The QuestionThe QuestionThe Question7 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
A/N: This is based off of the notion that Wanda probably did not get much of an education in that asylum. Rated T for semi-adult references and a few curses.
Some people are like slinkies; they dont really have a purpose, but they make you laugh when you push them down the stairs.
The audience laughed, and Wanda Maximoff snorted, not out of amusement at the pitiful comedians words, but at the sound of the laugh track. Some idiot was hooting and laughing louder than everyone else, and the joke hadnt even been that funny. Moron.
She held the remote out in front of her, watching the so-called comedian on the screen move around in an accelerated frenzy due to the fast forwarding. She wondered briefly if Pietro could do that, too.
Aware of the front door opening, Wanda stopped the video and pretended to be enraptured in it, just in case whoever was home wanted to talk. No one
Just another Brotherhood DayThe brotherhood was sitting in their living room quietly. Lance was sitting on one end of the couch doing his homework. Pietro was sitting next to him knitting a throw pillow. Freddy was sitting on their recliner reading War and Peace. Wanda was sitting on the window sill, filing her nails and Todd was sitting on the floor with a bucket of water trying to get a stain out of one of his shirts.Just another Brotherhood Day7 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
They were all quietly going about their tasks, when the phone rang. Freddy put down his book and picked up the phone.
Hello? Yes, just a moment. Lance, its for you. He handed the phone to Lance who took it and brought it to his ear.
Hello? Oh hey Scott. The math homework? Yeah Im doing it right now. It was page 271, numbers 15 through 30. Uh huh. Yeah no problem. See you at school. He handed the phone back to Freddy who put it back on the hook.
I like Scott. Hes nice. Wanda said without looking up from her nails.
You gonna ask
my friend friday My friend Friday spends Tuesday afternoons looking for things that no one else can find. These things are small and blend with the everyday so suitably, that they elude most of us, even after our morning coffee or cigarette. But invariably Friday finds them with ease, and sets them upon my doorstep every Wednesday morning, pawing at my breakfast with his fresh wonders.my friend friday8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I saw a boy die yesterday! He howls, the door slamming behind him. He is not in the same room as I; he is yelling this across my house at 5:30am, eliciting angry grumbles from my somber roommates. Sending the saloons doors clacking and banging, he gushes into our kitchen and tosses a mangled G.I. Joe on the table in front of me. The boy was in the car in front of me. I was driving to work, laughing at NPR, as ya do, and there in front of me, a man was flying, this man! He grins, snatching the disable veteran off the table and waving it in front of me
EverythingSoft rustle of dead leavesEverything6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
follows bristling breeze;
stillness frees necessities
in a melting blushing-sun.
Sweet bells slightly tinge
Colombian, freshly brewed,
set aside on an oak-made taboret.
Sweat, as real as love,
gently cool by giving-in.
Nothing, as it seems.
His MemoryI was too young to remember;His Memory6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
maybe I still am.
But somewhere hidden,
under layers of wax,
it still burns.
False Providence TangledFalse Providence5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the lost souls
of never forever.
The drifting endless
Out-Patient Tanka1Out-Patient Tanka6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
cold air wracks my lungs-
having tea in the
after my scan
a blind woman-
and I forget my pain
for the nurses' station
I bring cookies
anxious to park,
to accepting fate
in a private ward
in the bowels
of the hospital,
I drop off
jars of my urine
their Christmas tree
is still up
Headphones and ExpansionHeadphones and Expansion9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am the soles of his shoes, I must like the feeling of my cheeks
against the gravel, he presses my jawline in
hard, I keep coming back in an attempt to pluck out
each pin shaped stone. There is not much inside apart from old cogs
and plastic tubes that twist around my spine,
something burrows into my stomach and sits,
clattering as I breathe and I have to keep on hushing it up
as its fingers start to pull my ribs apart
so the world can eye my heart up, open like empty drawers,
so I can walk around with my pores unfastened
spilling out everywhere.
I did not mean to crawl so far into his jean pockets
because I knew it would be so hard to wash my skin
out of their fabric. He is like a two AM fire alarm, loud
and I must heave my body up and stumble down the stairs,
'it's too cold to stand outside with all these half-asleep students
at this time in a morning, will you let me back in?'
He makes it rain and my eyelashes do not make good window screen wipers
There's a boo
wager of war --first draft--i.wager of war --first draft--5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You are no Goliath,
strong as you may be
Your footsteps are not pathways
for those who obscure the frontal lines
with courageous words obeyed by sons
who are not their sons.
You do not measure victory
by the distance you throw your stones,
for it is never about the body count.
It is only about the stones,
and the stories they leave untold.
You are no wager of war,
ordained only by the highest bidder;
your words are more than the ground
that moves beneath stomping feet
Perhaps you share likeness to David;
greeter of the open challenge, writer of hymns,
a humble warrior, steadfast where your feet
last touched the battleground.
Pick up your pen; the sword will never
be your strongest ally. Metal corrodes,
but what you put to paper will outlive you.
You are fit to lead the way
Goliath never will, for
you do not waste words the way
others waste their souls
You are the peacemaker
carving into stone ideals that
will not wash away like blood.
I Caught a ButterflyI caught a butterfly, colored green with silky wingsI Caught a Butterfly6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
which was not afraid, but that was mean. Such a human thing.
Delicate being, was not meant for glass made jar,
still it flew around, a couple of times, just to flaunt, and thus
I shook that cruet, to let it soar, just a little bit nothing more,
felt like such a brute. Still not sure though why,
cause how can you tell one delicate butterfly
colored green, with silky wings, that its the most
Abnormal, but unspecificAbnormal, but unspecific8 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
At 25, almost half of Riikka's life has been spent with being sick and visiting doctor after doctor. She would surely have better things to do. There's nothing she hates as much as doctors and she has nightmares about visits where she's humiliated. That hasn't been unusual. Even now, doctors treat her condescendingly, like a kid. It took over a decade to obtain a diagnosis.
There have been dozens and again dozens of doctors over the years, neurologists, opthalmologists, infection specialists and rheumatologists. It certainly feels like they couldn't care less what happens to Riikka. They're constantly trying to push physiotherapy, something Riikka has been doing for years, even though she doesn't have much mobility left any longer.
Riikka is sick with something many doctors don't even believe in and that officially doesn't exist in Finland, even though it has been included in WHO's official ICD-10 for a long time. In many countries it's known as myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME). In Finla
September haiku setbarn catsSeptember haiku set5 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
sleeping in the shade
hawk carefully watching
the rusted car
the mowing of the greens
roses twice as bright
on a rainy day
the weeks first sunlight
shining on the trash truck
EmilyI loved her inside letters, I tuckedEmily7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my hearts and my organs inside of her
messy scrawl, her heartache, her doodles
of lost girls, of black cats, of razors and
pills. I sealed myself, my fate, I sent it to her:
Three stamps, and a kiss, always
with pearl-pink lip gloss. It would fade in the mail,
traveling 5000 miles
to her door, but I did not
care and the doves inside
my chest dared to break out.
I loved her inside letters,
I tucked her pain inside my art.
I filled my envelopes
with sadness, pieces of my hair,
my strange secrets,
my broken stories.
It rains six days of the weekThe sky touches itself at theIt rains six days of the week6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
waist, and bows sunlight through my window.
A week of washing its floors, until
finally we are clean enough. You
slept and I touched my eyelashes to
your shoulder, which rose into the air
like a tiny mountain.
My worst nightmare:
you are walking away
and my voice is not even a telegram.
I ask where you've gone and they reassure me-
you unraveled in their hands,
trailed out of the window,
too fluid to gather.
Yesterday, upon waking,
you mimed goodbye
over the covers.
Your arms tightly at ease, looking like
you slept somewhere you weren't supposed to. If love is
jealousy then I suppose
I'm upside-down with guilt. Even
on the top of my head,
I could read you, like a newspaper with the
ink still wet and morals
drying on every page. We
were laughing as I kept
gravitating towards your open mouth,
half-afraid it would take wing
and fly from the room, already black
It rains six days
out of the week. No one is
bending over for us, anymore.
That which is never controlledThat which is never controlled6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Amongst all of our shadows we carry
There is one that becomes oblivion.
Able to be touched; it lurks around our souls.
You can never choose the hand that reaches it,
And you will never have the power to control it.
It moves fast and slow,
Like a flame that one can never banish with a single whisper.
This oblivion known as everlasting love has been grasped upon by the strongest hands by far.
It feels as though he has chosen me, but oh how much I feel as though I have chosen him.
Even through the darkest ashes I would search for his hand.
Once you find your eternal warmth in anothers palm, you then see the battle ground to which you then must let go in order to crawl through the webs.
You question if its real, if you can go on
As you see his gentle smile telling you to hold on,
As your legs get caught and your body becomes frozen,
You feel his warm breath on your ear pleading you to fight for this love.
Yes this love that you know is there and if my eyes havent sa
Q+AI will never be able toQ+A6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
be a good lover
because I can't answer
"Why are you sad?"
I am currently
inside of your left elbow,
questioning the ways I
long for your flexibility. We
are two unequal sides of a triangle
but I don't know where the third one went;
we can't even take a proper shape. If I
have to look at you one
I think I might die. The masochist
in me really likes this.
"Oh, you know-
My dear, you believe in
a heart that
takes to the air. Whereas
I am devoted to
because everything underneath
is just ducking for cover.
Madonnaher face a saffron blush-Madonna6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a Madonna at dusk
stands at a barred window,
a cracked adobe cameo
of myrtle and palm fronds
I pause, spellbound
amidst slow-rising dust
from my barefoot trek
through a quiet village
to contemplate the new moon
when the Andalusia sky
is lavender and violet,
the village youths
a lamentation with lanterns
passing before their Madonna
bathed in the scent
of orange and mint,
through her gypsy hair
a raven's wingspread
The sky deepens-
blend with the soil
a distant row of cypress
marking where the road lies-
from the belfry, storks emerge
to glide majestically
in a slow, widening arc
their shadows undulate
o'er the cheekbone of a riverbed-
the dying sun casts its yield
through newly plowed fields
Purpose DrivenI didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.Purpose Driven6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
It was 1958. Hundreds of thousands of us fell upon the island of Quemoy. The reasons didnt matter to me. All that mattered was the long, cold barrel, the instant of ignition, the ponderous arc across the Taiwan Strait, and the fall. From a Soviet factory to now, my destiny was to kill.
I didnt explode when I struck. My time would come later.
I waited. Rain and wind piled mud over me. Cold, heat, night, day passed again and again. Then, the claw of a steam shovel, and I saw the sun again.
There was a flatbed truck, and crates, and thousands of my brothers stacked on top of one another. We clattered as the truck bounced along the muddy roads of Kinmen. Our war was over. My time would come later.
There was a bespectacled man, gentle, with a hammer and a practiced arm. I melted in his forge. I folded under his hammer, under his patience. I became thin, hard, and gained an edge that would split
MidnightI remember my first geisha sightingMidnight7 years ago in Other More Like This
Falling from the night, her robes were
splashed with ochre, and periwinkles.
in jet black hair.
A fleeting, imperfect,
I am giddy.
We start with a gentle hello
then comes the dance
low slung in her hips
moving her arms in a studied grace
It is hard not to pay attention
to the small stuff
the secret gardens
rain is in the air
Were not a literal people,
but I lose myself.
We write in
and she becomes
the dark, naked grapevines
of early spring.
I open my eyes.
It is a Zen notion
Here is a place where the dragon can rest.
little stirrings III: etherlittle stirrings III: ether6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from a craft adrift my voice muffled by
distance stutters through the ether
and the ink blackness- I can see the sun
I'm surrounded by stars- suns that live
and die before my eyes my own sun
stands out because it's where you are...
again my feeble voice calls knowing
you can't hear but will dedicate the
rest of my life so that one day you will
Blue Ceramic BowlBlue ceramic bowlBlue Ceramic Bowl6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rests on our table
where the oak-salver
used to sit, piling
dust for ever.
Blue ceramic bowl
made of our lustful
sins, decorated by our
tears and smiles
of so many hours.
Blue ceramic bowl
is where we hide
the miscarried child
our son, Oriel.
Blue ceramic bowl
filled with shame
and the trivial carving
of your name.