Johnny Gerbrandt
Bio
Love lifting, love writing, love designing. My journey is a strange one but I love it. learning constantly.
Stories (28/0)
The Veil Torn
As he stood watching the sky fall, she stood back sipping on a small glass of gin nervously crunching down on the ice cubes that were within. Pieces fell in odd color from the sky. However, no change of expression on her face seemed evident. Man, how did it get this far? It seemed like only a few weeks ago that things were normal, now, this. He was totally impressed with how she was taking it. Inside, he was losing it. The sky's falling, really what do we do? He got himself awake. What the hell kind of dream is that? The sky was falling, who is this girl drinking gin?
By Johnny Gerbrandt2 years ago in Fiction
Which Egos Playground
He got up, opened the window, and lit his pipe. He loved the cherry musk flavor of his pipe tobacco. He was in between meetings, his next one was in 20 minutes. So he was getting a couple of draws from his pipe before they came. Plus it helped him think. He had studied for so many years and got so many diplomas, certificates, and degrees, but he still didn’t feel any closer to the answer he had sought out all his life. It was the only reason he got so many different degrees, but so far nothing. At the moment he was working as a child psychologist, but really more of a parapsychologist, however, it was not recognized by the institute he was working for, at the moment. Most if not all the children he is seeing right now, are kids with normal disorders. He was glad to help them get through their struggles, but he was looking for a special kind of disorder which really wasn’t a disorder at all. But it did worry parents. His parents panicked until he stopped telling them things. After that they didn’t look so scared of him. He didn’t like it when they would give him that look. He always felt bad. There was a knock at the door and Paige popped her head in, “Sir your 3 o'clock is here.” “Thanks Paige, give me five, then send them in.” “OK sir.” She closed the door. Arthur snuffed out his pipe and put it away. He closed the window and sat at his desk, got his paper and pen out and waited. The door knocked again, and Paige popped her head in again, “Sir are you ready?” “Yes, I am, let them in, thank you Paige.” He said. Paige let them in and closed the door. Both the mother and the child looked very tense when they came in. “Sit please,” Arthur offered. They both pulled up the chairs and sat down. They had been to see him only one other time and neither of them would talk, so it was a very awkward situation. This time he had a strategy to try and get them to talk. “Hello Mrs Wisemen, how are you?” He held out his hand. She shook his it, “I am good, thank you Mr. Newinstalf,” she replied cheerfully. Then he turned to the little girl, “Good day to you miss Agatha, and how are you?” He held out his hand and she shook it and said, “hi.” “Good, now formals are out of the way, I had wanted to tell you a story about something that happened to me when I was maybe 2 or 3 years old, Miss Agatha.”
By Johnny Gerbrandt2 years ago in Fiction
Our King
I have finally been given the task of completing our history. I was first given this task during the final war, however since I was in charge while the king had recently gone through the emerald door, there was no time for such things. Now all these have come to pass and peace once again is upon us, now I know you find my words off, for as all you know, we have had peace since the last kings were defeated. All things will be clear. we are now in peace and as far as can be seen, there will never be war again. So in comfort and peace of body and mind, I write the history of all things that have come to pass to bring about this great age and to write how it was our king's relentless vision that has made these things possible. In essence, it is the story of our king. Let us begin, our king was born in slavery on the western continent. There are 2 continents the east and west, each one is broken up into provinces 35 in the east .42 in the west. Each continent has a great king that rules the whole continent, and he has leaders and armies that rule each province in his name.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Fiction
The Plight That Lies Ahead
Corrupt caverns of contempt seeping silently into the crevices of the inner dwellings of the mind building barriers of silent valleys, sleeping spirits wafting the essence of immortality, colliding with vibrations of flesh instilling life, the flower has opened herself, her scent permeates the air creating primal instincts the aggression is ensued and life has sprung, who is to hold this gift who is to know this gift and the cycle completes and becomes one once again, who can deny it’s delight, though the task is daunting and not for the faint of heart, crushing, and desperate as tears flow, energy sits compressed awaiting the recoil. Breathe and embrace the pain it is a labour of love, a love that can not ever change will not ever change no matter the plight that lies ahead.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Overwhelmed By The Eyes That Seek Us Out.
Tears of once forgotten folly now enthralled by the dynamic mess of mayhem falling despairingly into dark caverns of convoluted consciousness awaiting the torrents of devastation which flow as an avalanche flowing down a mountain, covering all. As the ick threatens to suffocate or consume we cleave to sanity we grasp for love if it would be given us, hollow eyes searching hoping needing eyes that smile back, how lost can we be in familiar surroundings, very lost for where can our hearts rest when will the sweet release come where we can freely extend ourselves unfettered by insecurities but filled with confident safety, overwhelmed by the eyes that seek us out.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
The Cord
Winnowed orchids arguing not to be isolated from life, to carry delight to the eye however briefly then witheres and disintegrates, tis the sluggish assignment, if this magnificence is the thing that you look for, care for the entire, permit it to keep its cord, so its excellence might be appreciated the full course of the time apportioned such things. The keeping of the climate, the watering, the keeping of the life, might be some work contrasted with the first, wherein the work is short as is the prize, while the later is appreciated to it's full cycle. There is a spot for both. For whose space is unlimited. And some are very delicate in their needs to ensure vitality.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Rubble
Hollowed heroes drifting into immensely grave stricken lands torn asunder by giants of old, billowing clouds loom ominously overhead, caverns of smoldering sacred slur lingerie. Inornate witnesses watching and waiting for their plunder. Delving desperately into the treasure of another, bathing in their glory commemorating shame engulfed by abandonment. The taste of the felling has come and their glory has turned to stone and rot, valor and strength in character has risen and flooded the once dry land barren of fortitude, now coxed to flourish to grow for the shameful have been cast and the valiant stand as does the character that lies within, amidst the mounds of once thought treasure seemingly only to be rubble.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Anew
Once magical overwhelmed by the erosion of self-induced spectrums of shade melding into color, Correcting sight, holding the sound, collecting the draw, incorporating the blue, specific crystals rung influenced by the soft aggression gently sending waves into the ether, hoping for a resistance to match the flow, Long and everlasting not matched or stopped obsessed with the course the task, none may touch, the heat is immense, to intense for the flesh to be near it. This wave rolls past the boundaries into the void bringing it energy, life and exuberance. How now has existence expanded herself again beyond the walls of reality-defying preconceived notions of itself to form anew.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Adversity
The essence of time is in the wind drifting by as we watch the circus unfold entranced by the swagger of inadvertent tales of valor met with insurmountable odds bringing about the quality sought. Subservient thoughts all in toward the evident marker, without direction, is there an archer without a mark, there is not, then so as adversity wages its war valor is born if the soul may stand amidst the maelstrom. On bent knee he sighs as nature's furry beats against him, he rises and stands headlong into thee immense coral of confusion, is there an end and what will it be, he does not quit, he may slip, trip, and fall, but he will crawl if need be, this will end before he does before he even thinks of quitting, skin torn and eyes bloodied, hollow to the bone yet standing, the air is clear, calm, and refreshing, the end had finally come but he knew there will always be another, but he gets better each time. But there will be no crown, the crown is to be standing knowing that this is where you come from, that this is who you are...
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Expanse and Wisdom
Calculated cohersions of copteic corruption seeding the landscape with confusion touting knowledge of newly discovered landmines of understanding, even though the static is all encompassing, all enveloping, creating concepts of rabid understanding, maneuvering in dark places believing to have epiphanies in mirrors of silver lace with lulibuys meant to coddle soft minds, Remember the days of silent solitude, where nature mezmorized and fascinated when the static was not and clarity was manifest in the soul. Are our spirits not knit with ancestors of ancient days, is the connection too far or has the static destroyed all possibilities of clear correlations between the expanse and wisdom.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Blood and bone as your mortar
Careless interpretations of sculpted character manipulated maliciously through the eye of a needle. Bending and shaping perspectives allowing the vision to hold, collecting the strings that drag monstrous mountains of adversity to the abyss, not withholding conscious efforts of illumination eclipsing the containment of preconceived notions, to hear all is scattered and pain-stricken. Hear the one with no echo or range, the flood engulfs the slipstreams of euphoric torture, joyously embraced, held with passion true. When the sticks they come and the stones they fall , pick them up and build a house and use blood and bone as your mortar.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets
Contained
Echoes of eternity pass by in ever-changing landscapes converging in a tapestry of delight, that once held cannot be grasped again, the train has left and the singularity in stride begins, not as one that can see all at one time, can grasp all, but a passenger in direction cohorst, able to taste touch and smell all that is within the mighty train, and all that is without is forbidden, no tangible forms, distorted ghostly figures bellowing tales of time, whisked away on a trajectory headed for the unknown we remain blind and deaf, oblivious to the whole, believing we are so.
By Johnny Gerbrandt3 years ago in Poets