"Screams From The Darkness"
Written By: Guy Zappulla
A scream reverberated through the darkness. It's final destination was a part of my ear
that still remains inanimate. The sound of it surely must have risen the newly departed
now stirring in there silk lined resting places, of course dressed in an outfit to die for.
Was someone's mind straining to cast loose it's demons ? Or were the hellish beings attempting to infiltrate it ? Bringing with them an instant barrage of a hallucinatory camera shutters. His brains version of CNN, rattling off a series of still photo's. Click-a bright orange muzzle flash.
As a faint silhouette emerges from it's smoke filled barrel. Click-standing next to a young Chinese man in Tiananmen Square Click-a bombing in Palestine. Click-click-click attached to
a young boys midsection. C L I C K, slower now as the pieces ark perfectly as they soar through the air. Click his limbs gently pitter patter falling like a spring rain.
Click- a white lab coat. Click- under a glass slide, one of the round dots is not quite the same as the others. CLICK Focus. It's still not spherical. Click-click, most of the black dots are half eaten, the rest are being devoured by Pac-man. The high pitched wail continues on. It's obvious the demons are entering as if it was the reverse it would be dead silent yet again. His bent mind at the point of no return. Now fully awake taking those first drags off a stale Marlboro then violently hacking as the hot smoke enters my filthy lungs. I struggle to adjust my pupils to match the darkness. Just as the nocturnal emission of someone's subconscious Psyche getting the best of them has ceased. Shifting effortlessly between the sane and the deranged.
Now how do I convey this ??
How do I explain what another man's fears are ? Can I begin to even imagine what they might be? The very same questions circle my head like a revolving billboard. Bright white letters. It's
background matched my darkness, Each revolution ends with a question mark ? Yet for some reason as the keyboard on my ancient typewriter takes on a life of it's own. I must try.
" Van Munching" conveyed this emotion without a single written word, yet my canvas remains totally blank. With almost his exact work ironically installed, several layers beneath my pale skin.
Never to be erased, never to be forgotten, for me to always recall, why it was I.
Who woke up screaming...