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, 2011tights5 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
Cellmates - TransformersG1It had been a war zone, but now it was a cell.Cellmates - TransformersG18 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
After the excessively fierce but chaotically brief final battle, the claustrophobic control chamber lay littered with the bodies of both Autobots and Decepticons. Non-functioning carapaces and amputated robot parts cluttered the space around the centrally located holographic display module like the shattered parts of a fallen halo. On this island were the last two living creatures, the only soldiers that could possibly call themselves victorious.
They sat there, back to back, immersed in a solemn bubble of depression. There was no room for celebration when they knew that even though theyd survived the carnage of battle, they were doomed to die here anyway. The ship, now cold around them as lifeless as their comrades, was sinking slowly, sadly, silently to the bottom of a great alien ocean with no possible way in or out. There was nothing left to do but wait in silence
Dilemma:Chapter 2Dilemma:Chapter 23 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Chapter 2: The sunlight after the storm
The dark blue sky seemed to be coated with thousands of diamonds. While she stared at the sky, Odessa played with her silvery locks of hair. Her black, Asian eyes never stopping to show sadness or fear. She stood still, right there, in that grandiose balcony that permitted her to see the spectacular waterfall of Angels. However, Odessa never liked her floating, moving castle. In fact, she would have done anything to leave it, but she knew that would be a suicide attempt.
How she hated the loneliness of her castle. How she hated her talent and job. She never really had time for herself. Only if that cursed wizard hadn't started the war Only God knew how much Odessa hated him. But she would never say that aloud. Who would expect her to be so insolent?
Odessa was content with laying still in her comfortable rocking chair, allowing her eyelids to close, enjoying the dead silence that only the night could create.
"Trying to sleep? Quite unexpect
now accepting applications...the smoke beneath your bed finally finds younow accepting applications...9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring crooked in broken mirrors
for the fire of your former features
forever and ember
still breath and false starts
'til it whispers
the universe is big business
but the fact of (the) matter is
it desires you deposit d.n.a.
demanding genetic building blocks
on which to lay its foundation
and though the future of father's daughters
the sun set's assured
I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival
of the non-linear one-liner
yes it all implodes in infinity
but buildings retain their names anyway
mountains and their silhouettes sit still
yet oppose portraits on general principal
the stars think they're brilliant
the general population favors vague impressions
most allow the words
(to escape unnoticed)
Dying Season.her pale lark palms lie on her stomachDying Season.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a tumble of braids and apple cider lost
she remembers her mother's dark damaged eyes
and how her father followed a storm away
the leaves copper crunch under her feet
as she chases after trembling old ladies
worn out leather bound books cradled
and they don't shake her hand
crows perch on fence posts
and she meets their glossy gazes
pumpkins split beneath their feathers
and she begs to fly, too
grey the sky with lightning
and swollen moon nightmares
she whispers on broken breaths
oh, forgive me, forgive me
but she could never look at you
without seeing the scars of his eyes
and still they judge her instead.
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
Other-end Voices"A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person."Other-end Voices5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It all ends with forgetting.
In the restaurant, we laugh
amongst friends, but scoff
at the waitress with the sad,
lazy eye to find new employment:
the glasses are half-empty again.
To think that a phone
could pull the devil from our mouths,
convoluted with horns, a chattering
ugliness. We don't know the face.
We only know that bills must be paid,
that something void, a hole,
has sucked out all the light
from our homes. Our memories see
only the voice on the other end,
how ours fluctuate
through a thin sickle-shaped smile.
They struggle to pull your life up
on the bright, square eye
of the monitor. They stare
at your life through numbers,
through late payments
and canceled promotions,
and you think that this voice
is a robot voice, an unreal voice,
a voice that only knows you
as another voice. But you forget
Gravedigger - ThreeGravedigger - Three8 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
A year of purpose
The winter was good to Perin and Graves. Their little cabin stayed stocked with wood throughout the dark months, keeping the fire going. A single gold coin from Graves pouch paid for all the food they needed, and they did not need to draw any more on the funds now kept safe in the crypt, as winter was a good season for business.
Four burials took place in the little graveyard. Two of them were for individuals of fairly high status and were relatively lucrative to Perin and his master. Graves was commissioned to raise a block of stone over one grave as a memorial to the husband and wife buried there. Stonework paid very well, and consequently the pair of gravediggers were contentedly fed throughout the winter without having to draw on their saved gold.
The following summer, when business had slowed down after a death in the spring due to pneumonia Graves became ill. Perin worried.
Not only was this a serious threat to his master's life, but
The WhistlerThe postman made me uneasy, though I could never put my finger on why. I wasn't afraid of him but there was just something about his presence that set my back teeth on edge. He kept to himself; was always whistling, early or late and it always seemed to be the same repetitive, mysterious tune. I'd had always envied others their ability to whistle. The best I could produce was a discordant half-blast that was more spittle than sound. I didn't envy him though. For I knew, as did all the little kids in the village, that it was bad luck to whistle at night.The Whistler6 years ago in Horror More Like This
I lived in a shanty-like neighbourhood that was called The Alley. This alleyway was really just a dirt track that connected several tiny houses, crowded together in a small space. Everyone knew their neighbour and their neighbours' business, which was avidly discussed on many an idle evening, across back fences and front stoops.
Madeiramaking our way, unhurriedMadeira6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
past tumble-down walls leaning
against cork oak trees, and
covered with lampshade poppies,
we stroll from the open-air market
with its baskets of persimmons-
the Moorish sun of late afternoon
burns us both brown, obscuring
the winter of my scars-
our half-nude bodies celebrate
while each toe excavates
treasures from a sandy beach
leaving a path that fades
from the lapping of waves
that lie across our footsteps
in languid foreplay-
distant harbor lights offer
shimmering pearl necklaces
and the promise, as evening falls
to indulge in the warmth
of a shared glass of Madeira,
of random wine-stained kisses,
and the religion of a
star-filled Portuguese night
Real ObjectsReal ObjectsReal Objects7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Spicer wrote to Lorca to say, I would like to make
poems out of real objects. The lemon to be a lemon
that the reader could cut or squeeze or taste a real lemon
like a newspaper in a collage is a real newspaper.
I read that Spicer wrote this, but not that Lorca wrote back
with his reply. I dont have such a letter; I have not seen that I do.
I have not looked to see that I do; not even today as I
give all thought to this. Is that as real as a lemon can be?
To go on without looking for a letter, simply because
the light is better here at the red edge of the table,
merely because there is no world beyond the chant of a fan
in a summer window to think nothing of a Spanish balcony
left open to a voice and some passing hours, but to know
that loving you is effortless as death, clear as carrion
coming bareheaded off the bone, tart as a lemon?
You should do as you like leave the balcony open
or closed, wait to the end of this line or well int
greeting the sun with a smileMorning dawns and I am awoken by a stirring beside me, soft and unassuming and foreign. My bed is a mess of overstuffed pillows and thinning blankets, and it is unusual for me to wake up not half-consumed by it all. Today is no different, though the face pressed to my neck is certainly new.greeting the sun with a smile5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I lie still and wait for the body behind me to move, for the arm draped across my chest to pull back and allow me to breathe a little easier. But after a moment - one, two, three long minutes - it is still there and my companion is still breathing in, out; they do not shift again and I am left with an uncomfortably anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach.
But finally there is a long exhale: the breath tickles my skin, too warm in the midst of all the blankets. And then there is movement, the snaking-back of the arm around my waist, the creaking of the springs in my mattress as the body behind me sits up and yawns. My eyes are shut but I hear the multiple pops as their back arches and stretch
This Is Suddenly AboutThis Is Suddenly AboutThis Is Suddenly About7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
more than a seatbelt will ever
be able to hold, straining as iron takes our tongue
and the glass begins its web and our skin gives up
a print to the reflections of the sky
and there is no time for a question
because we cannot begin in words,
because the days forget their names when a fast
comes to an end and the sobbing of the hungry
is for the hunger they must let go,
ImaginagerieThe chickens are locked in the closet;Imaginagerie6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
the dinosaur's under the bed.
The toad has just jumped from the windowsill
and landed on top of my head.
The ferrets are out planting flowers;
the peacock's new plumage is torn.
The unicorn used my last dishtowel
to polish its glimmering horn.
The reindeer have raided the pantry;
the dolphin won't fit in the tub.
The lemmings ate all of my lemon drops,
then played hide-and-seek with the cub.
The donkey's been braying all morning;
the cheetah's been chasing her tail.
The pony just peed on the welcome mat,
while the kangaroo chewed all my mail.
Oh, for a real-world puppy,
perhaps a kitten or two...
My daydreams are running all wildly,
just like my invisible zoo!
Soviet PenisI used to worship my penis.Soviet Penis6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Didnt know I was doing this,
thought I was getting lucky,
it was penis-worship.
Now my penis
is a discarded Soviet statue.
The snow piles up against it
and doesnt melt
Letters Of LoveRegarding those love letters strewn on your bedLetters Of Love8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They were never meant for someone as beautiful as you
Falling hearts from the skies of time
Draped in ashen white
The writing's on the wall
Words get tossed around and jumbled
Weaving in and out of truth and lies
Regarding those love letters on your bed
I never meant the words in them at all
When I said I loved you, I lied
When I said I missed you, it wasn't what I meant
What I really meant to say
Was I love you and I miss you today
It was never in the past
Only in the present and the future
And I wipe this lip shaped kiss
From the seal of this last envelope
As I place it on your pillow
And a single tear makes a journey
From my eye, down my cheek
And into my heart
As I finally walk away
The UnravellingYou make me feel so unslept in,The Unravelling5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a tangle of sheets
you should be unravelling
or the sigh of an unquenched night
or even this double bed holding up
the singleness of my longing.
Sunday MorningI want sheets one day past freshSunday Morning6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and enough pillows so nothing
every feels stiff or tweaks apart.
I want the windows open and
the temperature perfect for
I thought to want Cleopatra's
handmaidens to serve us but the
world is not big enough for us.
I want movies of every moment
like this playing on the ceiling
so we can stay very horizontal.
I want no visitors and cannot
understand that part of Brian
Wilson's seven year plan.
After several of these days, I
want to write a new poem
prescription including innovations.
I want more of Sunday morning.
Dying Changes EverythingClouds and pearly gates,Dying Changes Everything7 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
I dream of sailing
into the west.
August 12, 2008August 12, 2008August 12, 20087 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is always the old who stay
behind, shambling unsteadily
down uneven stairs, drifts
of wreckage and memory
rising up around them as they
head out onto the streets of Gori
after rocket attacks have made
a quiet of the world. Worrying
their tongues as they calculate
laari against lamb and walnuts,
they fidget with memories fit to untwist
the rebar and shattered concrete
they find strewn across the plaza
and cross themselves as the air
quakes. I hear them, how they give
witness to the sorrow they stand
with on the front steps of a nameless
building. I hear their petitions.
Where would they go, these mothers
of the fathers of the smallest lives,
these brothers of the women who have
sold sour cherries in this very square
every Tuesday but this one?
Where is there to go but down
the uneven stairs and into the square,
looking for a childs blanket or a friend
among the faces of the dead?
In lieu of flowersThere are portraits, for which she never sitsIn lieu of flowers4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
while I dab with improbable brushes:
wine bottles, wedding gowns. When viewed
with narrowed eyes from a distance, she
appears less ambiguous where blue
might be the shadow of a breast, a lotus,
the ghost of some recent, terrible blow.
Her eyes are the sole constant in a face
which shifts like white sand over shale
in the wind, a slurry of volcanic glass.
They've become quite the host, her many
disparate aspects, best approached alone
and out of sequence. I dread to think
of them lined up in a chronological arc
from girlhood to its distant, mad conclusion,
each cell animated by the one before it
as if attempting to spark a second life.
This is her art, the image which leaves me
crying like a child for its mother.