's no survival in the Land of the Dead. He was bound to see his demise at one point while walking the diminishing grounds. He was a traveller. A bard, explaining stories to everyone he came across, none of them being true tales. Until he heard about the Grove. The Grove where he could be free, no rules, no one to berate him, no one chasing him. He would be independent...for once.

The creature's quills stabbed deeper into Silas' flesh. The poison, the venom, crawled through his blood stream, crawled through each red blood cell. The creature was tall. Almost 9 foot (only a guess of Silas'). It was the Teladamyr, the protector of the Land of the Dead.

The Teladamyr is a protector made of barely any skin, most of its body being seen as bones. Even though a flesh-like substance surrounds its body, it is thin and has the consistency of paper, causing the protector's bones to be seen very obviously. The Teladamyr's quills are deadly, which causes the person's or creature's skin to slowly melt off until they are nothing but bones. The protector is loud, not caring how quiet it needs to be. It's one of the most powerful protectors, it doesn't have any mercy or care for anything but its area. No one survived him. For your soul to survive, you must accept it. Accept your fate and your soul will survive to be just a follower of the Teladamyr. That's what Silas was doing.

His heart pounded, his head creating a migraine. He watched chunks of flesh, his flesh falling off his legs and arms, his clothes becoming looser and looser. His bones grew looser and his screams created echos throughout the trees. No one would save him. And he wasn't going to save himself. For his struggles weren't going to help keep his soul bounded to his body.

it is a daily exercise

like some people go to the gym to do reps

my mind does squats leaps repetitive runs

hamlet on testosterone shot pulsing artery

surging direct to thumping heart jazzfest

snare sticks go wild a bass solo beats off

to die or be murdered by it slowly softly

to drink your poison or fade into black

you unspeakable demon gone silent

yet your taunts still bleed rosey wet

would it hurt you if I disappeared

or would my death be john doed

kill me with indifference

murder mutilate mum

all that left is the execution

me my own hand mind wit

to carry out anonymously

at the time and manner

of your uncaring

plotting planning

to what end

I was dead to you

decades long past

When it comes to death,

I'd rather die helping someone

than with blood on my hands.

I'd rather give up everything,

all of me,

hurt all the time with no remedy,

than become someone I swore I'd never be.

I choose to let someone tear me apart

for their sake

than to hurt them on purpose;

rip their heart out and stomp on it.

So I'll keep opening up,

and letting them take pieces of me

to get the relief they so desperately need,

if it means that I die a kind soul,

having inflicted no pain I could have otherwise healed.

I've been keeping you

at arms length

I check at night

in the dark

just past

my finger

and for now,

we're safe

04.24.2024

Survival or Death at the hands of something unspeakable... challenge @SelfishNeurotic

As I stared at the face of the grotesque, horrible face of the shadow monster, I felt an intense emotion rip its way through my heart.

Now, we're going to take a pause right here.

Hear me out...

You're probably thinking, "Oh it's just going to be fear or something. Duh. Such a cliche."

Fun fact, it's not. That emotion is disgust.

I face the monster and roll my eyes at it, "If I knew I was going to have to fight *you* at the end of this deluded rainbow... I really wouldn't have trained so hard."

Then I play catch with the poor creature, throwing him a really small and hard to catch ball out of the barrel of my AK47.

"Oops." I say sarcastically as I throw my gun onto the corpse of the shadow monster and walk away.

I should've known better. Returning here could only end in one way, and I knew it. After all, I danced with this particular devil for over ten years and barely managed to escape. Now here I am, once again staring down into the familiar, dark abyss that has painted my dreams in shades of technicolor terror ever since I managed to escape the shadow of this great evil so many years ago.

There is no hope for me. At my age, my chances of escape are about the same as that of a life-sized cut out of Wonder Woman escaping a comic book convention without being covered in sticky dork DNA. So here I sit writing my farewells to those I leave behind on the filthy walls of my prison. My pain racked, palsied shaken words resulting from a poorly chosen, carcinogenic burrito have found a place of rest right next to the final words of the poor desperate souls who perished here before me. I have no hope that my words will ever be read by a wise and compassionate soul. No, only fools ever find their way here, drawn by the same desperate and self-destructive impulse of the male Black Widow spider as it enters the web of its murderous lover. Being here, the risk of death is understood, but still, one's baser nature guides it up the web towards a self-imposed death that has been brokered by mindless, gluttonous lust.

My pathetic end was ordered from the Cravings Menu and the first bite sentenced me to death inside this cold tile walled crypt. The torture began as a heat within the depths of my abdomen and like a poisonous serpent, hatched from a shell of pure agony, it slithered to every cell within my body, it's fangs dripping a caustic trail of Diablo sauce the whole way. I am now trapped, paralyzed, and my agony keeps me in place better than even the strongest chains. The minutes pass, each twisting, writhing, second slices like a razor into the soft belly of my sanity. I am ready for it to end. Desperately, I cry out to whatever angel or devil that may be eavesdropping in the drive-thru headsets and beg for salvation or damnation, whichever will give me escape from my corroding, still breathing carcass.

Oh, I shouldn't have tempted fate. I knew I was within range of the siren's call. I could hear her muffled words as she tempted fools, promising to fulfill their gluttonous lust. Still, I set course dangerously close to her shore, so close that I could smell the stench as it escaped from her stucco covered island surrounded by a dirty asphalt sea. Now, hopelessly, I wait for the end.

Sweat dapples my brow as I slowly feel my organs begin to liquify and the marrow within my bones starts to explode shattering my skeleton like fine porcelain. I knew that it would end this way. After all, in my youth I watched so many before me succumb to this miserable, undignified end. As the gelatin-like substance of my eyes begins to boil, I blindly write my final words to those who're probably too foolish or too stoned to heed the warning within:

No matter how desperate you are, no matter how far from home you may be, never...Never...NEVER...NEVER...NEVER eat at a Taco Bell that has reserved parking for the health department and the CDC, while being suspiciously located right next to the pound. For if you do, your body will liquify while slowly (but surprisingly conveniently) filling the commode as you sit begging for mercy, your anguished cries for help going unanswered in a lonely Taco Bell restroom stall. Forgotten, anything left of you will be flushed down the drain by the poor motherfucker that makes minimum wage to clean this rest stop on the highway to Hell.