Mr. Syd Barrett, Where've You Been?

Mr. Syd Barrett, where’ve you been?

Sit your ass down and give this record a spin

The two of us are more than just bricks in the wall

We went a little crazy and we lost it all

They say it was the LSD that sealed your fate

But I call BS, at worst it’s ableist hate

Someone in our bloodlines was fucky in the head

We had a world of potential, but potential’s all dead

Born against our will into an unfeeling world

That shamed us for never catching brass rings and pearls

We had poetry for miles, many stories to tell

About the warring nations and a planet called hell

And the injustices of sitting in a jail cell

When your one and only crime was being unwell

And the corporate slavery of the music industry

Publishing too, they were never into me

Misunderstood at best and pariahs at worst

Our creations came second, mental health came first

Could we survive the housing market as roommates?

Or would the landlords evict us like, “See you soon, mate!”

We might get on each other’s nerves more often than not

The darkness inside reveals as the brain rots

The mask comes off like a neurodivergent rebel

And we make the batshit music at the highest decibels

Neighbors would complain that we’re melting their brains

Gurgling their intestines, filling ears up with pain

Maybe this is better as a what-if scenario

Maybe this nutty movie should be filmed in aerial

Sorry I wasted time with a hypothetical

But to reach out to the world takes steel testicles

In a society that laughs like a pack of hyenas

At the hurting class for not kissing fascist ass

Who would want us to be their loyal friend?

They get millions of them when a hashtag trends

Born into this world and thrown out with the trash

It’s a society that will one day be climate changed to ash

Spit Out the Black Pill

“Woody! Unsweetened iced tea for Woody!” No response. “WOODY!”

Woody Silver snapped out of his gangsta rap induced trance long enough to pull his ear buds out and accept his drink. He did so with a nervous glance around the House of Roses and Chocolates (not a bad name for a coffee bar). He knew these people were gazing at him through figurative microscope lenses. If they adjusted the magnification, they could see his tiny ego shrivel up and die like a chopped off cock.

“What are you listening to?” asked the blond barista with the prettiest of grins.

“Uh…gangsta rap. You know, songs about shooting people in the face.”

The barista darted her eyes around as if she needed to know the nearest exit. “You like that kind of music?”

“Yeah. It’s good stuff. It’s not like I’m the one doing the shooting.”

“…Uh-huh…well, you go enjoy your violent music…Woody.”

This would have been a good time for Woody to put a sock in it and leave with at least a little bit of his shattered dignity intact. But he just HAD to make it worse and even more awkward than before. “Yeah, I get it. When someone commits murder, they blame rap music. When someone commits suicide, they blame heavy metal. Chris Benoit was probably a big fan of Rage Against the Machine.”

All eyes were on Woody now and they were large enough to crush his sense of self-worth ten times over. Whether it was the barista, the lesbian couple near the window, or the little girl and her mother not too far from him in line. After a while of allowing Woody’s anxiety to chill faster than his iced drink, the four-year-old princess said, “You fucked up.” Everyone gave a shocked laugh, though this was a pleasant kind of shock.

Woody didn’t find any of this pleasant. He robotically slumped to the nearest table with his drink, his iPhone, and his ear buds, hanging his head in shame. He wished he could be anywhere but that coffee bar. Even getting hit with a bolt of lightning and being sent to an early death seemed tamer than this incredibly public humiliation. Under his breath, he said, “If this ends up on You Tube, I’m going to be very upset…” Thankfully, nobody heard him and the target on his back didn’t grow a single centimeter.

But a metaphorical target he still had. His stomach turned and boiled and no amount of iced tea could calm his mild nausea. The whole world laughed at him and his defenses were gone. Then again, having shaggy blond hair and dirty clothing didn’t provide much in the way of defenses against scrutiny. But then he reached in his flannel jacket pocket and remembered he had a cure for all of this.

It was a small jar of black jelly beans he found on the internet. He couldn’t remember the name of the website or why these beans were advertised as medicinal. When desperation struck him like that much-wanted bolt of lightning, he didn’t ask a lot of questions. He unscrewed the lid and shoveled a handful of black jelly beans down his gullet, not even taking ample time to chew his food. Then again, choking wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened to him that day.

Instead, the rush of energy he got from this candy was the best thing. His hands stopped jittering. He could effortlessly pick up his sunken head. The cloudy weather outside gave way to sunshine through the windows. His iced tea tasted like magic in a cup. The women around him made his heart flutter in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time. Whatever he paid for these jelly beans was worth it. He could be broke tomorrow and die a happy man the next day, as evidenced by the blossoming smile on his face.

His newfound eye-brightening joy led him to believe he could conquer the day, one in which he previously had no schedule and no plan of any sort. He could finally talk to the barista and not be an awkward mess. He floated by the seat of his pants to the beautiful blond, who was now decked out in a light blue dress with flowers and jewels adorned everywhere. But before he could open his mouth and allow poetry to pour from his lips…

The barista twirled like a fairy princess and showed off the wedding ring on her white gloved hand. She sang in an angelic voice with the rhythm of a nee-ner-nee-ner tune, “I got married! And you can’t have me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha, ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha, ha!” 

Woody turned towards the lesbian couple, who were now in matching dark green dresses with forest insignias printed everywhere. Their black gloved hands showed off wedding rings of their own, sparkling like incel tears. “We got married! And you can’t have us!” The same nee-ner-nee-ner tune, the same enchanting high-pitched voices.

And then the mother joined in on the fun with her purple dress, golden crown, and heavenly diamond on her finger. “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

Woody clutched his ears and tightly closed his eyes, running out of the coffee bar and leaving his drink behind. He remembered the iPhone and ear buds, though. The violent rapper’s voice was the only one he wanted to hear…until he had a female guest vocalist who jovially sang, “I got married! And you can’t have me!”

“Oh, come on!” Woody sped down the sidewalk without giving a single solitary fuck who he weirded-out along the way. He was already as small and repugnant as bacteria. He was already lower than the worms crawling beneath the park’s grassy turf. But no matter how far he ran or how many times he actually opened his eyes for a change…

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a white dress-wearing vixen in the sweetest voice.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang Wonder Woman in the comic book shop window.

“I got married! And you can’t have me!” sang a woman in jean shorts and flip-flops, also in the loveliest high-pitched voice.

“Stop it! I get your point! I get it, I get it, I get it! I’m weird! I’m stupid! Enough is enough!” shouted Woody, though his words only echoed in his head, never once giving the public a shot at hearing his opinion of their love. “Stop it!” His voice grew deeper and more demonic. “No more!” His voice had a hint of ogre-like growling. “STOP!” Except they wouldn’t stop. These impossibly beautiful women from all around closed in on him, reminding him over and over again that they were not prizes to be won by loser men like him.

“Pick up the brick!” shouted an evil bass voice from behind. The clouds grew dark once more, giving way not to a halo of sunshine, but to the brightness of hellfire. The once lovely women in their dresses turned into pitch-black monsters with razor-sharp claws and mocking goblin voices. Woody looked around to see where the original evil voice came from, but couldn’t find the source except in his own head, booming like movie theater speakers.

“The world never loved you anyways. Your parents think you’re a disgrace. Your friends think you’re dragon shit. Society wants to kill you. Pick up the brick and make them all go away. Murder every last one of those undeserving femoids. Pick up the brick, haul back, and let her ho.”

Woody’s anxious sweat quadrupled into a clay-like substance, like his skin was peeling off and revealing a more sinister side to a world that could already see his weaknesses. He gritted his teeth so hard that his gums bled black. He listened to the one voice who understood him beneath the lovey-dovey mockery. He had a mission. It was his job to smash the world into pieces with that one brick. He smiled like a villain, though his clay sweat masked most of those features.

He learned down and picked up the brick, which would ordinarily weigh him down, but was so natural in his hand, like it was a gift-wrapped present from the forces of evil. He wanted to use it. He wanted to make the world suffer the way he did. All those times he was laughed at for simply existing. All those times he was rejected for being just mildly annoying. All those punches he took in the name of creep control.

But then as Woody strode up to his would-be victims, he passed his reflection in the comic book shop window. He saw what he looked like for the first time since this transformation…and empathized with those calling him a freak. His face was melting and folding over. His eyes were coal black. His nose was dripping like chocolate off his face. His body was bloated with monstrous red goo. His dirty blond hair resembled a den of snakes rather than a simple unkempt appearance.

“What are you waiting for?! Use the brick and end the world! KILL THEM ALL!”

But no matter how the voice vibrated in his brain, no matter how hard it made his nerves convulse, he couldn’t do it. He slowly put the brick down…because he hated what he had become. All this hatred turned him into something ugly and unrecognizable. Finally, society had a reason to hate him and his own self-hatred wasn’t manufactured either. His stomach burst and boiled. It exploded with bile and death sauce. Acid in his throat accumulated like the clay sweat. And then, he let go of his anger and all of his fabricated grudges…in the form of black throw-up on the sidewalk.

In one vomit spell, he cleansed his disgust for himself. Every horrible feeling within him stretched his insides out as the black goop flooded the concrete. And then…emptiness was all that remained. An empty stomach. An empty soul. But best of all, an empty mind free from the judgment of a booming voice and lighthearted fairy laughter. He sat on a part of the sidewalk that wasn’t drenched in puke and breathed in and out, as if the cool morning air soothed his throat.

Speaking of throats, a familiar voice cleared hers. Woody opened his dewy, red, puffy eyes to see that the barista was there holding the drink he left behind. No royal dresses. No punch-down comedy. No scorn. Just concern. “Forget something?” she asked. When Woody reached his hand up to grab his drink, she pulled away. “Give me those jelly beans.”

“The…the jelly beans? These ones?”

The barista nodded and Woody Silver did as he was told. She read the label and analytically curled her lips downward. “Black pills. Of course. Medicine for the involuntary celibate.”

“Those were black pills?!”

She nodded again before throwing the jar in a nearby rubbish bin like she was shooting a basketball. “Two points. I used to play basketball in high school. You could have figured that out if you hadn’t gone on about your…murder music, and let me talk for a change.” Woody hung his head in shame once again. “You just need practice, that’s all. Not with me, of course. I’m married.”

“That’s nice. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. No backlash? No insults? Nothing?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Those black pills are out of your system. Here. Drink this instead. I’ll help your stomach.”

“Thanks.” He grabbed the drink and had a few swallows. The coolness was so gentle on his throat that he wasn’t in a hurry to chug it all. He wanted the easiness to last as long as he could draw it out.

“Guess I’ll see you next time you come in. Word of advice, though: I’d retire that Chris Benoit joke if I were you. Send it to the old folks home in Florida.”

“Good idea.”

“Very good. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. But you can call me Liz.”

“Woody. Woody Silver. You already knew that, though. Nice to meet you.”

“Same. Enjoy your tea!” Liz waved goodbye and strolled away.

When she walked out of sight, Woody said under his breath, “Nice to meet you indeed…” He sipped his tea and relaxed against the wall, not caring what the world thought of his vulnerable state. In fact, they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion at all given how the pedestrians mostly ignored him.

Silent Warrior, Chapter 1

With the third grade classroom dimly lit in shades of purple, puppet children on strings danced and twirled their way through the door. The girls wore pretty red dresses and had their blond hair in pigtails. The boys wore elegant blue tuxedos and were shaven completely bald. This waltz of perfect conformity was accompanied by the PA system’s glorious soundtrack of the Moonlight Sonata. The rhythm carried the puppet children to their desks one row at a time so as not to cause unnecessary disorder. Once they had taken their seats, the puppets slouched over with their pale white faces and rosy cheeks touching their desks.

Their strings jerked them to the upright position while another puppet descended at the chalkboard in a heap. With another tug of the strings, the clown lady with rainbow hair, a distorted face, and a frilly white dress reassembled and proceeded to write her name on the chalkboard. As she wrote, she sang a “happy birthday” style rendition of her class greeting in a condescending, Shakespearean voice. “Good morning to you. Good morning to you. Good morning dear children…”

She signaled for her students to speak up with a wave of her hand. And true to form, they completed the song in perfect unison with, “Good morning to you!”

“Very good, dear children!” said the teacher while curtseying, still using her hammy stage voice. “My name is Aloysius Striker, but you may all call me Mrs. Striker. And my, don’t you all look lovely today! All smiles, tight strings, and not a single misstep in the morning song. No disorder among you all. Do you know why? Because we are all part of something much greater than ourselves. We have the same dreams. The same desires. We are all part of…a community!”

Mrs. Striker quickly erased her name from the board and wrote in its place the word of the day, community. “Now class, would any of you like to tell me what a community is? Don’t be too shy to speak up. Your grade depends on it!” The last sentence was punctuated with a mock whip strike with her piece of chalk.

All at once, the puppets rotated their heads three hundred sixty degrees and said, “A community is a gathering of people who have something in common!”

“Excellent, children! You’ve made me very proud already! But what are some examples of communities? Oh, do please speak up. We’re all part of a community, after all!” sang Mrs. Striker.

“Churches!” said the puppets, to which Mrs. Striker gave a celebratory, “Yes!” and quickly chalked it on the board. Other examples the children gave were shopping centers, police departments, congress, and yes, even school. That last answer sent an orgasmic chill throughout Mrs. Striker’s puppet body. She even gave a sing-songy laugh.

And then the teacher’s demonic smile turned to a saggy frown when she saw one student in the back corner of the class with his head tucked firmly in his hands. No puppet strings, no puppet face, no handsome tuxedo, just a shadow silhouette and glowing green eyes. Mrs. Striker tiptoed towards this lonely student like a ballerina and towered over him with a vengeful sneer.

“Look who decided to join us today, class. Mr. Scott George, the so-called introvert! The so-called shy guy! The little boy who hasn’t crackled a smile since the day he was born! Let me show you how it’s done, Mr. George!” The children’s heads turned one hundred eighty degrees and their puppet strings morphed their faces into insane grins with monstrous teeth and worms in the backs of their throats. “See? It’s not so hard, little Scotty! But in all seriousness, why haven’t you spoke up with the rest of the class? Don’t you want to be part of a community?”

Surveying the ghastly smiles around him, Scott brushed his teacher off with his hand and said, “Not really.”

Mrs. Striker’s elongated nose touched with Scott’s forehead before she chirped, “Well, that’s tough cookies, Mr. George! Your grade depends on your participation! Your ability to get a job depends on your sociability! You are indeed part of this society whether you want to be or not!”

The teacher clutched Scott’s wrist with a death grip as she dragged the shadowy student kicking and screaming towards the chalkboard, all while the puppet students pointed and laughed at him. By the time Scott made it to the chalkboard, Mrs. Striker grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to pull him up and placed the piece of chalk in his hand. “Now then! This is your next assignment, Mr. George, and you shall not screw this up for your fellow students, but most of all, for me! I want you to write on this blackboard another example of a community! Post-haste! Chop-chop!”

Scott George shivered and cowered, barely able to keep the chalk in his hands while the students giggled at him through their noses and closed mouths. Sweat poured off of him like rain while the purple lighting turned to a single bright halogen spotlight on him. He swallowed hard and stared at the chalkboard like a monkey doing a math problem. All of these examples of a community and he couldn’t come up with one…until he piggybacked off of the shopping center answer.

With slow precision and squeakiness that made the puppet children squint and hold their ears, Scott wrote something on the chalkboard without actually seeing what it was. It seemed as though hours went by and a whole tidal wave of sweat poured off of his body. But then he finished writing what he was going to write and breathed an anxiety-crushing sigh of relief. The pregnancy-sized knot reformed in his stomach when Scott saw the children laughing their asses off as well as Mrs. Striker staring at the blackboard in wide-eyed horror. “Shopping carts?!” she cried in disbelief. “Shopping carts?!”

As the laughter got louder and Mrs. Striker’s dramatic sighs grew more obvious, Scott’s crippling anxiety morphed into white hot rage. His boiling blood gave third degree burns on his tender flesh. His neon green eyes bulged out of their sockets. Every vein in his arms and forehead looked like a stick of dynamite ready to blow. His fists were clenched tightly enough to turn even the strongest metals into powder.

In one volcanic scream, he belted, “Shut up!” before picking up a text book off of a student’s desk and smashing him over the head with it. The teacher and students alike gasped in horror as the unfortunate student’s head exploded into a pile of worms and maggots, his body limp and lifeless. The puppet strings had no choice but to pull him into the heavens while Scott watched in horror at his own sins. Students cried maggots out of their eyeballs while Mrs. Striker sobbed blood.

“Oh, Scott! How could you do such a thing to your own community?!” asked the teacher. “Now the whole system is going to crash down upon us! Why, oh, why! WHY?!” With his head hung and his voice sheepishly low, Scott muttered a nearly incoherent apology before Mrs. Striker burst into flames and clutched his wrist with purpling tightness yet again. “Oh, I’m afraid an apology’s not going to be enough, Mr. George! You’ve been causing grief to my class for far too long! Your refusal to obey even the simplest commands makes me sick to my stomach! I’m afraid there’s only one thing left to do!”

The puppet strings yanked every child back into the heavens while the classroom burst into a fiery hell all around Mrs. Striker and the convulsing Scott George. The teacher smashed every desk into splinters with one punch and in their place ascended a torture chair with leather straps and a ball gag.

“No, Mrs. Striker! Have mercy on me! I’ll be a good boy! I promise!” pleaded Scott, who was bound and gagged to the chair with constricting tightness. He tried to thrash around and break free, but with a ball gag cutting off his air supply, he quickly became exhausted. It became even harder to breathe when Mrs. Striker shoved a funnel up one of his nostrils and held it in place with duct tape.

“You’re going to conform, Mr. George, whether you want to or not!” warned Mrs. Striker in a deep, devilish voice. She tore open the flesh on her own wrist and pulled out a handful of worms with razor sharp fangs and hooks. Scott tried once again to squirm and thrash in his bindings, but they only cut deeper into his skin. With a sick smile and Scott’s gagged pleas, Mrs. Striker shoved the razorblade worms into the funnel and watched them fest up his nose and into his brain. The children descended back down into the hellfire scene and repeatedly chanted along with the teacher, “One of us!”

After an eternity of having his skull feasted on, the present day eighteen-year-old Scott George awoke from his nightmare with a deep gasp of air and pulsating nausea. As soon as he caught his breath, the teenager looked around the room for his digital clock, which read five-thirty in the morning. Relieved that this was a dream and that he still had hours before he had to get up for school, Scott plopped backwards into his bed and burped his nausea away.

“Why does this keep happening?” Scott whispered to himself. “I hate falling asleep.” Tears formed in his eyes when he realized that the only thing fake about his nightmare was the psychedelic backdrop in which it took place. He never dropped acid or smoked marijuana a day in his life. Why was he being punished for it? And most of all, why did he have to take a United States history class with a teacher who was basically Mrs. Striker with a penis?

Knowing that class was his first period of the day caused Scott to skyrocket out of his bed and dry heave in his garbage bucket. No matter how hard he puked, all that came out of his mouth was tiny streams of snot and orange stuff he couldn’t identify. Once he had finished, he sat next to his desk and breathed heavily while fighting the urge to go back to sleep. “Goddamn you, Mr. Simpson,” whispered Scott. “Why doesn’t somebody go Columbine on his ass already?”