she finds old characters

The Unexciting Chronicle
of Miles Glass to His Caravan
By Miles Glass, Reality & His Imagination

minute (1)one :
A falcon-feathered grenadine syrup birdbath, they say, commingled with a flippin’ your fin-splash of mermaid honey-colored, sparkling ginger ale (a medicinal concoction, mind you, brainchild of a Doctor.) +1V.I.P. glowing ember of a crimson ghost-dot maraschino cherry, could make the mathematics and tipsy geometry of any gypsy gymnastically blush. Oh, and it mixed so well and so fine, so fresh and so clean, with the dead purple ♥ hue of medical-grade molasses swash buckling in the sunken ship of his inside vaudevillian, striped vest pocket. Where cough syrup, shave and a haircut, two bits, and dance routines go to die. When Miles bristled, his fake, exaggerated mustache bristled with him.

minute (2)two :
As he hydroplaned through jackpot jumping jacks and stacking chips, bumbling his beeline through the casino with full intent to be insanely punctual and, if not woefully on time at least near so, he kept it all together with a red thread of equilibrium and practiced fumble. She was going to leave without him. She, his matchbook dear, was going to run off if he were to be late back to the room, thrust so many floors up, up, and away. BUT! there had unfortunately been some distraction(s) and obstacle(s) during the arcade course of his jack-be-nimble odyssey.

To put it simply, there had been a gaggle of tribal belly dancers hoarded by the lustrous, distractingly lion-gold elevators, drinks in their slave-bracelet hands and sequins dotting the avian-streaks of their shamelessly multi-colored accents, bells, tassels, pin-point climaxed eyes. Peacock turbans and silver toe-ring spins and back bends. He recognized one of them from San Francisco, and she made it a necessary witchery to delightfully inform the wild plume of the curious flock that he could make a great many things disappear easily, seamlessly, and pleasantly.

He blushed and trickled into the split gray thighs of the elevator door, waving with an overflow of Shirley Temple pink and hazy cough syrup jester grinnings.

minute (3)three :

are you a

minute (4)four :
And somehow, he arrived to the room in 4 measly minutes with a pocketbook of intoxicated smiles, stinking of lemongrass, patchouli and glitter, and having gotten a hold of a circus bear which he threw directly into the exposed hole of her tent (gently and whether she was in there or not.) Announcing with a midway roar:

“I won you a prize!”

words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

blood-blue bowman

he’s rain swelling in the mothers open skirts

the starving soup of venom & wings gone gray

medicine in the mouths of the blessed dead


I hear flowers moan

when  fingers break their stems like bones

& press into the trickle of their shook loose hair

stirring the yellow heartbeat of the sky

for only one word

one of his


he’s the running light against a sunk

terrain of starry roads

he’s my king of distant oceans;

my watery-eyed snapped arrow

the bulging purr at the begging blood of coastal war

mist into sweat

wet souls, white salt on the upper lip

moist whispers, electric ice, & snakeskin

& one dusty fingerprint of the creator.

words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.



combed through oceans of ghosts

washing my lashes in a hot bath

Of red glass

& yet the pale breeze of a drowsy mist

long since burned out by sirens fingers

& an angry woe, braids talons into fairy tales;

words woven into headstones

branded on black hearts in litanies of decaying lore

it’s for this game of thrill & hide & seek

the dark blue & dumb hunt loves lie

with open arms, dusted to that dead pile

of ruined smiles

a maze that curls a thousand miles

words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

she finds old stories


a long time ago i was in the midst of a serial killer phase. i would read online crime libraries all night long and consistently be baffled, appalled, and intrigued. i couldn’t understand what brought them to do what they’d done. it’s still a mystery how people can be broken down so much, to sometimes something so little, that they lose their sense of self. others have never had a sense of self, and who they are was the criminal they eventually became. their whole lives lead up to that moment when they finally let go. and when they did, they were addicted to being themselves, because they at last felt significant.

others who were spirited dwindled, eaten away with time. and they became who they never thought they could, who they never wanted to.

the following story was written during that phase. it’s about 10 years old, and the writing style of it shows its age. shows my age when i wrote it. there’s no need for me to edit it or adapt it, because i enjoy seeing how my mind used to work.

it was inspired by the werewolf of wysteria, and of course, the supernatural. it’s a long read, and is obviously horror.


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