PROSE What Spies DoMy dad is a rock. He is solid, he is powerful. He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion. He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience. He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show. He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.PROSE What Spies Do8 years ago in Literature Submissions
Hes late, my mom said, and pursed her lips through the steam of her hot dinner plate.
My brother pushed a floret of broccoli with his fork. Cant we just start without him?
Absolutely not. She frowned. God help us if we become one of those families that never eats together. Its an important part of your childhood, and so ma
The stalker speaks. PROSE.Every day I write him a note.The stalker speaks. PROSE.8 years ago in Literature Submissions
"Hi, all I know about you is that you always take the cheese off the cheeseburger. Just wanted to say that you're great", then say "Nah, he'll think it's creepy to have someone watch him eat" and throw it away.
I write one every morning, waiting to find the right one. Until then, I watch.
I like the little things about people. Don't we all? Most fall in love with the big picture and then notice the details, which they might love or hate. Most become annoyed by these little details. I become obsessed.
"Hi, all I know is that you love the existentialist movement, and I think that's wonderful. I love you". "Nah, he'll think I'm a bookworm".
A long while ago, I was in the bus, and noticed him. I think his hair got to me first. Flowing, black, perfectly curled, long hair. He has a wrinkle on his forehead and his cheeks are almost always lifted by a gentle (yet face-changing) smile. Underneath the extremely thick eyebrows hide eyes th
PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations When she woke, a startling bird encased her vision, like a face pressed up too close. At first she thought she was still trapped in sleep, she blinked and blurred the figurine then hoisted herself up. Three centimeters in height, it was shaped by wire with a golden, almost skin like fiber wrapped tightly around its form. The bird, so detailed, she lowered herself to its height and peered at its beady eyes Its intensely shaped beak, open, waiting. Tiny wings spread out, each feather visible, so real. It was perched, ready to escape. Clare plucked it off the stand and got ready for work.PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations8 years ago in Literature Submissions
The golden bird bounced against her heart, tucked away in the breast pocket of her coat. She liked to walk to work; it gave her a sense of normality, this pace, this strain of muscle and sting of flesh in the cold morning air. Along the way she passed cafes, just opening - the store owners yawning while flipping on the heat. She passed tall, neck craning buildings; they look
the quiet loud of nightIn the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.the quiet loud of night8 years ago in Literature Submissions
You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breathing, hear the scratch of pine bristle on arm. Hear her moving, in the quiet loud of night. And you can see her, moving. See her slip through shallow streams of moonlit silver and catch the silverwet on her shins and all below her knees; and see the bones of her toes bend and burrow beneath a blanket of skin on her bare feet as she slips tippy-toed through shall
Excuse Me Sir - POETRYThe doctor checked my eyeballs justExcuse Me Sir - POETRY8 years ago in Literature Submissions
to see that I saw straight
then checked my throat with popsicles
that he already ate.
And then he looted through my nose
and found that it was bare;
he hoped to find my boogies but
I flicked them on his chair.
And when the doctor checked my ears,
his eyes got rather wide.
He shrieked and looked at me and then
he looked right back inside!
It seems to me that in your ears,
I can't believe my eyes,
I spy a case of polka dots
that's speckling the skies...
Though I just cant believe it for
it all seems quite absurd!
A cowboy with a water gun
whose swimming from a bird?
Pirate ships and rocket ships
and hippos wearing ties,
lights and noise and drummer boys
and grandma in disguise!
And in the back the jelly beans
play poker on the moon?
We must get this all fixed! he said
we must get this fixed soon!
He fumbled through his desk drawers and
he found his suck-o-matic.
Now this wont hurt a bit, he said,
I SPY entry POETRYOne sheet of puff pastry lined with milk,I SPY entry POETRY8 years ago in Literature Submissions
placed on the bottom of a thin based bowl.
Water poured in, till its filled to the brink.
The other sheet of pastry left ready to roll.
A tool taken slowly from the oak wood drawer
and then raised lethargically to the organ of sight.
Into this was plunged the cold pewter skewer;
no vision but a very wholesome meal tonight
Into water sploshed the peeper for the pie
Into freezer slipped the newly created dish
Then, egg glazed pastry placed on top to finish
Ice Pie with My little eye
POETRY: Something BadIn the orphanage where I was raisedPOETRY: Something Bad8 years ago in Literature Submissions
Many a year ago
I was known as the Dark Angel
Of that small Catholic-run home.
The other children
Light and Fair,
Turned their heads from me
While I, the boy
Of colors black
Cried alone, so no one could see.
Yet one day, I was given hope
Someone wished to include me
In their game.
And I sat down
In the circle round
With all the other children.
And one said
With my little eye
And as I glanced around
Eager to win
The voices chimed in.
The stain on the wall?
The spill in the hall!
The demon etched in the glass?
A spitball in class!
A resounding no to all.
And I still looked around
The boy of black
Eager to please
But the game was to be played
Not with others
But on me.
We give up!
We all shouted with glee.
And a finger pointed accusingly.
And my dark eyes settled
And a cold chill swept through.
Damir Soull, The girl stated, pleased
Mission Impossible - POETRYMission Impossible - POETRY8 years ago in Literature Submissions
A double agent in a world of intrigue,
I have been forced on by the responsibility of a people.
Having never known you before meeting you,
I have always thought you a spy of our most opposing enemy.
Today as I stand waltzing you in this beautiful forest of dreams,
Our walks reveals more misunderstandings than your simplest self.
A bland beauty behind clouds of bitterness,
I found a heaven where the only guilt of lies makes hard my failing heart.
Beginning with M - POETRYSomething beginning with MBeginning with M - POETRY8 years ago in Literature Submissions
Ladies! Quiet! If you'll look this way,
the diagram on the board explains
the raw, dirty process of extraction
of nylon from crude oil. Essentially
that thong you put on for the lads
is refined filth gripping your hips.
Turn to page twenty - put down that magazine,
look at me! I am not grading your handbags.
Pens down, everyone, and eyeliner pencils,
all eyes on the front. Try and focus
on the man with the outsize labcoat
robes of a magician. For my next trick
picture me naked:
white flakes flurry like a powder-puff discharge,
mole heads peek between lumps of dimpled skin,
nipples jungled in black vegetation.
Look at me -
if your foundation hasn't cracked,
I'm not being stark enough.
Homework: dust off your real face
and get used to wearing it. Now get out in the sunshine.
Today's lesson was on Me.
POETRY 'I Spy'I spyPOETRY 'I Spy'8 years ago in Literature Submissions
I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C.
I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R.
I spy with my little eye, something beginning with D.
Youre good at this.
Your thoughts tick loud.
Your face of flattering smiles
Matches a sly voice of lies.
This is a game that runs through my veins
And my little eye is sharp.
Taking me out,
Chameleon changing under a hawks eye,
Hiding under the innocence of a childs game.
I spy with my little eye, something beginning with T.
Take me back I promise Ill never-
Treachery. Trickery. Tempt me with trinket treasures.
Just be honest. Please.
Canvas - VISUALCanvas - VISUAL8 years ago in Literature Submissions
Earth is a canvas
a painted rare beauty
wonder and awe
inspired at a glance
the Artist ordained
all colors be bright!
Displayed for all to see.
My upturned eyes blink, wink,
Bright white wisps race above
floating above my bright eyes.
Butterflies dance between flowers
flirt among yellow daisies
birds soar high above
dancing among the trees
like many colored jewels.
The valleys stretches before me
bright painted canvas. Many colored.
My roaming eyes see
Lazy willows swaying, drooping
their branches into streams
The Artist painted them so.
Mountains tall he made,
stern majesty. Mist shrouded.
Beauty beyond compare
Blue-green ocean he painted also
White capped the powerful ocean
as far as the eye can see.
The earth is a canvas
a painted rare beauty
Wonderful, majestic, canvas.
© 2008 A. Rivera
POETRY - The Sniper PostThe Sniper PostPOETRY - The Sniper Post8 years ago in Literature Submissions
The shell-shocked troops, exhausted from the days assault
Lie spent upon the broken trench floor
Or piled down in the dugouts with the rats
And I, the lonely sentinel, watch over all
Spying on the desolation amidst the darkness
I do not sleep
But, catching my mind dwelling on the outcome
Of the fruitless, futile day thats gone before
I swiftly return my gaze to the mud pits
Stretching out around me on all sides
My rifles gaze drifts with snipers precision
Across the fields of wire and mud and blood
Towards the distant dugouts of the Boche
Another twisted, ragged line, like ours
Beyond the pockmarked scar of no mans land
A well familiar sight, though the landscapes always changing
Each days bombardment bringing new holes and craters
And the mud filling in the old, with no care
For any soldiers dead or dying left within
No movement can be seen across the sunken gloom
No sign of life survives the latest conflict
And of those left lying injured
I Spy - Prose -We sit in silence, staring uncomfortably at the floor, not letting our eyes meet.I Spy - Prose -8 years ago in Literature Submissions
We know that if we look at one another, we will start again, start an endless litany of excuses and apologies that we both know have no real meaning, justifying what we have no justification for.
The silence is stifling.
So... I try to break that awful silence. It feels like a kind of noiseless echo, some awful, resonating soundlessness.
Except I cant think of anything to say.
Lets play I Spy. he says. I almost forget our argument, almost jump up and stare at him, almost exclaim; What?
I consider the idea for a moment. Its a good idea, really. It will keep us from shouting at one another; keep us from reopening old wounds and berating one another again. We have argued enough. Lets play I Spy.
This will become a habit, after arguments. Other couples may kiss and make up; others might spend time apart to cool off. We will play I Spy toge
POETRY - Our Little Game"I spy,POETRY - Our Little Game8 years ago in Literature Submissions
with my little eye,
something that is red;"
splayed on the table,
and in need of another clue,
"something I'm attracted to,"
her reddest luscious lips,
and that sealed the deal.
with my little eye,
something that is white;"
snow banks, drifts,
and fluffly clouds
in the inky sky,
the starry sprawls;
"something that creeps and crawls;"
hoarfrost on the window pane
with my little eye,
something that is blue;"
rising tide, clouding sky,
once brilliant eyes
that no longer shone;
"something that wants to be alone;"
and for once the proper guess
with no more time
to change the score.
with my little eye,
something that is...
with my little eye,
something that is...
gone and lost,
with a game
of secrets hide and seek;
falling for each other
's traps and constructions,
never quite finding
what was truly meant;
something that is quite distinct;
when games are games
Road games- P R O S E I spy something that is black.Road games- P R O S E8 years ago in Literature Submissions
Hmmm a raven?
How about a crow?
Thats the same thing as a raven.
No its not dear. Theyre similar but not the same.
Whatever, just guess something else.
Alright. Is it a shadow?
Close, but no.
Obsidian wrinkled her brow in thought. She looked around for inspiration, but all she saw was the forest on either side of the road. What was black and similar to a shadow? After several moments she still couldnt think of anything so she said, exasperated, I give up. What is it?
Your hair, Fintan replied with a smirk. Hed been trying to
PROSE ...suffocate......SUFFOCATE...PROSE ...suffocate...8 years ago in Literature Submissions
In the city hidden from the autumn sky, somewhere in the USA
City was drowning in the rays of afternoon sun, fumes, usuall buzz of neverending trafic and screams of those few birds, which by any means tried to be heard over all the noise and achieved it. Everything seemed to be in perfect order people rushing up and down the streets, neverstopping cars, flashing neons awaking to the nightlife and unmoved buildings hiding the whole place from heaven.
In this casual sin city, in the last rays of hope-giving sun, on this chaoticly peaceful afternoon, is where this story begins.
She was walking down the crowdy street, unaware of anything that awaited her. She was just passing Lotos the worst night club in the whole city, when this guy bumped into her.
- Watch out! she shouted.