Darkwater Syndicate
Join The Syndicate!
  • News
  • Store
    • Free Books
    • New Releases
    • Action & Thrillers
    • Comedy
    • Fantasy
    • Horror
    • Science Fiction
    • Hardcover Special Editions
    • Special Interest
  • Authors
  • Our Staff
  • Awards
  • Publish With Us
  • About Us

The Music Box

11/18/2013

0 Comments

 
She sits at the window
And watches the birds
Pecking the ground
And calling from trees.

She closes her eyes
And remembers those words
As the years tumble backward
And are lost in the breeze.

It old was even then,
Back when they both were young --
A music box purchased
From a secondhand store.

It sure wasn't much
But the song that it sung
Meant more than the ring
That he couldn't afford.

The decades rolled forward.
They had sorrows and laughs.
The music played on,
So soft on the ear.

But then came the day
When he finally passed.
The music played on,
And she persevered.
She sits at the window
Staring out in a daze,
Not moving except
To wind the box in her lap.

The nurse takes her shoulder
And wheels her away,
Back to her room
In time for her nap.

She closes her eyes
As she lays her head down.
Opens her hand,
And drifts off to sleep.

The music box dancer
Keeps turning around.
Her secrets kept safe
To silently keep.

The music now slows
In pace with the time.
The dancer, she halts,
And the widow is gone.

The box lies there quiet
With no hand to wind.
And yet still she smiles
As the tune plays on.
Like What You Read?
Picture
These twenty-five poems explore the dark paths on our walks through life: addiction, bereavement, solitude, and more. These are the forgotten spaces, blighted areas we pretend don't exist. Everybody's got one. For some, it's outside their windows; others, it's under their very roofs. But regardless of where these dark places are, a pit of quicksand is just as deadly no matter where located. Tread lightly.
Order Forgotten Spaces
0 Comments

Zero Sum

11/4/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
Each penny you drop in that well as you wish
Corrodes into poison that stifles a fish.

Each balloon you let fly on warm summer days
Gets lodged in seals’ throats and they too pass away.

Each rainbow you see that brightens your mood
Is somebody’s torrent of rainfall and flood.

Each dime on the ground that you should pick up
Fell out of the pocket of a guy with hard luck.

Each triumph you earn, though wrought at great cost,
Means that someone else had to have lost.

So all the good times in the past that you’ve had,
Means you’ve made someone, somewhere, sad.

And all the good fortune that should befall you,
It results from someone else’s getting screwed.

0 Comments

The Sky's Blue, You know

6/3/2013

0 Comments

 
Picture
The alarm clock went off but it didn’t wake me, as I wasn’t asleep. I’d been up for hours lying in bed. Just thinking of the sleep I wasn’t getting was keeping me up, to say nothing of all the other tasks on the day’s punch list. I turned over to face the alarm clock. It blinked 5:05 a.m. in incandescent red. 5:05. SOS. In hindsight, I should have known better than to go to work that day.

This is the story of how I went insane.

The office was a long way off but the commute was short. At 5:20 a.m., expressway traffic was light. If I really stood on the gas, I could get to work in half an hour. All the better for me that there was no one on the road, as I was at the office in what seemed to me a blink. Piecing events together after the fact, I figured I’d dozed off at the wheel for a few miles. I was exhausted.

I pulled into the car park and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor. As usual, I was the first to arrive. The time-activated lights in the office wouldn’t come on for another ten minutes, at 6:00, but by then I’d already had a cup of coffee and gotten started on my second.

Well before the sunrise, I was already at work.

My desk was covered in file boxes, looking like an overstuffed filing cabinet had gone on a bender the night before and puked all over my desktop. Not a square inch of faux wood saw sunlight.

That last thought made me take pause. For nearly a year that I had been working for the firm of Banco Banque and Banquiao, I hadn’t seen any sunlight either. Every day I woke up before sunup, bedded down at midnight, and spent the hours in between at the office. Even at eleven stories up, the office never felt more like a subterranean cavern. My pasty white complexion was proof of this.

The boss checked in at 7:05. I met him in the break room and had a coffee with him. At 9:00 I was due for another, as the effects of the first were starting to wind down. The rest of the office staff filed in at 9:00, and so I thought it best to get a fresh mug before the support staff emptied the pot.

By 10:00 a.m. my caffeine-addled heartbeat felt like a flock of hummingbirds trapped in my chest, yet I was still nodding off at my desk. It annoyed me to no end that I was falling asleep where I least wanted to sleep, and just hours ago I could not sleep where most I wanted to.

There was no time to sleep. There was no time even to live. The billable hour is a thing of the devil, and it had me in its grip.

The office required me to account for every minute of my work time, and expected each minute to be devoted to making my boss money. This I did to an admirable extent: of the fourteen hours spent at work daily, on average I captured twelve billable hours. Two of those hours were spent doing those ancillary, non-billable things I needed to do to support the billable time, such as book-keeping, drinking coffee, and using the bathroom, though I knew of co-workers who had discovered ways to bill the client even while on the toilet.

Of those twelve billable hours, every day my boss skimmed another three off the top, nicking fractions off of each of the billable activities I’d completed. Every week, before writing big checks to the firm, the client would review my time report and knock off another hour or two each day. The firm where I worked would grudgingly acquiesce, thankful to accept some payment over none. By month end, half of my billable hours would be gone, and the boss would drag me into his office by the scruff of my neck. Our discussions were always the same: “Get your hours up, or you’ll get canned.”

It had gone on this way for ten months. As long as I’d been working there, the firm had had it in mind to fire me.

Things really started to get strange at 11:00 a.m. It was Monday, but I had to keep reminding myself because I’d worked fourteen days straight. To me, it felt like the middle of the week.

The days were running together, as though days past and days ahead had melted into a pudding and were blobbing up together. I kept reminding myself to do things I’d already done days ago, because I’d forgotten I’d done them, and because they were super important and needed to be done. I doubted whether I’d actually driven in this morning or just spent the night at the office. My dreams - when I could sleep - were of things I had done at the office or things I needed to do on arriving there. That I was sitting at my desk seemed surreal, like some bizarre yet mundane deja vu.

Lunchtime rolled around. At the bottom of my desk drawer was a bag of apples. I ate one whenever I got hungry. For several days straight I’d eaten nothing but apples, going through a half-dozen daily. At the time - and this is the scary part - it made perfect sense. Eating apples was a boon to efficiency. They were healthy, they needed only one hand to eat and left my other hand free to do work, and since they came in a bunch, I could eat these all day without ever having to leave my desk.

Hungry as I was, I tried to keep the drawer shut as much as I could. The bag of apples was see-through, and underneath it was the resignation letter I had written three months before. I hadn’t signed it, but I’d come very close. It wasn’t dated, but that was intentional, as I could just as easily write in the date when I felt it was time.

I called my wife to let her know I wouldn’t be joining her for dinner at home. Although I told her that I’d be home at 7:00 p.m., I’d already devised a plan for the day. I didn’t tell her this while on the call, but at 7:00 I’d call her and tell her that I needed to stay a while longer. Then, at 9:00, I’d send a text saying that I’d be at work ‘til midnight. Everyone would have gone home by then and the office would be quiet, making it an optimal environment to net a ton more billable hours. Then, when I needed to, I’d sleep at my desk and wake up at 5:00 a.m. the following day (still at my desk) to start the day off. Thankfully, I’d stashed extra clothes in my office, so I could change into them and none of my co-workers would be the wiser that I’d spent the night at the office.

I revised my plan after I’d had another coffee. I didn’t need to sleep. Sleep was beneath me. I shuddered with giddy laughter. I was thinking so fast I was almost prescient. It felt great. My hands shook and my typing speed took a tumble, but these losses could be recouped tonight since I had no need to sleep. And the feeling in my chest that my blood had turned to glass shards as it coursed through my heart could be ignored as a passing inconvenience.

Furtive whispers accompanied shuffling up the hall. “Someone’s fallen.” A man in the building across the street had hurled himself from the top of the car park. What a mess he’d made. He’d ruined his suit, which didn’t matter much anymore, because it didn’t fit him as well as it must have before he took the dive, as the man was spread out for yards across the asphalt.

A question struck me then, as suddenly as an open-palm blow to the forehead: what could drive a man to leap from an otherwise structurally sound office tower? This question may as well have been rhetorical, judging by how quickly the answer came.

I rubbed my eyes, elbowed past the crowd thronged at the glass to get a better look at the dead man lying in the street. In a blink he had gone from wearing pinstripes to brown trousers just like mine and back to pinstripes.

That was the wake-up call, more so than the alarm clock buzzer at 5:05 - SOS - a.m. I went back to my desk and wrote a two-sentence resignation email, completely forgetting about the carefully drafted letter that had sat in my desk drawer for months. I threw the bag of apples into the wastebasket. I didn’t know it just then, but I would develop a taste aversion to apples that would last months.

I powered down my PC and sat, elbows propped on the desk, with my face in my hands. A partner at the firm shoved through my office door without so much as knocking.

“Get your stuff and get out,” he said, which was polite enough, considering he refrained from punting me in the ass when he said that.

That same day my name was removed from the associate roster, and my profile and all signs that I had worked at the firm for nearly a year were obliterated. The Egyptians did no less a job with Hatshepsut.

I went home and slept for two days straight, not rousing even to eat. When I awoke, a shooting pain between my eyes rippled my vision and threw off my sense of balance. As I hadn’t had any coffee during those two days, my body was furious. You don’t come down easy from a ten-month caffeine binge.

I rolled out of bed. My first piss in two days looked like infield clay and collected into silt at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I felt like I was ninety-nine years old. Even shuffling around the apartment in sandals got me winded. It would be a month before I was in any shape to do anything more physically demanding than shopping for groceries.

Without any sense at all of the time, I went outside and stood in my apartment’s parking lot. The sun was out, shining in the center of a cloudless blue sky. A single tear rolled down my cheek. More followed. Many, many more.

It seemed such a trivial thing to forget over so short a time as a year, but I remembered then, that the sky is blue.

0 Comments

Thirst of The Oceans

4/8/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
She longs and she waits, chin in hand and sitting pretty,
Innocent as a quiet sunset,
Quiet as the foam at shore.  

Many a night have I spent with her.
When I am with her it is cool and good.
I am tempted to stay with her forever.
Were she to have her way it would be so.

She loves me,
Wants to sweep me far away where I can be with her forever,
Take me to a secret place only she knows where we both can live,
Though the world rots,
Where she can hold me and envelop me and smother me and never let me go.
She loves me so that she is blind to what she does to me.

Right from the start it could never work out.
Though she would give me the sky and the sea,
Her love is the sky to a fish and the sea to a bird.

I never can stay long,
But she holds me just to keep me a little longer,
A tiny bit longer,
And a little longer after that.
She never knows what she’s doing until it’s too late.

As the women of old would dress in white
And wait by the shore for their loves to return,
So too does the ocean.
The ocean reflects their visages.
Foam topped waves are the lace of her veil
And her face the moon in the sea at night.

She wants and she watches and she waits and she searches
And she hungers and she preys and she takes and she mourns.

No one consoles the ocean. She drinks the salt of her tears forever.
And of all her fish and of all her whales she is intimately aware,
Though they never give her a passing thought.

The ocean truly is alone.
The seagulls on high sing her sorrows,
Echo her calls from places unseen.

1 Comment
    Picture
    Picture
    Picture

    Live Feed

    Tweets by @DrkWtrSyndicate

    Archives

    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013

    Categories

    All
    Action
    Adventure
    Airplanes
    Airports
    Airwave
    Aliens
    Anthropology
    Apologies
    Archaeology
    Archeology
    Art
    Asian
    Asylum
    Auctions
    Banking
    Bar
    Barajas
    Biscayne Landing
    Bosses
    Buffet
    Business
    Cafe
    Cats
    Cellphone
    Cheese
    Childhood
    Coffee
    Coffee Shops
    College
    Comedy
    Communism
    Conspiracy
    Creative Jackass
    Creepy
    Cuba
    Cynicism
    Dade County
    Dark
    Darkwater Syndicate
    Death
    Deli
    Dentistry
    Desperation
    Dessert
    Dolls
    Dragons
    Dreams
    Egypt
    Environmentalism
    Fantasy
    Farm
    Fiction
    Film
    Fiu
    Flash Fiction
    Food
    Funny
    Galleons
    George Lucas
    Ghost
    Ghost Story
    Growing Up
    Growing Up
    Guest Author
    Gullwing
    Haiku
    Harrison Ford
    Hipsters
    History
    Hotel
    H.P. Lovecraft
    Humor
    Insanity
    Insurance
    Insurance Horror Stories
    Interama
    Interview
    Introduction
    Jail
    Jfk
    Jobs
    Journey
    J.R.R. Tolkien
    Jury Duty
    Kennedy
    Kids
    Korean
    Krushchev
    Lovecraft
    Love Poem
    Madness
    Madrid
    Magic
    Makeup
    Manchego
    Miami
    Missile Crisis
    Money
    Motorcycle
    Munisport
    Music
    Mythology
    Nightmare
    Nikita
    Numbers Station
    Ocean
    Odyssey
    Office
    Oleta River
    Orange Chicken
    Paranoia
    Parenting
    Photo
    Pirates
    Poetry
    Poker
    Prison Chef
    Pub
    Quest
    Quirky
    Rage
    Rage Comic
    Rant
    Red Scare
    Restaurant
    Rules Of Sex
    Russians
    Sad
    Sail
    Sandwich
    Sarcasm
    Sci-fi
    Sean Connery
    Seaports
    Sex
    Shadow People
    Ships
    Shopping-cart
    Snark-attack
    Sorcery
    Soup
    Spain
    Steven Spielberg
    Suicide
    Supernatural
    Surreal
    Suspense
    Swords
    Telephone
    Tension
    The-hobbit
    Trains
    Transit Dreams
    Travel
    Troll
    Undead
    University
    Ussr
    Voyage
    Wireless
    Wizard
    Work
    Writing
    Zombie

Copyright © 2017 Darkwater Syndicate, Inc. All rights reserved.