Micah Park Biffle

  A Murder over Invention  Samuel Thride is a man of secrecy. His presence, when among him, is quite audacious. What he does for a living no one knows. He lives atop Manor Hill, where his mansion sits highest above the neighboring homes.   Many have met him, but they are often met with reservation, rudeness some say, or complete denial of their existence. Some say he is this way because he thinks too highly of himself and no other deserves his attention. While others think he is malnourished in the department of social interaction. Some even believe he may be so intelligent, he has a tough time explaining his joys of possibly complex theories, rather, dumbing them down.   They say he would much rather talk of the world, its history, science, math, and any theories that tie into these categories. He is a tall slender man with disheveled hair that is increasingly thinning by the passing years.   His eyes swaddled in a dark complexion as rest does ...

They are Watching, do you See? They are watching, seeing us through the lens of our own homes. They have nestled in the lines of contracts. Legal agreements we are either too lazy to read or understand little of. They are only expanding their reach. Knowing our words before we type them, say them. Recording conversations in silence as we play music from their design. We are sheep among a pack of wolves. They reach for the endless power of greed. Seeking new ways to generate the wealth they need no more. They salivate for the ability to control. To slither into the cameras of our technology. We ignore them, for we would rather be willfully blind than call them out. Than make a stand for our privacy. For it is easier to be told what do to, become slaves of our own suffering, than build character to breed strength and fight.  Our conversations are now as sacred as pile of dog shit in the grass. And they shall guide us to where we shall eat, sleep, and work. They are guid...

 The Blue Wolves Are Coming  Tonight I write from my friends chambers in haste. The dogs are barking and the whistles are blowing. The fog has settled densely upon the streets, allowing me temporary escape. It will only be a few moments before I am ravaged by the jaws of canines or thrown to the ground and shackled for the remainder of my life.  I am part of a secret society, some call us "resistors," we merely call our self free people. We are freethinkers, we have been watching the world degrade into a child's toy. Adults no longer observe their emotions and take thought. Rather, they act now with a stasis of belligerent obsession of identity.  Calloused to logic they bore tunnels of fantasy building lies that suit their tongues. Blaming their surroundings for their harsh reality. They bring no responsibility to their character, but force the world to shift as they do.  Many of us now clothed in the color of red, to signify they are workers of pri...

The Praise of The Wicked He has lied for so long it has become his truth. Creating power, creating wealth with such a tongue of deceit. Smirking between the acts of his crimes as he slides through the bars. Yet, he is praised for his so called gracious endeavors and his accolades of triumphant change. Slithering beneath the grass he has grasped the ankles of his followers, sinking his fangs with precision. Poisoning their thoughts, their freedom with hypocrisy, fraud, and the keen ability of a silver tongue. Upon his pedestal he walks with a darkly sheen, as if something unworldly. As he ensnares the weak with bountiful dishonesty. With deceptive hatred toward his enemy, using the feeble as fodder for his tricks. His inevitable plan to be sly, powerful, and filthy to world, but be lacking in consequence.  Engaging in the atrocious behind closed doors. Generating his wealth through the arms of our enemies and giving no heed to the fallout that shall be. He lives i...

The Cover Up And A king  In a fit of rage he strikes him down; clashing him with his golden cup. His eyes lathered in deep fury, his flesh poised in the pulse of adrenaline praised anger. His jaw clenched so tight, a headache rises. But is quickly masked by his fumigating mania.  And there he stands, silent in temper, grasping his golden cup in a clasp of death. And now, at his feet lies his king. And with his body surging in violence, he wastes no time and in haste he drops his cup and begins to drag the body. Slightly heavier than he, he struggles to first gain momentum to carry the murdered body of his king. But upon gaining foot, he pulls the body up the few steps that lay before the throne, and places his dead king upon it. And in his now panicked hysteria as adrenaline has dissipated. He does his best to make the king look as if he has passed out from too many wines. But the kings body begins to turn pale, so he places the kings garments to cover his hands ...

Here, in front of me stands a mirror. Its gleams with pristine cleanliness as I drag my eyes faithfully along its edges. Wondering, what purpose does it truly have, is this but another view of what I am? Searching Is Not The Answer  I retract my eyes from its edges allowing sullied breath to sink into my lungs. I release this breath with an odd sense of curiosity as breath settles upon the mirror. Now, with breath upon this mirror, I watch, as it fades almost instantly. As if disdained upon my presence. Only to leave in an almost translucent outline upon the glass. And again, my thoughts wander upon the condensation of my breath.  And in watching it fade, I ponder, with intellectual eagerness , am I but not a breath from the universe, from God? Slowly fading upon the reaction of molecules and the designers final stroke of the brush. Am I not but a reflection of what another has drawn, for what naturalism can create such perfection mixed with such disaster? Playi...

A Scientific Lie  Sam_Journal_Entry_365_June_2166_25_1300 We now live above the earth, above where we were once born. The government has forced our very existence to be separated from the flowers, from the soils of our planet. Only a special group, the SST's, Special Supply Teams, are allowed to go down to earth, beneath the clouds. They go to gather supplies for our now floating world. We float above the clouds in domes, in self weather generated cities and landscapes. We know the weather before it ever arrives, no disasters come, no droughts, no struggle to keep things in order. As citizens though, we are not allowed to grow, nor plant our own seeds. We must purchase specialty seeds from local government owned shops. They say they are organic and naturally found from earth. But they grow unexpectedly fast. They say the plants grow in a steady fast pace due to the great weather conditions. But still I find this to be odd. For my father’s tells me ...