John Tennent Writes

"Weltgeist" You wake to a cold morning light, dull, frigid; A pallor has crept around your visage. The Ghost comes again, the world-spirit Crashing down on you, I can still hear it Draining, feeding, pulling from you your light. Where has it gone? You always were so bright. This world, this Ghost, has ever been a part Of all our many lives, and from the start It has been tearing us to shreds, but now It is time to rise up, to fight the Ghost And prove that we can survive and thrive, how Powerful we can be, and as a host Of humans, we must find the goodness, bow To the moments that will never be lost.

“A Man Converses with his Self.” Mark sat down hesitantly, watching the other’s eyes follow his every move. He quickly scanned the strange room, discerning nothing more than the firm, oaken wood of the table and chairs. All about him was static, a blizzard of gray and white with a familiar hiss. He was deliberate in his movements, careful not to give anything away; shouldn't he know everything about himself? How poorly we understand ourselves when we get down to it. “Umm, hey,” Mark’s voice cracked from the strain. “Haven’t talked in a while have we?” he answered. “I guess I've been a little busy.” Mark gripped the warm wood tightly. “Too busy for your Self?” Mark’s eyes quickly flicked down. He knew he was right, he hadn’t had a true thought from his own head in months. Who am I becoming? His brain was filled with the musings of a culture that places little value in its vessels. Mark noticed he was watching. “I just have a lot going on. It’s hard bein...

I stand out along the bluffs and the ocean beats across the rocks; in out in out in. The heartbeat of the earth. I feel her again, the waves pounding her memory into my head. The ocean beats its rhythm over and over, pulling me in. I fall, tumbling down to the rocks below. The journey down is a span of lifetimes as I am born again and again; in out in out in. I see the ocean’s foam. I see myself rising out like a god. I am eternal. We are all eternal. My head hits the rocks and my memories spill out, joining with the sea.  Her crooked smile.  Making breakfast.  Watching her walk out the door.  A woman begging for spare change. A dog without someone to hold his leash. A funeral of somebody I used to know. My parents arguing before the car hits us. Our wedding day that would never be, a fragment of a dream. The other man. My first bicycle. Realizing that she is the only one that I could ever possibly love, without knowing how I could love her. Watching the news detai...

This idea cam,e up when I was watching all the sad social media posts at night and wondering why they always start being posted at midnight or so. Why late at night instead of during the day? Night time is when the monsters come out. They’re big and frightening, their long sharp claws gleam red in the moonlight. Some are covered in fur, some scaly. Each monster is unlike the other, except for their hunger. They prowl the town, swallowing people whole. They don’t leave anyone unscathed, and they never get full. Night time is when the monsters come out. I see them when I’m brave enough to look. They slink across the streets; their tails are swishing back and forth. Their mouths drip with saliva, waiting hungrily for their next meal. They growl and grunt, hack and cough, spit and curse. I shake as I watch them hunt, as I watch the people ground to bits between the monsters’ powerful jaws. Night time is when the monsters come out. They lurk in the shadows, waiting for someone to ...

Michael Carrington walked the lonely streets, rifle slung firmly around his shoulder. His boots pounded a staccato beat, the only sound for blocks. It was a ruined city filled with ruined people, a canvas displaying the true nature of these boys turned men. Bullet holes peppered the walls, a tangible reminder of the anger that perforated the city. He stopped at the school. The entire building had been blasted apart, words he could not understand danced behind his eyelids. He was walking through the city when he came upon an enemy soldier, wounded and lying in the street. He watched as the man’s life bubbled out of him in great gasps of pain. He could smell the burnt flesh where a grenade had opened his gut. He watched as the dying man's' blood gurgled out of him, and all Michael could think of was a bottle of champagne being opened. He tried to hate the man but couldn't; everyone feels pain.  His hands trembled as he brought his rifle to bear, his stomach churning. The...