Micah Park Biffle

The Moles Never Learn  I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt.  As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it.  I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing.  My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation.  I am comforta...

A Con Man's Lie    I could not help myself or, at least I did not want to. I became so sly in my tongue everything I said was believable or so I thought. I think my terrible habit of a slick tongue started with my father. He was a smart man. A man with great intelligence but it was used for the wrong thing.   He was a con man, the first of my family lineage. He was born into a family of nine children, him being the eighth child. I remember growing up and he would tell me the stories of his aging. The constant struggle to get attention from his parents. The lonely feeling even with his siblings.    He was born six years apart from his brother before him and four years before his younger brother. It was a family of brothers except for his one sister, who was treated very well. Being as she was the only the girl among a crowd of men.    My father, poorly given love from what he told me. Led him to be mischievous. Looking for trouble, h...

A Traitor Among Gods  The sky is ripe with darkness. Thunder bellows from the heavens and lightening strikes from the eyes of the gods. Petrus stands with wounds upon his flesh, his lungs weak from exhaustion. He has been inflicted by the anger of  the gods.  They fear his resistance to obey. Petrus has never been a man of obedience. His own father was put in his place by Petrus. He was beaten as a child and his mother a harlot of the city streets. He was an outcast of his own world.  Petrus grew with resentment for authority. Most likely birthed by the actions of his father. His heart carried an aura of darkness. Held in the arms of green greed. He speaks with assertive boasts of wild assumptions.  He walks in shadows of those who treat him poorly. Waiting to murder their very existence and rid them from this world. Petrus rages with power, with a power that has slowly consumed his once innocent heart.   He now is a bitter man of the gods. Pe...

A Murdered Love  I started my morning as I always have. I woke up, smashed the dismiss button on my alarm and rose from my bed. I tossed my blankets from my body and turned myself so me feet could fall freely to the ground.  I gave out a yawn of exhaustion, as I rubbed my eyes to clear my sense of early morning confusion and slight resentment of waking before the sun. I then stood off my bed and turned around to tidy its rambled mess. Making sure my bed is in order so I am not in disgust of a disheveled bed after the end of my work.  Having my bed in order gives me pride in my rest, it shows I care enough about where I lay my head. After making my bed I walked over to where my towels hang and wrapped one around my waist. I then opened my door with half opened eyes and silent thoughts.  I walked over to the bathroom, closed the door, hung my towel and started the shower. After about fifteen seconds, I jumped in the shower. While in the shower I looked thro...

Unsustainable Victims  From place to place: path to path, home to home, forest to forest we roamed. No true land to call home, but home was with each other, no matter where we were. Stopping down dark paths in the night, setting camp, playing music beneath the studded stars of the sky.  We were a family of many and a family of the unconventional. Never weighed by the grasp of the civility of society. We were always on the out, on the edge, standing, watching; tempted. At least, I was tempted.  My family never stayed in one spot too long. Never embedded in society, created us not to be welcomed in an abrupt fashion. Either pushed from land by owners, park enforcement, the law, or even animals. My family lived in the wild of the earth.  I must say, in the honesty of it all, we were not the best of people. I was taught to steal, to trick, to lie, so that we may put food on our tables. We were great at hunting, but it is difficult to feed a caravan of hundred...

Not fair? You know what's not fair, that eight year old boy who who was diagnosed with cancer on his eighth birthday. The mom that has to watch her child slowly die as she prays he will survive; only to watch him take his last breath. After all those sleepless nights of pain staking chemo. All those days of watching their child go from a bundle of energy, to a pale boy of sickness. -- Life's not fair? You know what's no fair, going to work to find out you are being fired because someone holds a minority that you don't. Fired, because your skin complexion is not the right color and they need more of the other. Being fired, because the company needs more of a certain set of sex organs to help out "equality." -- Your life's not fair? You know what's not fair, those 200,000+ men who went to help eradicate the evils of Hitler. Only to die less than hundred feet onto the shore. All those sons taken from their families, all those father and mo...

A Murderous Wanderer  Your trifled need to be callous upon each heart you seek is sickening. One such as you, could even wear exhausted the wood of a white oak with the rotting of your touch. Your collection of the damned is far from acceptance of pity. It is false approval to your petulance to play hearts. Stringing them like teeth to be worn as a necklace; showing of warriors mementos. You act as if you hail no ill will in the kissing of lips, that in the mystery of your heart, is kindness. But I see the darkness that copulates with your rituals, your soul. You blend well in a crowd of broken. Plucking the helpless, you stalk in warnings of ides of march. Curating or pogrom of hearts. Mass graves you create, yet you smile; watching as souls weep. Burying them beneath the soils you tend. Growing roses from the aching, the helpless, but roses of black. Burnt from the misery of hell at which you find your nourishment. Your cloak of romance, you perform well. Your crook...