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Left Words and Lack of Focus

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It’s not that I forget that I have a blog, its just that I have turned procrastination into an art form. And the fact that wherever The Butcher’s Inkpot was going was lost when I lost my phone, and I never got around to updating it.

I also looked around my room at some of the many binders I have (yes, I am a stationary whore. I admit it. There’s a reason I can’t go into Staples unsupervised) and found a crap load of stories and plot lines that date back to when I was 15, so just about 10 years ago. While many of these have been filed in my more updated, “backburner” pile, there were several I had forgotten all about. Maybe, once I get the current stories out my head, I’ll actually work on them. There’s a thought for procrastination if I ever heard one….

At least I was correct in numbering the binder. Image

The Butcher’s Inkpot 1

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In the soft folds of the husband’s robe, the Butcher awoke, eyes flipping open to the darkness of the room.

Outside the world was still sleeping, moonlight slipping over the windowsill onto the bed, illuminating the paisley print of the covers, making the orange flowers deepen and the yellow leaves turn lemon-colored. Ebony ringlets spilled over his chest, satin corkscrews he couldn’t resist touching smelling like apple pie and supper. Bringing a fistful of locks to his nose, taking a deep breath in,  savoring the the fragrance, he was almost regretful that he had no time left.

Stretching out his lazy muscles, the Butcher threw off the covers; picked up his pants, put them on; scooped up his shirt and pulled it over his head, tugging at the sleeves and collars until properly adjusted. He felt for his keys in his pockets, murmuring silently at the answering jingle.

Looking back to the figure on the bed, he gave a sigh, stepping back to the edge of the mattress to lean down and bury his nose one more in the cloud of ringlets. His fingers ran inside the curve of the wife’s white neck, pausing at the pulse that grew calmer each passing second.

Taking out his pocket knife he snipped away a few strands at the nape, the point of his nose bumping a cold ear before he pressed a kiss to the crown and slipped from the room, counting his steps down the stairs and out the backdoor.

The door shut behind, bouncing back against what was left of the lock. The sound echoed like a fired shot, sending a few birds in nearby trees twittering.

Then he saw it, standing there at the base of the hill, staring back at him as he reached the bottom just as a familiar rickety pickup truck sounded its arrival in the driveway on the opposite side.

Thyme & Poe

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Well I didn’t tell anyone
But a bird flew by
He’d saw what I’d done
And set up a nest outside
He sang about what I’d become
He sang so loud sang so clear
I was afraid all the neighbors would hear
So I invited him in just to reason with him
Promised I wouldn’t do it again
-”Bird Song” Florence + the Machine

So this song has been stuck in my head for tue last few days. And the cruel end of the little songbird is eerily reminiscent of the ‘vulture eye’ of Poe’s “Tell Tale Heart” and the one-eyed feline of “Black Cat”. Often times it is the most innocent, helpless of creatures that find their demises at the hands of unstable narrators.

So of course I have to write a story along a similar vein. Or influence, rather.

So what do:
A Butcher
An inkpot
and one pig have in common?

Don’t ask me because I have no clue, but sincr those were the first objects that popped in my head, I’m running with them.

Whimzie

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A touch of fractured whim to hold me until the boredom sets in….

Maybe its the way my brain always seems to spin on the edge of control, held by the loose grip of sane reason. I think I’ve become a firm believer in the adage that to be an artist one must be insane, which frankly doesn’t really hold much weight if you don’t consider that pain and stark perceptions bred the likes of Shelley, Wilde, Wolfe and Hemmingway. Ill throw Plath in there as well for kicks. Sometimes I wonder if ita hereditary or if I’ve invented it on my own. Does my turn of phrase, the ability I have to create a whole world in the space of ten minutes really mean I can’t truly connect with the reality outside? This ongoing debate iz the subject for thisblog, my creative output for ideas and concepts that spin in my mind so frantically they’ve created their own version of ADD.

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