Hierarchy Of Nonsense

As the morning sun gleams from the horizon, casting a golden glow through the dense canopy of tall, oaky trees, an oxcart squeakily rolls its way along a narrow path. A scrawny figure inside is rattled awake. They rub their eyes and swat away a mosquito from the red outlines of their neck tattoo. Yawning loudly, they haul their body to sit upright with folded legs. The wind races by, rumpling their soft, purple hair. They wash away the fallen leaves from their black cloak, an

George Kampton Henry was raised in a rainforest by penguins. Before the reader rages at the idea that penguins cannot actually exist in rainforests redolent of beetles, baboons, and bears, the reader is encouraged to consider that it is equally unlikely for George Kampton Henry to exist in a rainforest. The penguins, with their fragile, waddling structures, already remain a blotch on the concept of evolution because it is obvious that they are utterly incapable of surviving i

There is a deep ache in my heart, for it sings verses of a poem I cannot understand. I wish I could explain this rhythm to you. It’s like the fog that shelters a dangerous bloodhound ready to tear its victim to shreds. When I close my eyes in the darkness of the night, I hear this deep ache screech out my name. And it hurts, but I don’t know how to live without this melody of tragic verses. What if I am an incomplete poem? What happens once the poem ends? Who am I if not mise

Lief woke up with a startle at 3:00 am and found his body awkwardly stretched out on an apologetic mattress. As Lief’s body coiled itself together and the motes of sleep crust parted way for his red eyes, he noticed that his ceiling was having a stroke. It was reverberating mightily to the beats of an unknown melody. While the punk ceiling seemed to be having the time of its life, the same could not be said for the poor spider writhing in a tiny junction between the ceiling a

Kilgore was commanding an army of shampoo bottles to wage war against the brethren of treacherous soaps frothing in their dishes when it struck him that he was truly lonely. In fact, two days later, after proclaiming the battle with the soap, Kilgore would find himself mocked by three radio hosts wearing black T-shirts pockmarked by curry stains and adorned by the image of an angry man fingering a donkey. This would happen after Kilgore told them about how amidst his bottle w

Maby Gaby was not a happy man. He was a perpetually disturbed and a uniquely depressed patient of a burdensome life that had recently decreed a grave condition upon him, the symptoms of which had rendered him both – mindless and jobless. The day still haunted him. It was a Friday evening when the company representatives had summoned him like a djinni from the wishing lamp that was Maby’s diminutive cubicle. As Maby bustled into the room, a broken lamp hanging on a noose, thre