"One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion."


Let's all be good thieves together.

Saturday, 17 August 2013

A Dream

The second item I have for you tonight is a matter of equality, in my previous entry I played with one of Nicky's dreams. In this one I've written a piece of flash fiction recounting a dream of mine, anyone who reads it is free to do with it what they will.

A Dream

I woke with a start, something was wrong in my bedroom but what? I turned my head back and forth looking at the shadows cast by the streetlamps through my curtains, but I could find nothing wrong with them. In the end I settled down reassured by the comforting, familiar pressure of my beloved cat by my legs.

It was just as I was about to fall asleep again that my eyes widened in terror. My cat was dead. Had been for over a decade had I not buried him with my own tow hands? But that was his weight I could feel, I knew his presence as I knew myself from those long ago halcyon summers where I would lie reading, he beside me purring as was his wont.

Why had he returned to me? Was it an act of benediction or punishment for some forgotten sin?

With every fibre of my being I tried to force the covers off me, to leap from my bed and flee this unnatural scene but I could not. My muscles tensed, the cords taught as steel wire but I could not move I was helpless, trapped. Then the weight on my legs began to move, slowly climbing up my body, the claws piercing my blanket pricking at my clammy, sweat soaked skin, not deep enough to draw blood but enough to hurt. At first all I hear was the blood roaring in my ears but as he edged closer I could hear his rasping, tattered breath and smell the mouldy gravedirt that matted his fur and dyed it black.

I wept. I begged. I reminded him of the love between master and pet, of the bond that we had shared and that's when I realised, it was that bond that had summoned him. He had waited patiently for over a decade for me to join him and now he had come to claim me. His paw slammed into my mouth, past the teeth and tongue, past the gullet deep into my lungs where his claws began to rake my lungs, I tried to scream...

And awoke in my bed, panting, terrified, but it had only been a dream, just a dream. Everything was fine and that familiar, comforting pressure was beside my legs.


Nickolaus Pacione said...

Get your rotted shit covered paws off my catalog you incest born rape-baby. You are the result of when cousins have sex, if you don't have the intelligence to understand GAME OVER, you're too much a queer to get it. You don't have the balls to use your real name because I will have a field day with it you plagiarist dick.

Lewis said...

Well I certainly don't need a university degree to recognise Game Over as a poorly written pile of turds marinated in cat urine, that's self evident within the first page. Still at least I managed to get further into it than I did with the laughable Gruesome Cargo II, you really have no idea how straitjackets work do you, Nickybooboo?

As for my real name, the reason why I haven't shared it with you is that it's actually quite common in Scotland and I have no desire to risk you harassing innocent people while searching for me. Besides I rather like the sound of Lewis Unknown, it sums me up quite well in my opinion.