behind, and to the righti.you were a seriesof battles won--kaleidoscopic memoirsof your strength litter the kitchen bench,something to hold on towhen the need's clutching, starving, wasting you awayii.twelve months soberundone by one hourdrunkthe vodka bulletdismantled a personaalready brittle-bonediii.you lovedin jagged pageturns,like tomorrow wasalready a memory,and one day, tomorrowstopped visitingiv.you died on valentine's day;symbolism gifted in the formof a flowing red bouquetand desperate hopelessnessat least, that's whatthey didn't say,once the war ended.
Death WishAuthor's note:I was thinking about how Prime can never die now, after the brouhaha in the aftermath of the '86 movie.And I proceeded to follow that train of thought gleefully off the Emo-Cliff.(I have some ideas for funny drabbles; but emo is easier to write! Ha.)As always, this is set in my personal happy universe...Death WishI visit their tombs today.Again.The catacombs are vast; as I walk through them, the hollow clatter of my footsteps echoes down the long halls, returning to reverberate in my empty spark.I follow the groove that my ever-returning feet have worn into the floor, to pay my respects to the friends who have gone ahead without me.I stop first at the most recently added memorial, and though I know he is no longer here, I whisper, Hello, Ratchet. The able mech wound down in his medbay, as he was teaching a newling apprentice how to hot-wire a transformation sequence. I will miss his gruff amiability.Next I visit a much more ancient mon
seek (FFM 13)He's been searching for as long as I've known him; for what, I'm not sure. I can't quite decide if he's certain. But what I do know is this: he's not finding what he's looking for. So often we play out the same scene, the same routine. It hasn't changed in years, and I expect it will continue to be acted years in the future.Eleven at night, and I'll find him in the library, surrounded by papers. His eyes, they're possessed by a frenzy, a fanaticism. When this happens, I know that we're having one of those nights. I hope that he'll abandon his search, come to bed. He never does. I've given up reprimanding him with any real feeling, and his contempt is only a token gesture. We keep up appearances, but I no longer remember who we think we've been fooling. Ourselves, perhaps.Twelve, and I curl up in the corner with a book or a notepad, but I never read or write. I fixate upon the veins in his hands as he rummages with increasing distress through myriad photographs, document