spit, mixed with dirt – muddy words flow
dipping her toe first into the surface of the deep pool of black on black ink, she shed her robe
stood momentarily shivering in the cool forest air, bright moonlight dappled across pale, pale skin and long tan curls
before closing her tear-filled eyes spreading her arms wide, she fell forward and released her last grasp on this world
it felt like dying and rebirth as the inky embrace wrapped around her face and filled her eye sockets and eardrums and mouth, which had opened futilely to suck in air which was no longer available to her, so her lungs pulled in the ink instead
until every part of her was completely filled with it and her twitching corpse lay floating there
wide staring eyes seeing only the bottomless hole below, mouth open in a frozen scream
from one of the nearby surrounding trees reached a knobby wrinkly grey arm with so little muscle attached to the bones one might, if one could see it, wonder how it had any strength at all
yet of course it needed no real strength for the arm had a hand
a hand that had five long bony fingers capped with five long pointed nails and with these long nails it reached right past the long pale tresses floating there
hovering momentarily over her pale naked back then quickly jabbing in grabbed a hold and wrested out the cold bright starlight blue soul of the pathetic wretch which now saw nothing
ripped her free and pulled her up, up, up into the branches of the tree
she, the soul that is, sat cowering on the branch impotently furious at being denied her desired fate
the ink would have eventually seeped in and covered even the soul’s essence until eventually she forgot everything that had gone before
no, instead here she sat across the thick branch of the soul-stealer’s tree and glared as best she could, without eyes or a face, waiting
though she didn’t have to wait long ‘before you go,’ the soul-stealer whispered in a voice that seemed to come from all around and not from the thin shrouded figure which sat leaning against the tree’s trunk ‘you’ve got just one more task to complete’
if she could have sighed, she would have, for apparently even death wouldn’t release her from this hell
tara caribou | ©️2019 revised
original artwork and the occasional rant
Art Consignments in Ninilchik, Alaska
Apologies for my apologies
Poetry by Charles Joseph
We Survived and Arrived - Now as Warriors We Thrive
Writer and Artist
a collection of short poetry from an autistic mind
Poetry, Photography, and Thoughts
The Lies in the Skies Exposed
"When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am..." --Maya Angelou
Welcome to my tiny corner of the universe filled with poems that I have written.
Author | Freelance Writer | Blogger
livingforthemoon
Butterwell's Blog
This is really something. I love it.
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Thanks Stories! I was a little dark when I wrote it.
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I can relate to that.
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I’m sure you can. Makes for some good writing though, right?
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That’s true. Who the hell wants to write about rainbows all the time?
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Not me, that’s for sure!
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Love it. Fantastic. Drew me in.
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Thanks. I’m glad you liked it.
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Inky black has been a theme for me the last few weeks as some of my sleep has been like this and healing despite
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I’m sorry to hear that
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It’s a good piece of writing. Thanks for sharing. Lol
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So richly expressed…………
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Thank you Bill. I always look forward your comments.
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Wonderfully done!
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Sorry. I thought I said it was a positive thing
My bad. Unless of course you are apologizing for what happened years ago… everybody seems to be apologetic. I would need to make it a full time job to stop a listen to strangers apologizing for my people they never met over 20 years ago.
I guess without such niceties we would fall into tyranny.
I really need a pay rise though. Lol
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Perhaps I misunderstood what you said originally. I am glad you liked it though.
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Really loved this one T. My kind of story and a theme that I can relate to. Sad but awesome x
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Somehow John, I thought you might like this one (if you read it)…. so I’m glad you do.
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(??) I read everything you write.
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Do you? Well… I try not to assume anyone reads *everything*….
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Well… I do x
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Awww thanks JC!! That means the world to me!!!
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Wow! So thought provoking. Great post
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Thank you Mary!
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Oh that cusp. That cusp where you have it all riding on your next move, or so you think. To pull back from the brink is one thing: to be pulled back, quite another. The nagging thoughts that pull you back, seeming external but internal all the way… an exquisite depiction of a painful, painful reality.
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Yes!! Yes, exactly. You’ve seen right through to the heart of the matter.
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I try 🙂
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really interesting. it feels like maybe there is always one more thing to do, even when that is done… no excuse to leave before the last one is done? is there ever a last one? the soul stealers voice came from all around? inside voice feels the same sometimes to me … it like one side of the coin spoke of the unspoken other side – the reality of the contradiction that is our free choice and our slavery to our conscience …
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As an artist, there’s always one more work. Wanting to drown and die and disappear…. denied by the muse. The artists heart doesn’t belong to anyone but that sometimes cruel muse.
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it felt way darker than that … tho that is dark enough …
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It was written while in a very dark mood. Actually, I was quite suicidal at the time.
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so… i didn’t think anyone would really feel the darkness that was inside me at the time. I’m quite surprised, honestly.
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Superb and so strikingly apt for this very moment.
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I’m glad you were moved by this piece. Thank you.
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Woah, eerie
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Thanks Jude. Always something a little different.
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Wonderfully dark, and I feel that this works really well on more than one level: it is quite a chilling ‘horror’ piece and yet also (and this, to me, is far darker) a disturbing tale of someone in the grip of depression, in thecjaws of the ‘Black Dog’. Maybe I’m over thinking, but I love the images that this has stirred.
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Thanks Chris. I did in fact have a double meaning when I wrote this. I was also feeling suicidal when I wrote it. Writing is better than actually hurting those around you with your own pain.
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This is very true, and, in such moments, there is nothing, and indeed no-one, who can help you – somehow you have to find the spark that still glows inside you and hope that it is bright enough to lead you out of the blackness. And, as you intimate, writing can be very cathartic.
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Absolutely. I agree with you there Chris. Thanks so much for reading and understanding.
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Always my pleasure.
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Awesomely dark and visual. Liked it a lot.
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Thanks Jo. It’s not often I get that kind of a compliment from you, so I’ll take it! Ehhh maybe this is the first time. I don’t know. I’m sort of in compliment-shock to remember anything properly right now.
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I always like your stuff. Its just… well… I don’t want to sounds like a broken record. Ha ha. Besides, I don’t your ego getting out of control….
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Thanks for reining it in then. I’d be out of control without you.
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You’re welcome. I’m always looking out for you.
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The levels in this piece are startling, “black on black ink” stepping in naked and having it permeate every crevice……but still no relief, pulled back from the brink,no escape…..Ink, writing,drowning in it, “one more thing”….. Tara, although the blackness of depression is almost impossible to convey, this comes as close as anything I have ever read.
I know I am repeating myself as Jo says above but you are one of the most courageous and authentic writers I have ever read.
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Thank you so very much. That means an awful lot to me. When I first wrote this, I felt like it said everything I wanted it to say but it wasn’t well received. I suppose I need to let go of that and be content that it was what *I* needed and also that there are a couple people out there who truly understand its depths. Thank you again for reading my words.
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I loved this, I imagined a sense of exhaustion when the soul stealer said it wasn’t over. Great stuff!😀
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A sighing resignation. I’m glad you could picture it.
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I could… Quite clearly
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