Howling
A response to a crisis that's all in their minds
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness
well
not the best minds, and not my generation.
I saw the minds of former contributors of cruel columns and reviews of guitar based bands to a once popular music magazine, of writers of acclaimed situational comedies, of an endless column of opinion writers for a so called liberal newspaper, and an author who shall not be named in case they sue
bare their brains in a daily search for serotonin and affirmation, endlessly seeking the rattle and hum of the approval of an ever diminishing coterie,
not expelled from their academies, never silenced, never silent, amplified and emphasised, their fallacies and febrile fantasia seized and weaponised
cowering in their underwear, incinerating their reputations in the public square, resolutely unshaven
yacketeyakking, cackling, crowing in triumph as they repeat and regurgitate the most minor details of encounters with an unthreatening other, before returning to discussions of beakers, feeding habits and onanism
imagining demons under their beds, in their prisons, in their bathroom stalls, reprising the logic of their oppressors as they develop a carceral punitive logic
banshee wild in their support for the norms they profess to oppose, at the doors of restrooms and washrooms, shrieking out their unexamined lives
howling into their Live, Love, Laugh mugs, supping decaffeinated hot milk and revelling in the echoes of their cacophony like children holding seashells to their ears and listening to the sounds of the sea
whilst outside their binary world, the real numbers flow past their uncaring eyes, of waiting times, hate crimes, and suicides.
About the Creator
Joel Glover
A former waiter in a Love Boat themed restaurant, Joel is the rarest of beasts - an extroverted accountant.
His grimdark novella "The Path of Pain and Ruin" is available on Amazon.
Keep reading
More stories from Joel Glover and writers in Poets and other communities.
Breadwinner
She was the breadwinner, and the baker, in the house. She didn’t cook during the week, but her Sunday roasts sprawled. They spread across the table as the years went by. Feeding four, she still had to make dozens of Yorkshire puddings, sometimes crisp and sometimes flatter and chewier. During my protracted vegetarian phase, cheese and potato pie was a staple. A revert to omnivorism saw the meat requirement increase substantially. Gravy, thick with fat and redolent with flavour from browning and vegetable water. Roast potatoes, smeared with dripping. Greens, overdone, wilted. Carrots and peas, mashed swede. Cauliflower or leeks in cheese. Sometimes an experiment would appear, “just a little something”, she’d lay out for our approval. On rare occasions it was such a success it became a staple demanded for significant meals.
By Joel Glover3 years ago in Families
Killing him slowly
There’s an intruder in my house again. He stumbles through the door, wet carrier bags in hand. He’s bought me offerings. I show my appreciation, letting him caress my beautiful body. He wants to touch me. I rub myself against his legs. He sighs, dropping the bags. He can’t resist touching me. Running his hand slowly down my spine, I arch my back towards his caress, let out a low purr. It’s what we both need.
By N J Delmas3 days ago in Horror
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