The Abstract Art Gallery
Broken, confused writer Jack Thomas puts the images in his mind on display in this "Blog." He dives into personal experience and his observations of the world to share his take on morality, childhood trauma, creativity, relationships, sex, politics, religion, violence, reality and more. Using countless formats from narrative driven short stories, to poetry, to song lyrics and philosophical explanations.
A short poem expressing thoughts on life and making choices.
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Question marks in the air
Answers aren't abundant
Uncertainty is persistent
Aimless wander is built into the system
Aimless wonder is built into the system
Its not different destinations
Its different paths to the same destination
Not knowing where we step
A warn dirt roads
Paved streets
Or a jungle and a machete
Question marks in the air
Read MoreHe pulls the trigger to take his life. He lives a lifetime waiting to die.
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Curious, the thought lingers in the back of his mind. “What will it feel like on the other side?” His tongue massages the steel barrel. Tastes of lead. “I’m over this end. Time for something new.”
Trigger pulled, he feels himself fall to the side at a pace so slow it might not even be happening. Fractions of seconds stretch to feel like hours. 100 million thoughts run through his mind as his eyes crawl the wall to the ceiling.
It seems that days go by watching the bulb on the ceiling dim down.
Lucy, the wife walks into view getting ever slower. Finally fully in sight, the terror trapped in her eyes is visible. Horror. Holding little Suzie, too young to know what’s going on.
Lucy paces her way up to a scream. She’s nearly no more than a silhouette. Swallowed by the dark the remaining specs of light blink away. The everlasting fade goes on for infinities. “Bye,” is his last thought as nothing is left behind.
And his eyes are fixed on a new spot of light left dancing off in the distance.
It’s a million miles away but getting bigger. Coming closer. Blinding it gets. And it overtakes the darkness leaving no trace. White floods the ambience. A perpetual ring in the ears. Muffled voices in an unfamiliar language.
Giant creatures like nothing seen before. Yet there is no recollection of seeing anything before this moment. There is no memory of this mysterious, confusing, terrifying place…
Read MoreConfusion. Solitude.
Maddening, The Hall further taunts the lost soul.
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For years I’ve walked this narrow hall alone.
Haven’t seen a copy in ages.
Haven’t seen one alive. Ever.
Stranger that I miss them.
I’ve never stopped walking, though. And now there’s a steel rectangular indent on the wall. Seven by three vertical feet. No handle. Thus I beg the question, can doors exist in this place?
It might have been months or weeks, but I haven’t moved from before this indent. It means something.
It has something.
The wall goes on from where I came and it goes on to where I’m headed. But I’ve never seen an indent. I’ve never seen anything on the wall but the wall.
And copies stacked against it.
Nothing ever happens with the indent no matter how long I…
There is mystery behind not knowing what words come next when hand writing. More difficult to come by when typing. The slow paced nature of writing by hand leaves mystery to uncover, even for the writer.
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There’s a pleasant seduction behind the ink of a pen. Something about not knowing how long until “the surprise” or “the point” lands on the page is alluring. Even knowing where the work will go isn’t enough. The casually paced process is designed to gradually expose.
An arousing lust, flirty and curious for the next words, drives the ideas forward. As if it smiles back tempting possibilities and teasing wants. A sexy little dance, while motionless, wiggles in the back of one’s mind as a playful draw for more proceeds.
Biting a lip, dragging the pen across the page with delicate hands to guide purpose with care. Ever-so-gentle and crafted a letter at a time, the love filled spiral of intrigued pries. Digging up the fertile soil in search of seeds. Fascinated by the limitless capacity of imagination.
Turned on by the reckless direction, starved and animalistic.
A raw, dangerous and unpredictable monster dressed in ink is the hand written narrative.
Read MoreHaving tracked and cornered Arthur, the detective has the tables turned on him.
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Static charged, the manic man at large wrecks havoc as he travels far
Terror through fear, like the fuhrer from years ago, then goes steers clear and disappears
Near the sand he stands, hands in the sky, he’s mad, the detective failed his plan
Didn’t matter how hard he tried, the crazed guy got the jump, now the good’ll die
Cries and pleads for life, but the look in those evil eyes say, “nice try”
The gun fires, it’s dark like he’s tired, visions of his dead father he admires
Volume down, all goes quiet, total absence of a riot
Memories fade, euphoria fills the brain, insane malice won the day
After Arthur managed to escape the asylum and ravaged a small family the state designated his recapture a priority and an investigation into his psychology was initiated.
The detective roams the house in search of clues.
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The rooms smells of burnt carpet and charred coal. You’d think the scent would have faded by now. If not for the dust and dry air it’d be easy to confuse as fresh.
Candy wrappers, crinkled up papers and broken glass crackle beneath my boots as I move through the abandoned house.
Shattered picture frames and porcelain dolls rest on the coffee table center of the living room. Yellow tape still play the roll of bedroom doors. No one’s stepped foot in the house since the tragedy occurred.
His bedroom is the only part of this godforsaken place that isn’t a complete disaster. It’s untouched. As if he’d not once been inside. As if every waking minute was of each day were wasted compulsively cleaning and organizing personal belongings.
Minus the excessive neatness, nothing seems off.
The report said the family was quiet. Private. Then the incident happened.
What could drive a man to so brutally…
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