knowThey say write what you know. I know I don't know who they are. But I know they have a good point.know15 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I know fear sucks. I know worry hurts. I know that I don't know all the answers. I know that when I'm alone everything is fine, nothing is so serious and nothing is wrong. I know that I'm going to die. I know that doesn't make sense to me. I know that's ok.
I know that I want to live strongly, wisely, abundantly, freely, and long. I know that I want to learn. I know that I want to live peacefully. I know that what I want isn't given to me. I know that I have to feel what I want to make it mine.
I know that everything is ok. I know that everything has always been ok and everything will always be ok. I know that I was not always ok with everything.
I know that there are a lot of problems in the world. I know that I care. I know that I don't want to care sometimes. I know that it doe
Lady Luckout she rolls-Lady Luck4 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the paper/card harlot crawls from the depths
of so many millions of dead hopes
and definitely-not-as-many fulfilled dreams;
either you sit and wait, reread her bible
obey her sole commandment-
(you shalt not give up on me)
sing her hymn
that, give it time, may mean nothing
or you sit-
you rub her body, harder, harder, harder-
her skin peels and she screams symbols and hope
to a hopeless case.
And perhaps you were a lucky one-
but then you take advantage
and toss your coins to her
as she rolls out once again.
calling to you
and you insert what you keep spare
but she devours it all
- do you dip in to what you hold dear?
her shining swollen lips nip at the metal
the copper aroma stains your hands
and her lipstick stains your sense.
you are the slave tonight.
you insert what you hold dear-
magpie eyes on silver coins
they're all yours
- or so you think -
i am, i am, i amI am the cold winter sunlight that shines through the gap between my thighs, the pale hands with their bloodless fingers, the hair that floats to the ground in free-falling gossamer strands.i am, i am, i am19 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I am the shaking voice in the therapist's voicemail box, the distorted vision seen in the mirror's cruel reflection, the stumbling steps that echo down the hospital's corridor.
I am the girl in the corner of the room who throws her pizza away without a bite, the girl who drinks coffee to drown her appetite in sorrows, the girl who wraps her fingers around her wrist every ten minutes or so to feel the bones there that protrude like skeletal wings.
I am alone, and afraid, and so afraid of being alone.
I am, but no longer, me.
being a bird means flying (i'm afraid of heights)they tell me to be a phoenixbeing a bird means flying (i'm afraid of heights)19 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
do not want to go up in
i must admit that
i don’t like the heat;
it’s all too much for
me to handle,
halloween plot (part two)halloween plot (part two)6 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
“You planning to put me in this grave?” asked Old Man Wilson.
Danny, shovel raised over his head, held his strike.
“Heh, I thought so. You kids are all the same.”
Old Man Wilson turned to face Danny, a snub-nosed .38 in his hand.
“Trick or treat, Danny.”
AtticAn attic is dusty and harsh. The corners contain spiders and secrets that are never meant to be spoken, while the boxes contain previous lives and lost memories. The only window is small and clouded from weather and wear, and only sheds small amounts of light on the walls and floor. These walls have holes and the floor creaks with every step, even those that a small rodent might make. The stairs up to this attic are steep and long, spinning up and almost never-ending in their effort to reach this dusty, old attic. The door is skinny and screams as it is opened, as if made by someone who knew that no one would make the effort to get to it. The most important part of this attic, however, is that someone is there.Attic18 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
This person seems to have almost the same attributes of the attic: harsh, clouded, and creaks whenever they move. Her face is drawn in, her hair has lost all shine, and her skin no longer glows. She looks like the physical embodiment of pain and lo
Proper GrammarA/N: This is a little argument I had with a good friend of mine. This is not being posted to scorn him, so no hate, please. I don't much care about the reader's stance on this subject, I just think that this is one of the best things I've written outside of school recently, and I thought that it would shed a little light on my writing style, and why I write in the first place. This conversation took place over Skype, and the indentations indicate a new message.Proper Grammar21 hours ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Cameron: why the FUCK is Skype autocapitalizing things for me
that is fucking ridiculous
Ethan: You don't like having proper grammar?
Cameron: no proper grammar can go suck a dick
i’m fucking typing on a computer not writing a novel
Ethan: Proper grammar is always good.
Cameron: proper grammar is unnecessary
like i'm conveying my message fine here
and it is less work
Grown of CorpsesStillness was what Narcis noticed first. Forests have that about them, the quiet of life going about its business so unobtrusively. It was a little grey, a little too quiet perhaps. His mind was so busy most times that he hardly thought anything of it. The underlying babble of dishonest noise confused and hid sounds of the real world.Grown of Corpses1 day ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The scream didn’t shatter reality so much as liquidate it. It was a crash that rippled out like the strike of a warhammer at a cathedral bell and everything below the sky fell. Now came the world Narcis expected these days.
He noticed a pattern eventually, which was really quite odd for these things and something of a feat. She was still screaming, a cracking, burbling sound. There never seemed to be any time for a breath. How he could even think around such a consuming sound, Narcis didn’t know.
The pattern was in the trees and plants. A pattern of the weak and strong, little patches with each in varying degrees and in similar shapes. Where t