Mescaline Brisset
Bio
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
so you want to be a writer? – Charles Bukowski
Find me on Medium
Achievements (1)
Stories (772/0)
Soulhulk
They lie fallow like an unploughed field. Immobilised, never fulfilled. Like abandoned ships on the beach waiting for their turn. It will never come in their shallow lives. They never fully realise their disadvantage as a dredge. A sweet monetary deal is the best reward for all their hardships. That will be all. That is enough. On weekends, they roar and rampage, repine and reciprocate. For all the malice they encountered during the days spent in the shade. They want to be prominent; they want to rule. Due to the lack of royal reality next to them. The only veracity they accept is the zoo. Despite the stormy weather and hateful faces around. They need to have fun, no matter the time. They don’t pay, government funds wasted on education fuelled by alcohol and drugs.
By Mescaline Brisset6 months ago in Fiction
Soul-Soaking
You can't judge it by appearance. Intrusive, inquisitive, elusive digging will liven things up. Sometimes it's just an arm in a sling. It has the quality of suffering felt so deeply that the entire soul is torn apart. And nothing can be done except a sympathetic nod.
By Mescaline Brisset6 months ago in Fiction
Contemplary
They stretched out on the openwork mosaic chairs in front of the antique shop, like a wild rose on a strange tree or on a rusty fence nearby. They smoke cigarettes. They think, travel, traverse. But they never leave their chairs. They dream of visiting Queen St. Brew House on Saturday to join the crowd and be someone. But they are never among the other regulars roaring like lions, unleashing their instincts and making a difference only for themselves.
By Mescaline Brisset6 months ago in Fiction
Jumpadayhay
A tumescent circle of day breaking through voluptuous clouds, releasing the inconspicuous energy of the soul. Despite the glaring light, everything is so-so. Tea spoons measured unerringly, the clock hands intoxicating slowly. Tick-tock, tick-tock.
By Mescaline Brisset6 months ago in Fiction
Scattwalk
Jumping through perpendicular heights. On the orange pyramids of Leigh High. Street. Always with one leg spread out. Arranged opposite. Bombed-out. Destinations scattered, each direction matters. Polarised steps. Entropy change. When running or crawling before or after. Fishing or swimming, drinking or drowning? The socks get soaked in the sand. You need to get used to the tingling sensation in your feet. Legs coated with purple welts. Pervading, perpetrating, protruding plague. Medusa stings. Defeminised mimosas due to prevailing winds. Balancing succulent, scrutinised, right words. It was never easy to hang high hopes on high ropes.
By Mescaline Brisset6 months ago in Fiction
Misfit Love
We. Maladjusted souls. Maladjusted misfits meandering among the debris of a lost past world. We communicate, but words are only for show. Just for fun. To hide us under that thick, imperceptible veil of all the mistakes we've made over the years as we looked out at the deep blue waters and wondered.
By Mescaline Brisset7 months ago in Fiction