rhubingle

[rhubingle]

Dice

On the precipice of selective mutism and complete cerebral vacancy, exists a creature known to most as Dice. He lives his life in transit, from depot to depot, all the while carrying the weight of modern life on his back, or so his Facebook posts indicate, in their vehement celebration of the role of truckers in society.

Dice has two eyes, though they are more like lubricated crystal balls, and if you look into them, prophecies of great inconsequence are conjured. Visions of vast nothingness, interrupted only when his path intersects, on several separate occasions, of women in his life who, despite their volume, actually do consist of as little as Dice does. It is of great importance that we do not conflate the magnitude of their auditory expulsions with substance, for substance in any form is not palatable for Dice.

In his online presence, Dice is quite outspoken, though he does not speak directly, preferring to 'share' images, where the image in the background has no relevance to the text imposed on top of it. Generally, it is a male celebrity of some form - mainly actors - with a meaningless and wholly vague quote about power, respect or some other attribute that in reality is as relevant to Dice as the sociopolitical goings-on of Uzbekistan.

This is Dice. Hear him (or his truck, rather, as he is mute) roar.

[rhubingle]

Euphemisms Won't Keep You Warm At Night

The animal is impulsive, thinking little about the consequences of feeding the TAB machine to ensure it is full and satiated, while at home the animal's mate is alone and oblivious.

The animal raises a toast with its enablers. Oh, such merriment. Oh, the witty quips they make to normalise their financial cancers. The phrase "the brickie's laptop" is utilised until triteness, but still the creatures laugh as they stare down into their beers, knowing deep down any humour surrounding their compulsion to lose money was gone years ago.

A 'watering hole' is such an appropriate moniker for a pub, for not only is it where people can quench themselves, it also seems to turn otherwise 'functioning' humans into animals - resigning themselves entirely to instinct and impulse. There is no looking to the future, only the present exists and when even the faintest trace of dopamine appears before them, they chase it like a cheetah until complete exhaustion.

As would a lion returning to its pride without a kill, the animal mopes home now. Its dopamine has dropped completely, it feels as if it has nothing left to lose, until it sees its mate stare back at it, completely unaware of what it has done. It tucks its tail between its legs, it is only a beast after all. It cannot control its reactions, it doesn't think, it just does, but it is the mark of a weak animal to never exercise autonomy.

[rhubingle]

The Neural Pathway Less Trodden

Frenzied eyes gazed at components of a bedside table, incomplete and requiring construction. On the floor lay screws, struts and brackets of all kinds, but no marbles were to be seen. Alas, the owner of the eyes had lost them. The creature breathed in sharply, and exhaled in the same fashion, snorting like a bull. There was no matador to shake a crimson flag, but still the bovine saw red.

"Out!" cried the eldritch hag, as it charged back towards its lair. No, such a creature should be kept locked up in solitude. Disappointment fades to relief for those that had been excited to reside in its hovel, as the mud that obstructed reality was changed to crystal clear water. Truth prevailed. Sanity saved. It remains in its den now, alone and neurotic. As it has always been, and forever shall be.

It lurks, in the dark, occasionally extending a wizened hand; gloved, of course in a facade of charity and well-wishes. It removes it only to show its talons when threatened. So speak not ill of it, critique it ne'er, for only he who has a death wish would dare to do this.

[rhubingle]

The Illyrian Psyche in a Tropical Tempest

Small, yet mighty. Insignificant, yet totally self-assured. Falling just below your line of sight, but never below the decibels our ears can detect. He sits, proudly of course, at a poker table, feet barely meeting the ground beneath his chair, eyes searching for signs of vulnerability. How ironic, for if any eyes met his, they would find that the vulnerability was staring back at them. Dark pools, where shell shock lingers and the tears that fell from his eyes as a boy when mustard gas shrouded him are never far from escaping again.

For you see, what he escaped by fleeing Yugoslavia was in actuality very little, for his Illyrian blood would never find itself far from battle. A desire to maim and kill all that he was told was evil. Oh, Mirko, the eternal veteran of not just global wars, but the one inside yourself. Well, those taxis won't drive themselves. Your feet reach for the pedals, only just able to touch them. Your future, in front of you, but just out of arm's length. A call is made, an ignition sparked and a short, stumpy man appears in the name of transport.

Lest we forget, you say. Lest you forget, I respond, that while you may consider yourself naturalised here, your name carries with it a distinct scent of the undeniable and inalienable Balkan bloodlust. So, dear pygmy, as you rest beneath the Southern Cross tonight and each night until death, count the stars - your lucky stars, that you have the privilege to do so.

[rhubingle]

The Post-Able-Bodied Musings of a World Within the Cupcake

Oh, dearest Cupcake Man, I wonder what your life was like when all was able-bodied and moving normally. When feet stepped, one in front of the other, as if the world was a great ball and you teetered on it like a circus elephant - the crowd watching in glee. Now, it's as if you are the ball, your whole world is upon you. You must care for it, lest the wheels fall off and immobility of the most permanent kind strikes.

Two boys, they came from her womb, long before your phallus tried to force its own seed in there. Now, you perform along side them, while the wheeled woman treats it as a spectacle, taking photos and parading them like trophies in her electronic echo chamber. Do you enjoy being watched? I am sure she does, her publicity ensures that tales of her struggle precede her in all social forays. Did you know of these adversities? I wonder if you knew of the incident at the petrol station. Beaten and bloodied, left in the showers for a trucker to find. All movement ceased for some time, I imagine. Perhaps even her will to live.

Along came you, her knight in hi-vis armour. You took her hand, you pushed her wheelchair. Well, aren't you quite the philanthropist? I am not so sure about you, Cupcake Man. For when the locomotion ceases for good, where will you be? Pushing the coffin on wheels once again, or carrying it on your shoulder? The beast of a disabled burden.

[rhubingle]

An Open Letter to the Man Known as Dice.

Dearest Dice,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you read it with an open heart. A little over twenty years ago, you relinquished your independence, you gave up the liberty that comes with being a young, single male and you offered up your heart, your hand and your semen in order to become a father. Tell me, Dice, when the blood had rushed south and your reproductive fluids spilled from your organs, did you anticipate what fatherhood would entail? As your gonads emptied themselves, did the magnitude of your decision hit you instantly? Alternatively, did a few hours, days, weeks, even months pass before you finally realised that you would forever be responsible, at least partly for an extension of yourself?

When you first gazed into Chrissy's eyes, what did you see? Something so feral, so inarguably different from your child, yourself, that you felt it necessary to cling onto such a force? I am of the belief that this is what occurred. You, in all your ugliness and milquetoast utterings, could not believe the beauty of your own seed's creation, and thusly have spent two long decades latching onto the world's most hideous things to remind yourself of your worth. Now, she has children, doesn't she, Dice? Do you love them? Do you gaze upon them with the same quasi-narcissistic admiration that causes you to love your own? Well, of course you do, because a man consisting of such little substance as yourself exists in everyone, as everyone exists in him. You are nothing, you are a template, a palate-cleanser, a person so horrendously neutral and unthinking that it has transgressed into the abhorrent.

Oh the many interactions we've had, each as meaningless and inconsequential as the last and I have come to the realisation that what you are, is absence. Absence in a physical presence. So I write to you, asking that you allow yourself to fall into absence, to allow your body to become what it was always meant to be, non-existing. This great abyss that surrounds all of us, we all fear that we may fall into it, but not you, for the scariest thing perceivable by any person is the concept that one day you may exit it, and become a tangible concept.