I just wrote this, inspired by the reenactment group's idea of the 'Sleeping Lions' game.
I’m very tired
Night light on
Wrapped up tight
I feel happy now
Not a sound
Moon shines in
On my own
I feel safe now
Big strong wind
Creaking floorboards
Footsteps heard
I feel scared now
Someone’s coming
Heavy breathing
Someone’s crying
I feel upset now
I’m a sleeping lion
It’s just a game
It’s only mum
I feel excited now
My door opens
I close my eyes
Why so quiet?
I’m dead now
Over the past 15 years, Ventura County has seen only a few cases. In 1995, Michael Sasse of Simi Valley shot and killed his two children, ages 3 and 4, before committing suicide. He apparently was distraught that his marriage was ending and killed the children during a custody visit.
Cora Caro was convicted and sent to death row for shooting to death three of her four sons in 1999 as they slept in their beds in their Santa Rosa Valley home. Prosecutors argued she killed the children as an act of revenge against her husband for their troubled marriage.
Narinder Kaur Virk of Port Hueneme was convicted in 2002 of trying to kill her two children but was found not guilty because she was legally insane. Virk pushed her two children into the cold waters of Channel Islands Harbor in 2000 before jumping in herself, but all three survived. Her attorneys claimed she was the victim of physical abuse by her husband, allegations he denied.
If I breathe on a window and write my name in the mist, it looks backwards from the other side; everything looks backwards. Draw a halo around my face, so I look outwardly divine; the fogged glass clouding, ghosting the grimace into a smile. A crying angel; my morals dashed and destitute shattered remains lie on the pain, cutting. Deep. In. If I try to crawl through the window. All hope left with you, packed in your suit case and pulled through the door, a pathetic squeak from the wheels and another from me. Draw on horns now, two sharpened points of will and malice, ready to rip, rendering flesh to fulfil vengeance. It's not a grimace, it's a grin; teeth bared and pleased to see you, comfort to conflict, presence to pursuit, and I'm pleased. Alchemy. My breath into images and loss into life, with this knife; a sharp blade to fade promises made, nights and days spent and children heaven sent, into hot steam; passion into passing, vice to vendetta, draw a palm swiftly over the glass so it is a clear view to freedom; I don't need you anymore. Now I need your tears.
He went away. She says he never grew up, but he's much older than me. I still have a blanket. I have a red blanket; a red blanket with a pattern made to keep all the monsters away. He said it was made out of lots of love; that each stitch of the pattern was made just for me. It was warm, and soft, and kept me safe and tucked in tight. But it got old. I ruined it. It got ruined. I sucked the corners when I was alone and scared, and all the die would come out in my mouth, and turn my lips bright red as it got paler, and paler; so now it's all pale, pointy and sharp; the corners itch and scratch, and leave little red lines all over me. When I got angry I'd stamp on it; I'd stamp it in dust and in dirt and in muddy puddles; It got all hard and faded, and the stains will never wash out. Now you can't trace the pattern, it's all blurry and hard to see. The angrier I was the harder it got, and the lonelier I got the sharper it was, until it was just a hard and sharp thing; it's not my blanket anymore, it's not all soft and warm; it's just a something that slows me down wherever I take it; it makes me trip when I try to run, so I hit the floor and get all caught up in it; its heavy to carry now, when I'm under it, it feels dark and close, it gets hard to breathe, I might choke. I wish I had a new one; I wish I had one that was still soft and warm, that didn't remind me of when I was angry, or scared, or lonely; But I still have it, the old one, I still hide under it; pull it tight so no one can see me when I don't want to be seen, and to keep out the cold and the lonely's. Mummy says it'll only get sharper and harder now, that I love it too much; so too much love must be a bad thing. Maybe it was made from too much love; maybe it is a bad thing. She says I'll have to grow out of it, or never grow up. But I need it, or a new one; one that's still soft and warm. I need it because he went away. She says he never grew up, but he's much older than me. I still have a blanket, and I think he does too, but I think I'll throw mine away.
In the light we play. In the light we laugh. This is our house, and this is our garden. This is where we live. We all live here. One big family. That's the sun. It is shining outside, it has a warm and smiling face for everyone to see; that's the grass, it is bright green, and these are new flowers growing up from the dirt. Inside its much more dark, darker than it looks from outside. Only a little light comes in through the windows, it can be very scary. Very scary, when it gets dark inside; even though it's a lovely house, and looks so nice from outside. In the dark all the monsters come out, they hide in the light pretending to be curtains, and chairs, and sometimes they hide in people too. There are no bright flowers inside, and the suns big bright smile is harder to see; this is our living room, but sometimes there's no one in it, there are some corners we aren't allowed to go. In that corner is our play pen, all the light shines in through the top and the sides; sometimes you can see shadows on the side; the shadows of mummy and daddy as they walk past, the shadows of the grownups. Their shadows sometimes look bigger than they are. Sometimes we peer over the edge, and look out at the living room, where all the grownups are. We can watch them, we can see them, we can see much more than their shadows. They teach us all we know. We learn and we remember. We always remember. We see everything. We remember everything. Can you see?
It's not like that. It was, but it's not like that now. React and react and react and react and react; pushing leads to being hurt. Eyes meet across a room; there is something in that, a flickering, firing sensation in the stomach, an exciting rush, the cool rush of night air, the crease at the corner of a lip, and then the eyes drop slowly to the floor, and that feeling fades like the moon at dawn. But it pulls you in, a tide across a shore drawing tiny grains of you back out with it, inching away at you, shrinking you with each lusting wave, to drown and drown and drown and drown and drown; a fuck. More than that. Cold words like harder, yes, don't stop, and fuck me. Yes there cold words, but cold words on warm breath, warm breath into burning ears; Sweat and matted hair, cloying hands on hot, sweet tasting skin, rhythm is everything, and everything is rhythm, just before the whole world seizes and it your both just blood rushing, muscles clenched and sighs caught in the throat, your no-one and everyone, nowhere and everywhere for a fraction of a second. And then? Well, then it's just a fuck; like the sand you're just carried away and washed up on a different shore, the mystery gone with another mystical moment. Now there are waves of guilt and uncertainty, questions and insecurity; as they build they become bitterness, resentment, hate, and worst of all, disillusion and boredom; a tsunami insurmountable gasping for breath as the rejection and disappointment fight each other to pull you to your death, to pull you down. Spare me another pull from this. I want something enduring, I want something that will last forever, I want that security and sense of purpose, I want that, need that feeling of hearts beating together, breath drawn in unison to last for a life time and beyond! An orgasm is an infinite second but love is a second for infinity, there is no reason in either but one has the grace of a child, and the other the leer of a whore. Just ten more seconds of this, please, count them so I can feel them slip away, and remember the quality of each one as it passes. But it's not like that. It was, but it's not like that now. React and react and react and react and react; pushing leads to being hurt. An orgasm is an infinite second but love is a second for infinity, and both these crimes hold a life sentence; but do I really deserve to pay this much for a lesson? I have suffered enough. Please spare me from this madness; I can't be alone.
I love you mummy. Not because you are good or kind but unconditionally because you are my mummy.
Dead. Murdered. Slain. Slashed. Scared. Tortured. Dead.
Turn around, open your eyes see what you have done.
Look upon their twisted bodies.
See their eyes rolled back, mad whites drowning in pools of blood.
Howls of pain etched eternally on their little faces.
No more to play carefree games of child hood.
No more laughter. Not more cries of mummy.
You say you can do this, but how, how can you Medea kill this part of you, your children? As you kill their life you pass on yourself a life sentence and I hope you hand in misery for your actions.
ip dip dog shit hanging from a mothers tit,
if it squeals, let it go,
or
pop a pill and let it flow;
out of your body into a pile of dripping, deceased, dense, drooling blood.
Liam, age 6.
Round and round the garden like a teddy bear, one step, two step, abort it out of there.
Rosie, age 12.
This little piggy went to black market,
this little piggy stayed at home,
this little piggy got coat hangered,
this little piggy got stoned,
and this little piggy went wee wee wee wee,
more wee? no.
period? no.
baby in a bath of your abortion addiction? yes.
Lauren, age 7. Daniel, her twin brother, also age 7. Dominic, age 14. Peter, age 13. Saffron-May, age 12.
Ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of babies, in a tissue, a kleenex tissue, they all fall down.
Toby, age 4. Terri, age 3 and a bit. Alex, age 8. Emma, age 16.
Jack and Jill went up the fallopian.
What's so good about that?
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
the careless, clumsy brat.
Jack, age 15. Jill, age 15 months.
Baa Baa black kid, have you any pulse?
Yes Sir, No Sir, but I've got three bags full of brothers and sisters also pulse-less?
Robert-Ray, age 18 and his dead sister Joy, age 6 months.
Itsy bitsy baby climbed up the umbilical spout,
the medicine came down,
to throw her to the ground,
and flushed the baby out.
Mellani, age 2.
Old Mother Hubbard went into the cupboard and when she came out she was a mother no more.
Louise, age 10.
Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.
Mary had a little lass,
her fleece was white as snow,
but she was an accident,
so she too,
had to go.
Florence, age 5.
By Lauren Gauge, age 20.
October 20th, 2009.
Hi.
Not massively related to tragedy or child abuse I suppose. But it fascinates me this sort of program…how do we know who we are? Regardless of religious or non religious belief the scientific exploration is fascinating!! I think!!
xx
Hello.
"Playground school bell rings again
