King Series 2: 'The Shining'

I.

Deep within the Colorado peaks,

Enchanted by an evil, haunting spell;

Quietly, it waits out winter's weeks:

The ever-hungry Overlook Hotel. 

Thinking it ideal for privacy;

Remote and cozy, comfortable and warm,

The writer's rage and loose sobriety

Combined with all the ghosts -- a perfect storm.

Little Danny, with his little shine,

Sees the danger coming right away --

Along with chills along his little spine;

Far from dull, but far more work than play...

Yet of all the nightmares Danny's seen,

Nothing beats what's in 217.

II. 

Dick Halloran (the hotel's humble cook),

Taking notice of the psychic lad,

Shows him how to beat the Overlook

Without the side effect of going mad:

"The Shining's what we call our little skill,

What someone else might label 'ESP';

Premonitions, visions warm or chill,

Don't worry none - they're harmless as can be.

But if the Shining is too much to bear,

Or things go bad, beyond a boy's control,

You call me -- I'll come from anywhere --

I promise you, on my immortal soul.

Keep your wits about you, little man;

And try to stay as hidden as you can."

III.

While Danny and his trike make fast retreat,

The ghosts chase after Jack Torrance instead;

Infecting every hall and every suite,

Planting murd'rous thoughts inside his head. 

Cabin fever slowly closes in,

Driving angry Jack straight up the wall;

His self-control, already paper thin,

Made worse by poltergeists and alchohol.

Poor Torrances -- their fate so nearly sealed --

Running for their lives, through screaming tears;

Awful, how a plan can run afield,

And transform hopes and dreams to darkest fears.

As Jack (possessed) hunts down his wife and kid;

The hotel boiler's 'bout to flip its lid....

IV.

Running for their lives, knee-deep in snow,

Danny, Mom and Mr. Halloran,

Run as quickly as their legs can go

T'escape from Jack -- the hotel's bogeyman.

Yet somehow, Danny's dad still lingers there

Under all the curses of this place;

To help his son to run away somewhere, 

Jack slams the mallet into his own face.

"THE BOILER!", cries the little psychic boy

"It's overloaded, Dad -- it's got to vent!"

(All part of the hotel's haunting ploy:

Kill them all, with bloodthirsty intent.)

Scrambling t'ward a hellish, ugly fate, 

Jack gets to the boiler -- but too late.

V. 

The dark of winter's night comes silently

As Danny and his mom hide in the drift;

Froze with fear and cold anxiety,

And powerless, even with his gift.

Every second that they sit and freeze

Is one more second closer to the end;

The Overlook, along with its disease,

About to be summarily condemned.

Then finally, the old boiler explodes,

Taking Mr. Torrance in the blaze;

While Danny and his mother hit the roads,

Bound for better places, better days...

...But what we sow, one day too shall we reap

(In 30 years, he's known as Doctor Sleep).

--- fin ---

© Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

"The Shining" is © Stephen King, 1977.

Ache

What cruelty couldst I have earned

To suffer, night by night;

Whose malice hath I earned

To be so flatly spurned,

And for my suffering unconcerned?

If lesson be, have I not learned?

Is no end yet in sight?

Against each wretched, painful bloom

I wince with quiet cry;

Curse this mortal tomb --

This horrid, toxic womb --

Please-- just take me to my doom

Let not my light the dark consume --

Lest my soul ossify.

O, to wield a surgeon's knife

And slice my spinal cord;

As freed from pain and strife

As any other life --

If not, then let me leave this fief,

Escape this shell of torments rife,

And fall upon a sword!

Drastic, yes -- or better yet, 

Have both legs removed;

I'll bleed and scream and sweat,

But pay in full the debt --

Keep my senses keenly whet,

And take what respite I can get

To have my life improved!

But alas, this is my fate:

Rot in private hell;

Locked in mutual hate,

(A furious stalemate);

Nothing left to do but wait,

End it now, or amputate

And all my woes dispel.

Nearer to the witching hour,

My faculties unsound,

Of circumstances dour,

I beg and plead and cow'r 

Summon forth whatever pow'r

Remains within my ivory tow'r,

Waiting to be found.

To fight it is to no avail,

This ever-shrieking ache;

My bones so tired and frail

Behind my painful veil

No matter how I scream and wail,

Agony e'er shall prevail --

And all my spirits break.

---

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Strand

How perfectly her curl of hair

Spirals down, as light as air

Sways and twirls while hung in place

And brings to life her lovely face

Exquisite when, struck by surprise

Her eyebrows furrow, twist and rise

Briefest tickling on the nose

Sends it crinkling-- there it goes

Sometimes, when she's lying there

I'll sweep away that wayward hair

And hear her gently whispered coo,

"Thank you, darling... love you too."

---

- J.

Abby the Stabby - 13 (Final)

It's three in the morning, and no one's awake,

But Abby the Stabby's had all she can take;

But first a quick detour, to see mother dear,

And whisper so quietly into her ear,

"Wake up," she mutters, fist wrapped in mom's hair,

Duct taping her to an old kitchen chair,

"I'm going to kill him tonight. You should know

How the whole evening is going to go:

First you and I (I'll drag you, don't worry--

I've got enough time, so there's no need to hurry)

Are going to go see your precious boyfriend:

I want you to watch his life come to an end.

This monster, who revelled in violence and rape,

I'm going to peel off his skin like a grape,

And you need to see it. Keep your eyes open,

Unless you don't mind if your fingers are broken."

(Mom's screaming her head off, for all that it matters;

The tape keeps her quiet until her hope shatters),

"It won't make a difference -- your boy is too wasted --

The end is so near, Mom... so close I can taste it;

And when all the violence and murder is done,

With just you and me left to wait for the sun,

I'll beat you until your life hangs off the edge,

Then bash in your skull with a twenty pound sledge;

I know, mom. I'm sorry -- but unfortunately,

This is the way things are going to be;

Don't try to lie (I can smell your denial),

Each word that you say makes you all the more vile.

You sold me out, Mother -- sold me to HIM,

And gave him a license to follow his whim,

It's all over now, though -- at least for this guy,

If I were you, Mother, I'd say goodbye."

Eyes wide with terror, mouth hung in shock,

Mother goes silent, unable to talk,

Watching as Abby approaches her dude

Remarking, "You looked at me like I was food,

Took what you wanted until you were spent,

Regardless of whether I gave you consent --

Until you got winded and left through the door,

And left me there crying -- well, not anymore.

The knife flashes quickly, in slashes and cuts,

She opens his throat and unzips all his guts

Arms flailing wildly, blood coating the walls

(I can't even say what she did to his balls...)

And once he's exhaled for the very last time

(A moment that signals the end of this rhyme),

She cuts Mother free, with nothing to say,

And waits for the white coats to take her away...

<fin>

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Abby the Stabby - 12

"Now just a damn minute," says Abby, irate,

"As if I don't have quite enough on my plate,

I can't catch a break, even in my own dreams --

Everyone's bent on my misery, it seems --

All that I want is to rest for a while,

But no, no. Not until I've been put on trial!"

Collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands,

"I shall never escape these ridiculous lands!

At least not with all of my senses intact,

Or my head still attached, as a matter of fact..."

"And on that," the King said, "and all of this business,

What do you know of it? What did you witness

From up on your high horse, a mile high (plus two)?

Too lofty, I think," citing rule 42:

"Anyone higher than one mile tall,

Isn't allowed to be in here at all."

"I don't know a thing, and I'm perfectly short --

Which isn't a crime to be taken to court --

And anyway, I'm not a liar or thief,

(I can't even steal a few hours of relief);

And what of the Knave? Why separate his dome

For just being hungry? Let him go home,

And let's all agree that this thing is a farce

Grown out of control, the order gone sparse."

"Too late," screeched the Queen, "The verdict is next!

Read it this instant!" her expression vexed,

"I will have justice! Now who'll be beheaded?!"

(As Abby the Stabby's patience is shredded);

"I've had quite enough of your ranting and raving

And punishing others with how you're behaving--

I'm all out of tears, and I'm all out of gas,

And just about ready to kick royal ass!

Ridiculous land with the strangest of folk --

I'm done being someone's idea of a joke --

So YOU, my dear Queen, and your King and your guards

Are nothing at all but a cruel deck of cards!"

"OFF WITH HER HEAD!" shouted her Majesty,

"I've never been spoken to so hurtfully,

No one would dare, and I'll show you why,"

As all of the cards rose up into the sky,

Crashed down on Abby as she began screaming,

Praying she's done with this terrible dreaming--

Not out of fear, but more of frustration

Impatient to realize her deadly fixation

When jarred wide awake by her mental distress,

She sits up in bed, her appearance a mess,

Fakes a big smile like a good little actress,

And pulls a huge butcher knife out of the mattress....

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Abby the Stabby - 11

The Queen's face grows purple, her expression hardens,

The King runs about, quickly handing out pardons, 

Until - the game called on account of a crime

Committed while everyone'd had their good time;

Then, sat on their thrones, to the whole city-state,

The Queen bellowed, "Who shall I decapitate?

Who's the defendant, and what did he do,

And is there a reason I care (maybe two)?

Bring me the prisoner! Off with his head,

And if not that one, someone else's instead!"

Called the White Rabbit, "Hear ye, hear ye --

(While blowing his trumpet, most annoyingly), 

Someone has eaten the Queen's royal tarts,

And that someone's name is the Knave of the Hearts!

He tried to escape, but to no avail --

Let justice (or something else like it) prevail!"

‘Why put him in chains, and punish him further?

He took a few tarts to eat -- hardly a murder,

Or anything worth this degree of assault,

And how do they know that it's even his fault?

This isn't a trial, it's a farce -- a lampoon,

And ever so boring (please let me wake soon); 

The jury's no more than some critters and birds

(Most of them probably don't know many words),

The King is the judge, but he doesn't say much, 

(Not with the Queen's endless ranting and such) --

And all because Mom's (I mean Queen's) rage exploded,

Demanding that someone be coldly railroaded?’

"Your Highness, I'm sorry -- I don't understand:

Are crimes always handled this way in your land?"

"How dare you meddle in our royal business,"

The Queen bellowed, "Now then -- let's have the first witness!

They each testified, one after another

(Careful to not contradict one another),

Worried their skulls would be fast liberated

Should anyone's side become hotly debated;

The Hatter, the Dormouse, and froggy-eyed cook

All gave their sides of it (swore on the Book), 

Till Abby felt scared that the noise wouldn't end

And the chaos would make her frail sanity bend

"Please," she implores, "I can't watch such a lynch!

You've no call to behead this man -- not a pinch!"

"And what do you know," squeaked the short little King,

"Of who should or shouldn't decide on a thing?

Are you a Queen, or even Princess?

Are you responsible for this whole mess?

"No," Abby cried, trying her best to smile,

But Queen screamed out, "LIAR! Put her on trial!"

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

'My Juliet' Part 3 Outline (Revised; Final)

3:10

Poet's learned exactly what she needs,

And just how far to escalate, until

Her pleasure's hit the peak -- he then exceeds

Just enough to boil, but not to spill.

He's fostered, in her bliss, a sort of tantra;

Turning it up slowly, like a dial --

'Just a litte more' his chosen mantra,

Driving her to shrieking, with a smile.

All the while, he whispers in her ear,

Reminding her: to him he'll e'er belong,

Protected and well pleased, his Juliet dear,

Coaxing her orgasm, fierce and strong.

And as her screaming drives him ever stiff,

Together they tip o'er passion's cliff.

----

3 :11

The two experiment with many things;

Cuffs and blindfolds, outfits and role play,

Months of tuning all their sexual strings,

Achieving better harmony every day.

The cardinal rules (and roles) always remain;

Poet is the 'Dom', and she submits --

They reinforce this, o'er and o'er again,

The raw, unbridled want -- it never quits.

Yet love through their adventure permeates,

A mutual admiration and respect;

Their need for true affection ne'er abates,

A comfort to which no one would object.

So perfectly their passions coalesce;

We could dwell longer here - but I digress.

----

3:12

She travels to her office, newly born:

Her confidence and prowess well-restored,

Heads turn as she walks by, attentions torn,

Though all of their advances she's ignored.

She's become a very different girl

Than the nervous one she used to be.

Her time with Poet's caused her to unfurl,

Blossoming in full, for all to see.

Always smiling, genuine and pure,

Her happiness and light doth day imbue,

'Tis more than most men easily endure,

But those who fail, learn quickly: 'not for you'.

For though immune to all who set their sights,

One text from Poet, and her flame ignites.

----

3:13

Every word he says weakens her knees,

Whether through her phone or face to face,

Such a lovely thing, his need to tease,

With but a word, she's stuck -- frozen in place.

Because he'd ne'er abuse or compromise

Her livelihood, her safety or her trust,

She obeys with pleased, determined eyes

Everything requested, for she must.

Every working interaction scripted,

So as to stay detached, but e'er polite;

Every compliment gently evicted,

Until she finally arrives home at night.

Once in the door, her master's name she'll call,

Whereupon she's pinned, gasping, to the wall.

3:14

He pleases her in ways she can't describe,

Stripping her until her skin is bare,

His hands and lips so gleefully imbibe,

Until she begs him take her standing there.

Often this is how her workday ends,

At the wall, or couch, or kitchen floor,

Insatiably, hungrily, he attends

To her every pent up need, and more.

Afterward, they do their couply stuff,

Go for walks, go shopping, see a show,

And once they both decide they've had enough,

They head for home, to bathe in passion's glow.

The perfect couple, it would rightly seem,

Holding hands, their faces so agleam.

3:15

For Poet, this is all a dream made real;

The perfect woman, grateful to be his,

Beauty, cleverness and sex appeal,

She's taught him how to realize who he is.

Thinking backward, to his former self,

Alone and undervalued, made to grunt

His way through life, always on the shelf,

Never seen as more than bleating runt.

Poet's not the man he was before.

He's well respected, well fed, free of debt;

He doesn't need to struggle anymore,

And owes most all of that to Juliet.

His heart brims over when he thinks of her,

Especially when he hears her lovely purr.

3 : 16

A year or so has passed -- how quick it flies

When in the wake of lovers' copulation;

She rises first, as next to her he lies,

And lets him sleep (as is her usual fashion)...

She leaves a hasty note, in the event

His need for her awakens, and he comes

Claiming her attention, e'er unspent

(At the thought of that, desire thrums)...

And out the door, to do the morning run

(Just as she has countless times before),

Smiling as she greets the rising sun,

Filled to brim with love for troubador...

By all accounts, a fairly average day,

Sadly, though, it didn't end that way.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Abby the Stabby - 10

Exhausted and frightened, and all out of poise,

Abigail finally escapes from the noise

Through a small hallway and out a small door,

Leading to someplace she's not seen before:

A beautiful garden of pretty white roses,

"How lovely it seems here," Abby supposes,

"With flowers and fountains, sweet little birds,

With none of the nonsense (and no nonsense words).

I could stay here forever'n a day --

Perhaps I'll come back here, and maybe I'll stay,

But what of those gardeners, painting the flowers?

Planting red roses would take fewer hours,

And why would they choose to paint red over white,

When all coloured flowers are coloured just right?

"Why would you ruin the flowers like this?

Don't you think someone will see what's amiss?"

White and red petals fly out in soft shards

(The gardeners, meanwhile, are all playing cards:

A Two and a Seven, while Five keeps a watch, 

Hoping the Queen won't acknowledge the botch)

Said the one with the 2, "Unfortunately,

"We've screwed up quite badly, and Queen mustn't see;

"We had misplanted the whites for the reds,

And if she finds out, we'll all lose our heads --

And so, out of fear, this is what we must do;

We don't have much time -- three minutes (plus two)!

"Fewer, said Five in a fervent refrain,

"The Queen shall be here, and her whole royal train, 

Any moment, and we don't know what else to say;

I hope she won't notice, and just play croquet, 

But probably not -- she's too mean and too large

And never forgets to tell us who's in charge."

"My goodness," says Abby, "How selfish and crass!

What kind of person spreads terror en masse,

Demanding their way, lest she act just like Mother;

Get everyone screaming and hurting each other,

Then watch the scene closely, with acuity,

Then punish dissent with abject cruelty;

A perfect illusion that must be sustained

No matter how badly the truth is bloodstained

Or who she holds liable for things that go wrong 

(Though never the boyfriend, who sings a good song);

Usually her father, long gone from the scene,

Whose absence forced Duchess to become the Queen,

And left without any of Daddy's safeguards,

The whole thing fell down like a weak house of cards;

Smacked and knocked round like a wild croquet ball,

Abby's done playing now, once and for all.

----

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

Compatible Monsters (Revised); Teaser

(Poet's Note: This is a revision of the original piece, which was written in non-rhyming Narrative Verse, similar to Shakespeare's plays. I found that while it told the story, it lacked a certain flair that I try to infuse into my work - so I'm going to rewrite it using a more appropriate form: the "Cambridge Sonnet". Below is the first stanza, which sets a much better tone, and it's the only part of the revision I'm going to share here (the full piece will be included in the next poetry collection. - J.)

Trickling sweat from every tiny pore

        Curled into a ball, chin to her knees

                 Too exhausted yet to scrutinize...

Water droplets 'plink' on concrete floor

        Antiseptic hangs thick on the breeze,

                  Motionless, she opens both her eyes,

                          To a place she doesn't recognize.

How did she land in this tiny cell,

        A single shaft of light with which to see,

That godforsaken, awful cleanser smell,

        And just her rage to keep her company?

                But wait -- a quiet sound beyond the wall

                        Tells her she's not here alone at all.

---

- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016.

'My Juliet' - Part 3 Outline (Revised)

3 : 5

From bed, he watches Juliet fold the note,

Holding it so fondly to her chest,

Watching her breathe in the words he wrote;

And rolls his eyes (girl crushing at its best).

Her finger draws a heart in mirror's steam,

Wet hair drips hot water on the tile,

She meets his gaze and grins, her eyes a-scheme,

Determined to make Poet's stare worthwhile.

Reminiscing last night's revelry,

How wonderful -- her every pleasure claimed!

Driven o'er and o'er to ecstasy,

Her every bliss so fervently exclaimed.

A quiet breath, her lip seized in her teeth,

Her slender, eager fingers probbe beneath.

----

3 : 6

The memory: bathed in sunset's hue,

Poet casually lies on the duvet,

Grinning slightly, taking in the view

Above him: goddess in green negligée.

She starts with simple kiss on bottom lip,

Tastes her way down, over chin and throat,

Moans as gentle hand squeezes her hip,

Shuddering at that one exquisite note.

(He marvels at her little private show,

Allowing her to tease him, just enough;

While knowing just how far he'll let her go,

To escalate the scene to hard and rough.)

Incendiary, all these pleasures felt;

As both of them ascend, and bodies melt.

----

3:7

Knelt on him, unbuttoning his shirt,

His gentle fingers dancing 'cross her waist

She does her best to give him his dessert:

She feels him under there, and wants a taste.

O'er his abs and to the space below;

She feels his pleasure stiffen 'neath her chin,

(Her forehead damp with sweat, her cheeks aglow,

Fingers busy, stoking fire within...)

At last, her Poet's fullness takes the stage,

Patiently, she gives her full regard,

(Her heat a furnace, too intense to gauge,

She grips the bathroom counter, breathing hard...)

Soft, she greets his stiffness with a kiss,

(Welcoming the coming wave of bliss.)

----

3:8

At her touch it throbs, his breath a shake,

Fist tightens in her hair -- she gives a cry,

(While Poet, every nerve alive, awake,

Feels that pulse -- the one he can't deny.)

One slow lick, from base to glistening tip,

Till finally, her eager lips descend,

(Stifling bliss, she bites down on her lip  --

Thighs tremble as her knees begin to bend...)

Eagerly and hungrily, her mouth

Devours every inch of Poet's lust,

(Her explosion looming farther south,

As Poet watches fingers probe and thrust...)

And just as both orgasms come to blow,

Both Poets (past and present) utter, "No."

----

3:9

She stops, wincing as the pleasure stalls,

Closes both her eyes and whispers, "Please..."

(As in the memory, Poet gently calls,

"No, darling.... it's my turn now to tease.")

He bids her come to join him on the bed,

His fingers now well-practiced at this game,

And memory and reality in her head

Merge, as dreamily, she sighs his name.

He knows just how to touch and where to linger,

To show her just how pleasure ought to feel;

So talented with every patient finger,

His expertise her true Achilles' heel...

Until, pushed further than ever before,

He lifts her onto him, and gives her more.

----

© Jackson Cambridge, 2016.