NCIS Chapter 1I waited impatiently in the elevator next to my Uncle Leroy, I didn't like the whole 'take the niece to work' day thing.NCIS Chapter 15 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"Ready, Bren?" he said.
"As I'll ever be, Agent Gibbs," I smiled. He looked over at me and slapped the back of my head as the doors opened.
"Boss?" A guy with coffee cup asked.
"It's nothing, DiNozzo," Uncle said. I stumbled out of the elevator, playing up the 'injury.' "Suck it up, Bren," Uncle laughed. He always called me Bren. The man holding the coffee cup held his hand out to me.
"Anthony DiNozzo, beautiful,"
"Demetria Gibbs," I shook his hand, taking care to put pressure on his hand. He grimaced.
"This is my niece, guys, and Ziva," Uncle laughed again. He always laughed a lot when I was around. Ziva cocked her head a little, then shook it.
"Ziva David, pleasure to meet you," Her grip was firm. I liked her already.
"Nice to meet you too, Ziva, you can call me Bren," I let very few call me by my Uncle's nickname.
"Oh, she likes you, she only lets me ca
NCIS Chapter 2That night, after we had returned from the office, I was sitting in my room, brushing my hair out. I was wearing an ocean blue sweater and a black pencil skirt with some purple suede flats. My uncle knocked on the door.NCIS Chapter 25 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
"You look pretty,"
"Thank you," I put my brush down and pulled my wavy chestnut and auburn hair back with a headband.
"This for your date with McGee?"
"Yes, Uncle, do you mind?"
"No. I think he's just your type, actually. Now, if you were going out with DiNozzo, I'd disown you." That made me laugh.
"I'd never go out with Tony, Uncle,"
"Good." Instead of smacking me on the back of the head, he leaned over and kissed me on the top of the head. "I'll let you know when he's here."
"Thank you, Uncle,"
"You're welcome." He left and I heard him go downstairs. I put some gold earrings that Uncle had given me in, and a locket that Ducky had given me.
"Bren!" Uncle called. "McGee's here!" I took a deep breath and picked up my Ed Hardy purse and went downstairs. As I came down the
tightsJan 1, 2011tights4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When there is no company, I define myself with tights. I wrap my bruises and prickles in triangles and silky stripes, making something sensuous; I pull soft cotton between my thighs and slowly swipe out wrinkles. I sway in front of mirrors, with saxophones serenading me from the machine on my mattress; I smile at my legs. They arc and stretch; they lift me upwards over nonexistent parading heads, and they hunt attention; they do not make a sound.
Without you, I sing to my dog and my nails and my feet. I make Frank Sinatra siphon my world from my eyes; he sings to me strongly and spins me with one light hand. He looks at my legs. My thighs freely flaunt themselves to wine red curtains and plushies from the past. There are no delicate dancers' legs to giggle behind the backs of mine. There are no men to ignore them; there are no men to push them aside and free them of their purple or pink or red or green veils in order to reach the more interesting parts. There is a clean and
Internet poetry and YOUSo, YOUve decided you want to be an Internet poet. Very good, very good! There are a lot of people nowadays who culture themselves reading (cough) poetry written by equally-cultured modern poets and (gasp!) poetesses (yes, thats actually a word, ask Wiki if you dont believe me).Internet poetry and YOU6 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Back to the point. Its really easy to be a poet these days. Just sit down, grab a ball pen and a piece of paper and let the creativity flow. It doesnt have to rhyme. It doesnt have to make sense, either. In fact, the more ambiguous and unbalanced your poem-in-the-making is, the more youre likely to be admired for your originality and free spirit. Dont forget to add in some incredibly sophisticated words for good measure, and also one or two iffy words (preferably starting with the letters F or S) for contrast. And remember, spelling, punctuation and capitalization are absolutely optional.
In the one-in-a-million case that you run out of ide
ApotheosisAnswers float, feathersApotheosis6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Not of angels, but finches
Settling with autumn.
Edens tree sheds leaves
Life forms, these than which nothing
Meeker can be thought.
Dirty Little SecretDear Post Secret,Dirty Little Secret5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Nineteen years ago, I had a son. Nineteen years later, I wish he'd never been born.
I suppose I began wishing this years ago, before he was even born, actually. I was content, just my husband and myself, living in our humble abode. No way was a child going to ruin my dream.
I refused to accept my pregnancy even when the symptoms were all there; the morning sickness, the disgusting bloating and pain, the intense bitchiness; It was terrible. Only when that bastard of a doctor told me the unwanted truth did I believe it. And I hated him, almost as much as I hated the beast that was growing inside me.
My husband was elated by the news, but I was enraged; So enraged, in fact, that I tossed myself from the stairs. My husband thought I tripped, and he was in hysterics about the baby. I, on the other hand, hoped it hadn't survived the fall. My heart fell when the doctor said the child was okay; My attempts were in vain. I would've tried again too, but my husband wanted this c
Children at the GateIn revenge, we have set fireChildren at the Gate5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to our mother's womb
where all life emerged,
where the shadows of
countless pillars of smoke
fill the skies of oceans
from coffers burst open
pouring forth stains of
prehistory risen from the dead
by the reckless children
let loose upon the shores
of glacier salt licks
to haze the land with deserts
that choke her arteries;
the relentless march to the sea
where there is no welcome-
to ravage the spices of her
jeweled neck and arms, to
lay barren her thousand bosoms,
to defile our first and only home
that lays at our feet waiting
as our yearning gaze points us
to the starry firmament
until at last we might implore
O Earth Mother, forgive us
before you cast us out of Eden!
and of course, she does
with her blessings, in spite
our contempt for our birthright
(it belongs to us, we reason)
too short-lived and fragile
by our own hand to earn it,
so we try and take it
for we are the brazen children
who forsake her, and
play with the keys to the gate
which bars our w
Speak1.Speak6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are singing the same song
you have always been singing.
The one where the words are all
did you do it, did you do it, did you
do it. I have not done it. Tomorrow
I will not have done it. The days pass,
and it has not been done. I only wish
you would sing a different song.
There are dishes in the sink.
There is dust in the house.
There is clutter on the table.
You do not do what should be done.
You never listen to me, you do not hear,
I am wide open and you are always shut.
Another question, any other question,
I had a lovely day at school they let me
hit something, today I ate a sandwich for lunch
made of horror and rye bread,
Im still afraid of cockroaches and abandonment.
My grades are picture-something.
You speak and you speak,
you want to leave me, you want me
all alone in this house, do your homework,
Chill, Dude.when has it ever made matters betterChill, Dude.5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
to think of the worst, the maybe, the never?
when your mind dwells on the out-of-control
the details tend to take over the whole.
so don't let your worry fill you with fear,
it's the only thing that lets danger come near,
stomachs may churn and feelings turn bitter,
that's just a choice to let your mind wither.
a test is ahead, no time to study,
the deadline is gone, and you need to hurry.
panicking isn't the right way to go,
take a breath and calm down, go with the flow.
ForbiddenForbiddenForbidden5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for Liu Xiaobo
Bold as palace tiles, yellow-glazed dawn
descends the Heavenly Gate,
setting itself upon the city of
emperors. There I am
arrested by your Tiananmen Square, Xiaobo;
there I am wondering
what it means to be forbidden
as a palace, as
you, as words that, as love,
will be like always.
Dear Post SecretI'm not sorry, if sorry meansDear Post Secret5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I would do it over differently.
Did I seek pleasure merely
as a means to avoid pain?
And did I find joy by accident?
Yes, and finally contentment.
Did I seek the praise and
fear the criticism of others?
And was I ever disappointed?
Yes, until I found my truth.
Did I seek the attention of
the cruel and fear loneliness?
And did that tear my heart?
Yes, and my heart opened.
Did I seek to gain power in
money and worldly goods?
And did I despair any loss?
Yes, until I valued my self.
Everything that went before
Helped create the present me.
I am not sorry.
GoddessGoddess6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
scarlet flowers surround
the wild shrine in the grove
where devotees dance,
drinking from a bilva fruit husk,
and jackals circle endlessly
as the yellow serpent
emerges from my body
to devour each newborn-
issues of your loins-
I dance bare-breasted
upon your corpse, my Shiva...
the orgiastic spiral of
my limbs to the gourd-lute,
stoned on your blood
Shaktas sing you back to life
and to my craggy grotto-
songs never written down
except on centuries-old
paper, now mouldering
into extinction from
generations of monsoons
and my drunkenness...
as divine property
by the owners alone-
these songs to the Goddess,
felled from heaven
and caught in my hair
WinterIn the dark nightWinter5 years ago in Spoken Word More Like This
There are stars.
Opposition MovementOpposition MovementOpposition Movement5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sister, your face is dark.
How is your face made dark
when the great garden of the sun
is still fragrant with fragrances
so unmade for Halva and tea? Sister,
you are asleep. What has taken you
into your sleep and that third world
of waiting outside the wall of heaven?
Sister, will we be what you are now
when staggering we stagger,
a hand to our breast when we burn,
sorrowing with pain
as we fall from these streets
and the thorns of opposition, our feet
no longer scouring the heavy stones
at our feet? Sister, a banquet of clay and dust
waits to be eaten, silent with the silence
a puddle spreading beneath your back,
the sky above. But not only; not just.
May your feet carry you, Sister,
safely to safety, away from weeping
and the echoes of friends
wailing their grief to aid your family
that they might find their comfort
in giving comfort to the wailing.
She Will Be NearShe Will Be Near6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She Will Be Near
But Unseen behind her Curtain
Isnt that like a book?
Caught just so between lark song and
The taste of Unblushing
Words awakening on her Breath
A startled square of glass
Unready for the Torch of dusk,
Quick to change the subject
She will watch the Coachmans approach
By not watching at all
Her weight confiding in the sash;
The Stars moving in pairs.
to Emily Dickinson
IncantationIncantationIncantation6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the second half of day,
while the sun is watching rice stems
climb into afternoon heat, eager
for their taste of the rain-hungry wind,
and the Longclaws yellow throat
is only just beginning to pause,
unable to find its song for the Ugali
thickening beside plates of evening stew,
the mud-slime will pull its hardest
at the blur of her feet even as she sees
she has no room to sprint
eyes wet as the new edge of bone,
her mother not following behind
but fighting to barricade the door
against men whove come
without their hearts
to hunt her daughter, to gouge
and saw at her snow skin,
wanting her most terribly
below the knees her albino legs
a prize to be torn and taken for luck
across the border into Kenya
where she will be shaped into charms
cast for wealth and good promise.
In the second half of day
I will hate the sun
more than anything
the sun that does not burn a path
behind a running girl, the sun
that does nothing more
All Alone in the AlleyAll alone in the alley,All Alone in the Alley5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with wine by my side
and not a cat in sight,
I drift, slowly,
from cold ennui
to good old mis'ry.
Here, in the deep dark
of the cul-de-sac,
there are no lies
left to unmask
all is bare
for none to see
the drunken madness in my marrow,
the broken poems in my bones;
the quill, of late run out of sorrow,
the sacrum writhing with my moans.
This is what I covet,
this is what I loathe;
this this - is my sanctum
my grove of myrtle drear
and martyred dreams.
Milestones and Roadside DinersThere are no stars tonight;Milestones and Roadside Diners7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
instead, we count the passing cars,
their headlights leaving trails
on the insides of our eyelids.
We try to memorise number plates,
to see if the same one passes us twice,
or write sonnets with the waspish letters;
we used to join the dots of constellations,
our names scrawled across midnight.
Plastic bags are crumpled wildflowers on the verge;
we pluck them from the view of cats eyes
and let them rustle secrets in the matted darkness.
When did the stars go out?
Did they flicker off, one by one,
like windows in a block of flats,
or did we smother them on that one night
when we thought the sky could wait?
We signed on the dotted
I have forgottennot the words themselves, but howI have forgotten4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they wind around each other
like grapevines along a chain-link fence.
I know how it's done: the curt, argus-eyed
hellos to passersby, the courtesy questions
over the phone to keep the conversation
moving, like turning the page of a bad book.
I understand practicality. I understand
the emollient coos, infant-speech;
the harsh backhand bark against
your acerbity; the weeping tongue.
As does the world--even a child
can shed his natural-born cruelty
for a moment of understanding, the precursor
of compassion that can build men.
But it is this I have forgotten:
its ascension not unlike a god,
how to ease them together
into such an immaculateness that one word,
one feather removed would mean
the hard, dark earth, or the cold, bitter slap
of the sea. It is a sort of death
that goes quietly, a third-world death.
To think I had something amidst my grip,
that I could reach into the good light
of each morning, my footfalls
avoiding the crow-footed cracks
of the si