The Dying Man Who Gasped Ignored Gasps

The evening before my neighbor in bed 12C was to be transported back home for his remaining hospice days, his anxiety began to set in.

His pleas for help were attended less frequently over the course of the night, as the overworked and overstretched Filipino nurse attended to her other patients.

Eventually, we learned to ignore his wilting gasps and groans of pain so that our weak bodies could scavenge for sleep.

His dying noises gradually blended into the ambient hospital drone of bedside monitors, overhead pages, and the graveyard shift caffeined chatter of nurses in the fluorescent hallway.

It's funny how quickly we forget the dying around us when our own lives persecute our thoughts. Maybe that's why we dream wonderfully absurd dreams–to find temporary asylum from the reality of our impending mortality.


Unknown Mediastinal Mass

I'm going to break my DragnMastr13 kayfabe right now to address something serious that's been happening in my life lately.

Some of you know me in real life, and you also know that I've been having strange health issues for the past few months.

Initially, I thought these were related to some kind of mysterious allergic reaction I've been exposed to, but a few hours ago I got a step closer to understanding my medical condition.

After coughing up bloody phlegm in the shower yesterday afternoon, I decided to seek emergency intervention. I was given an X-ray, and CT scan, and the ER doctors confirmed that I have a large mediastinal mass in my chest–basically, it's a tumor.

At this point the doctors don't know whether it's benign or cancerous, but I have an appointment with cancer specialists this Friday.

At the appointment, they'll perform a biopsy to confirm what I'm dealing with. And then I'll know what my medical plan of action will be. If it's cancerous, I'll need to start chemotherapy immediately.

Needless to say, I'm in a state of complete shock. I feel emotionally numb at the moment, as the full weight of everything hasn't really set in. I don't know what else to say. I'll keep you guys updated as I get more information from doctors.

It's 6:06 am, the sun's come up, and I need to get some sleep.


A Polychromatic Epiphany

And when asked about the notion of duality, The Dragon Master spoke thus:

It may appear so, for the human animal seeks reprieve from the labyrinth and fog of life. But verily, I say unto you, duality is but a mere mirage.

The world is not comprised of a black or white binary, but of a spectrum of greyness. And what makes life worth living is the manifestation of vivid colors that saturate the white light.

It is so.


Gnawing Over the Brink of the Horizon

Verily, I say unto you:

As the black forest fires rage in the shadow netherrealms of The Second Circle, I too rage.

Alert the sentry, for The Dragon Master lays siege not with marauding armies, but with a calculated intensity you will soon bear witness to.

It is so.


Vestiges of Dew

And outside of the city's gates, as its populace clamors, The Impeccable One waits, obscured in shadow under the vagueness of night, He observes.

Behold! For His presence is nebulous like an early morning mist–everything He lays hands on becomes wet with His will.

Soon they will come to know His greatness.


Sentimentalities of a Dragon Master's Ascension

An orphan child learns to numb His dependency, and disassociates from the bosom of His fallen mother.

Do not be fooled, this is not a tragedy, for it is the impregnable armor He will later adorn as He ascends to His rightful throne.

Although His campaign is wrought with casualties of immense proportions, He marches on–grittier, stronger, hungrier. He will not be denied the spoils of war.

One woman cheers Him on.

One woman emboldens His spirit.

One woman matters.

Let it be known, The Dragon Master loves His Abuela.




A Holy Promise Written In the Ink of Her Womb

Vis-à-vis they stood, immersed in the secrecy of the voyeuristic night's embrace–The Dragon Master and the Governess of His heart–the one they called Empress Soror Cerasus.

At last the tension was released as She opened the gates of the city and ushered the silence out as She spoke thus:

"A Holy Promise I have written in the Ink of My womb upon a parchment of Kotex. A Holy Promise that, if broken, reeks of consequence as pungent as the Vampyre's feast I have thus shed."

"DO NOT break this Promise", she admonished.

The Dragon Master retorted:

"Verily, I say unto You, I have tasted the sweetness of Your cherry delights, and I suckle upon Your seed. And what of Your slender stem you ask? HA. My tongue will meticulously explore the path of its line and shape, touring and twirling its possibilities–twisted geometries that will yield enchantments for Our insatiable appetites."


A flash fiction collaboration with My Heart: @Its.Cherry.Sister




Laurenite The Rubellite

Verily, I say unto you:

She will be borne out of the sun's afterglow and Her beauty will irradiate the twilight of our yearning hearts.

They will bask in Her brilliance as they bow to the ground and worship Her divinity.

A goddess of immaculate fiery magnificence.

All HAIL, Laurenite The Rubellite!!




The Return

I hearken unto you. For I am Lord of The Shadowlands, and I reign supreme under the cool breeze of My mastery, as I sit gazing defiantly the scorching fires of your distant sexuality!


I scoff at the dancing embers attempting to char broil My feet! Do they not know I take pleasure in extinguishing them under the full brunt of My heel? Nay. They do not know. But let it be known.

And let it also be known that the trumpets will sound, and the herald will announce with great jubilation My glorious return.

Galloping on horseback will I be, striding past the gates of your psychology.

Thus spoke The Dragon Master.


Wrong Number, Right Victim

Last night I received a wrong-numbered phone call.

Not allowing this opportunity go to waste, I engaged in an impromptu phone sex seduction.

Four hours later, I realized that I had been the victim of orgasm vampirism.

After the 11th ejaculation, I turned my nightstand light on, looked down, and noticed how raw and inflamed my turtle neck flesh was.

I hurriedly ended the marathonian call, something that was a lot easier said than done, as she denied my attempts to disengage from her psychological clutch.

Let this be a lesson to you who are weak of will: there are those among us who feed from our vices.

Thus spoke The Dragon Master. 


Little Man

She owned a little man.

Not a little person little man, (although, he was little in physical stature) but one of little status and worth.

Her emasculating affections didn't seem to deprive him of his dignity though–he actually quite cherished her attention, and she cherished her little bitch boy in return.

His little penile endowment was relished by her all-consuming cunt, and she endowed him with condomless sex, a justification of her intrauterine devices.

They were an odd couple, to say the least. However, they knew their roles in the pecking order, and perhaps this awareness is what made their romance most gratifying.



As the impudence sweats away the sentimentality from my nostalgia, I roll my neck around its base and stretch.

The muscles, memory, and mood loosen.

The beads fall to the ground and the salt lingers, but there are worse tasting things than salt. 


Expansions of a Suppressed Lung

There will be sepulchral spasms in life that will deprive you of breath–do not surrender, fight!

Endow yourself the time and space to reflect, and reincarnate!

Do not allow the apnea in these interstices to strangle your lifeblood. Breathe!

Expand your lungs.

Expand your nerve.

Expand your potency.

You will inspire power, and you will use this power to force your fears into gaunt submission.



I emerge out of the miasma of your nostalgia. Do not be afraid.

I come to replenish your ardent ocelot with the sweet milk it craves. My spermal benefactions delight, almost as much as it deprives in its absence. 



Masculum Plumbum

Verily, I say unto you: As effortlessly as the purgatory prima ballerina twirls, I pirouette your vile insults off of me.

For I am the Master Choreographer of My life, and your criticisms are immobilized by my greatness.

The only critic that is of relevance is the inner critic, and He testifies to my sublimity.