Sleeping BeautyThe canvas was drowning in paint. The chaotic brush strokes and loud colours overwhelmed his eyes. But he liked it. He liked the mess
Sought the pattern.
His finger lightly on the paper followed the lines and swirls. They lead to somewhere he wanted to be.
It seemed like total nonsense in acrylic but the motion calmed him.
It was a delusional dream really. To think he could help her.
He could tell from the painting that she was long gone. Trapped in her own mess.
As if under a spell she dipped her fingers into the paint and continued to depict her nightmare. Her golden locks covered the ground and she became lost in the sea of her hair.
Drawing circles on the canvas.
It was beautiful really, in a twisted kind of way.
But he couldn't let it go on.
"What does this symbolize?" he asked calmly, pointing to the half moon.
"It's a perfect circle," she spoke softly.
"But it's not a full moon"
"Exactly. Perfect circles don't exist in reality," She smiled proud of herself and the spell
Stockholm SyndromeShe sat on the swings, throwing bread crumbs.Stockholm Syndrome6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The night cloaked her fragile form.
Then his voice spoke out, "There's still time to find someone normal."
She swung the swing side to side until she crashed into the one beside her, toppling over the boy beside her. "Not even remotely interested." she smirked.
He slowly got up and dusted the dust off his black jeans, shaking out his fierce red hair.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"I WANT TO GO HOME." pined the princess annoyingly.
"You've said that already a million times I GET IT." the dragon ferociously roared, baring his teeth.
"Take me home," she pouted.
"What not even a little bit scared?" the dragon's wings lowered and he sank down depressed, "I'm a failure."
"I'm supposed to be MARRIED by TOMORROW to my prince charming. SO YOU BETTER TAKE ME HOME!!" The princess glared with her baby blue eyes into the dragon's red ones, attempting to stare him down.
"But what if I don't want you to marry him?" the dragon stated, "What if I wante
04. ImmortalOld detective movies had lost their punch04. Immortal6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
he had killed them for her.
And as she sat watching the flickering black and white screen she couldn't help but sigh.
She thought she was calling the shots and she never noticed that he was the one holding the gun the entire time.
And as she sat watching an actor, who was probably long dead, she couldn't help but feel slightly alone.
Because he was merely a face, an immortal figure in the character he played and the tape that unwound, but now he was lost under piles of DVDs and Friends' re-runs.
And beside her, her radio wept,
Where'd you go
I miss you so
Seems like it's been forever.
She turned it off quickly, the second she started feeling the pain in her heart.
"How could it have been forever? No one lives long enough for it to be forever." but it felt like forever.
She picked up the photo-album beside her and started flipping through it. She noticed the photos of him and immediately tears came to her eyes.
There he was spr
Unheard Songs of a Mute Birdlisten:Unheard Songs of a Mute Bird6 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
it's okay to find beauty in the broken
it's quite alright to witness it in the decay
but i never managed to see where the beauty was in giving up.
birds that can still fly are beautiful too.
i want to lie in fields of flowers with you and make peace with boredom.
i want to call you at 3:00 am after i wake up from a nightmare.
i want to sing to you a song i wrote about cardinals and squirrels and mousey girls
that can't play soccer
but can still love.
my friend is helping me build a rocketship
i'll reach you in the sky.
you used to call me your beautiful cardinal
then you called me Anja
now you don't call me at all.
you're worth more than numbers on a page.
you're more than a series of equations on a board.
your soul is capable of so much more.
never stop breathing.
she has emeralds in her eyes
and butterflies in her stomach
and something blocking her throat
but all she wants is some love.
go to her
i want t
The EmpressI believe in Gravity,The Empress7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but not in you.
I have seen
the way you let lies float
from your throat, out of your
empty mouth. I have seen
The way your eyes flash, like
a storm in August. I have seen
you take my trust in your hands
and suffocate it, like a baby kitten.
Broken Wing SyndromeI saw you lying thereBroken Wing Syndrome6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with what I thought
were broken wings
and I got closer to you
but slowly realized your
wings aren't broken
at all. You just didn't
have the confidence
to use them.
Of Star Guts and Satellites-So;Of Star Guts and Satellites5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
what is it like, learning to grow?
-Well, first, there's a spark:
a kick in the core
of your nerves, like a light
blinking on through the dark. Then,
you've got to think
yourself into the part; ignore your
splintered limbs and learn to stretch,
fearlessly. Like roots into earth.
Question and answer.
-Does it hurt?
-Only being fearless. That's like having flint
stitched into your spine. But time,
you'll find, will heal these scars
ours is the business of rebirth. Even cradled
in the hold of our half-formed words
we manage to pluck
the stars from our diaphanous skies,
and the chewed jewels from our throats.
That's natural selection for you.
-Or is it just luck? You see, I'm not
even sure how to find my feet
right now, let alone play dot-to-dot
-But you must understand
that the world is full of such complications.
Tracing the veins beneath the surface
isn't the same as finding your pulse
in the first place.
-I get that. But space -
what does that have to d
WingsXx/16/xxxxWings7 years ago in Horror More Like This
I havent written for the last couple days not because Ive been too busy, but because Ive been coming to terms with something in myself. Ive been on edge you know how you get twitchy when theres a noise just on the edge of hearing? Well, its been like that for me; like someone was constantly whispering, just too soft to make out the words
Today I figured out what I was hearing.
Wings. The sound of wings fluttering, like a flock of startled doves taking off, or the sounds of pigeons wasting time around the subway station. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I hear them. Just around the corner. Just on the other side of the wall. Just out of sight. Im scared, but strangely excited. I havent told anyone about the sounds yet, and Im not sure whom I would talk to.
Dear AliceDear Alice, he wrote.Dear Alice5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I saw you today. You were walking down the street, and you looked sad. I smiled at you, but you didn't see. I know you didn't mean anything by it, but it made me sad. I know that you would have a beautiful smile. You look nice in blue. Love, Thomas.
He carefully folded the letter into thirds, walked to the door, and pushed it through the slot. Then he smiled, and turned back to his work, hoping that it might help her find her own smile.
The next day, he saw her again, walking down the street. He smiled again, and this time she saw him, but she merely nodded a hello, and kept going. His expression of joy slipped a little, and he sat down on a park bench nearby and pulled out a spiral bound notebook.
Dear Alice, he wrote.
You were sad again today. The sun was out and a butterfly flew past you, but I don't think you saw it. It was pretty, just like you. The sky matched the colour of your eyes. I think they would sparkle as bright as diamonds i
I want to write.At 4:30 in the morningI want to write.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I race on my bike to your house.
I wear your T-shirt and sweat pants
so I don't get raped, and because I want
to bring your belongings back to you.
I crawl through
your open window
and think that someone could easily kill you
with a silencer and a black pillow and
you wouldn't even have time
to open your mouth to scream.
Then I say:
I love you.
I want to write a love poem about you.
The moon sparkles
behind the blinds
and I want to reach for your
dead hands and put them on
my throbbing sweating chest but sometimes
I fear that they are maybe made of clay
or are someone else's entirely.
I want to write a love poem about you.
I haven't slept since the pills I found in my pocket,
I couldn't sleep
I couldn't sleep I couldn't sleep it reminded me of when
I was a teenager I want to write a love poem for you.
You are sweeter than the honey,
than the fruit, than all
the women in the world.
How can something so sweet
crave someone so sour.
I want to write a love poem.
Beat I met one of those Beat poets once. He said his name was Erik and I told him that my name was Eva, and after that, names didn't really seem to matter anymore. We became the type of people who were together whenever we needed each other.Beat5 years ago in Historical More Like This
Magic can happen at any time of day, week, month, year, but our type of magic always seemed to occur by night. Dancing on a bridge, under the spotlight of a street lamp, in the middle of the highway. We would sort of just groove on those neatly painted white lines on the asphalt. We'd weave in and out of them, spinning, leaping, rocking. True artists, great artists, we'd tell each other, never colored inside the lines.
One night, there was me and him in my room. The bed was unmade, the lights were off, and the blinds in my huge window were open. He was propped up against the headboard of my bed and I was leaning on my elbow at the foot of it. We were staring out the window at the city. The bridge lig
DiaryOfAOneRoomSchoolhouseJanuary 4, 2009.DiaryOfAOneRoomSchoolhouse6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want my long hair back.
Soft, sleek, middle of my back--soft swooping bangs to the right just above my brows.
I want it deep, rich brown again. Not red. Brown. I want my hair back.
I want to be pretty again.
I want to wear dresses.
I want to wear my Mary Jane's.
I want to read my books, to study, to learn.
I want to wear soft make-up, delicate, fresh.
I want to be small and quaint again.
I want my smile back.
I want my faith back, my prayers, my Bible, my pure heart.
I want to be loved.
I want someone to love.
I want to be wanted again.
I wish my hair were redder.
I wish it was long and wavy.
I wish I could be a small fragile thing again.
People cared about me then.
I wasn't in trouble.
I wasn't beaten up.
I pray they never hook me up again.
I don't want to back to the doctors.
I wish they would go away.
I wish they didn't hurt so bad.
I'm just a teenager.
I want someone's hand to hold.
I want a hug.
Not Perfect"It's not perfect, but it's mine."- Tim Minchin, Not PerfectNot Perfect5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
The dusty old piano is still looking strong, still standing even though it is topped heavily with books and boxes. I know that I could never be able to stand so proud without the weights, let alone with them. This piano, my piano, is a hero to me just for being around.
For days it has been open constantly, with a small pile of sheet music on the stand, ready to get played. And I do play that music- every time I pass by it.
Every piece I play remains embedded in my fingers, it is them that make it so easy to remember music I played once before and then did not play for years. But even the pieces of music I play daily hold great wonder to me. As the music flows when my fingers play automatically, it lets me think of the composition, just what it means to me. Although the best moment in every thing I play, every single time, is when I look down at my fingers, see their automatic movement and amaze at the swift, deft shift
Needs SayingIt's always the shy ones. Memories, that is. They hang back, letting bright moments of cartoons and Christmases hold your entire attention so they can creep away to a forgotten mental corner. They don't want your reverie; they want to be left alone.Needs Saying5 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
Some memories shouldn't be.
Some have something needs saying.
When I was eight, I thought I was a horrible child. I was greedy and selfish, wouldn't eat anything I was given, treated guest children like they were stupid, ran off three of my aunt's maids, ran out the hot bath water, could have gotten my cousin killed, and very nearly did the same for myself.
Perspective is funny that way. My aunt's ultrasounds, the ones that showed an empty womb, make so much terrible sense now. To be pregnant one day and then the next be told that you weren't, that you had never been...at least a miscarriage can be buried. How could she mourn an idea? And where was there time to? She had lambs to feed, farmhands to pay, and poachers to drive off or survive,
LifeLife is quite simple,Life6 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
but we humans insist on
The Problem with Being DeathThe problem with being Death, Death thought to himself, was that it had a lot to do with boundaries. After all, death itself was really nothing more than a particular sort of boundary, that being, specifically, the one between life and whatever the other thing was. Death wasnt supposed to talk about that part, but he didnt mind, because he really only had a very vague idea of what it was to begin with.The Problem with Being Death8 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
The problem Death had with boundaries was the part about finding out where they were. Being Death, he knew a little about both sides of the equation, just enough to hover right between the two, but he never really understood where the line was. It couldnt have been too fine, of course, if he could be on both sides at once, but when he tried to make his own theories about just where life became afterlife, he ended up dividing things further and further until he eventually realized that the only logical explanation was that the line just didnt exist.
But he was fair
You are a cliche.One born every minute.You are a cliche.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
One like you.
Jack of all trades,
joined at the hip
With whoever will listen.
It's the beginning
of the end
Of your life.
And you can't stop it.
Justice is blind
And they've come a full circle
Before they can see
Anything at all.
In the depths of despair
You dig in your heels
Take a breath of air
and take some drastic
As quick as a wink
You've gone from
rags to riches
And back again.
So in this day and age,
Darling, at this point in time,
You need to take the bull
By the horns
Kiss normalcy goodbye
Forget your clichés
And live your life.
Irrational NumbersI wait for the moments when 1+1=1, the glorious inequalities preserved forever in the formaldehyde of my mind. While she sleeps, I peel them, layer by layer, until the duvet is covered in dust. Pulsating moments quiver, but once ripped apart, they reveal nothing more than shrivelled seconds, naked and twitching before my eyes. One by one, they stop twitching until they crumble away into nothing. I brush the dust off the covers, and a stray hair off her sleeping face. She has not stirred.Irrational Numbers7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
She pretends to understand my obsession with numbers, but when shes asleep, she cant hide. I prop open her eyelids with my fingers and worry at the apprehension I find. I tell my wife I love her twenty times a day but the beauty of the constancy of twenty in relation to the constancy of our love fails to touch her. She replies to questions with answers; I, with more questions. There are times I doubt our compatibility, but our common factors take precedence over our irrational coupli
Elusive[door opens, hurried footsteps, door slams]Elusive6 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
Writer: [out of breath] Look, I dont want to do this, but Im going to have to start imposing curfews if you dont start listening a bit more! I know you need your freedom, but cant you be a little more considerate? I am responsible for everything you do, you know!
Muse: [stiffly] Im sorry.
Writer: Are you?
Writer: No. I know that look. Ive seen it too many times already.
Muse: But do you understand it? Can you comprehend me at all?
Writer: How can I? You dont make sense! Youre so capricious you taught me that word and I cant I cant even trust you.
Writer: Look, Im not asking for much. Cant you just not hang out with her?
Muse: [muttered] Whats the matter, jealous?
Muse: Im not sure I understood your request. What exactly is the issue at hand?
VoicelessThis is a story about a dead man. It would undoubtedly be much better told from the subjects point of view, but that is unfortunately impossible, for the dead do not speak, only float in a separate world, detached from reality. As of such, I have taken the narrators role upon myself, feeling, for some inexplicable reason, very alive.Voiceless6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He closes the door behind him as he leaves his neglected studio apartment, fitting the key into the slot mechanically. His disinterested eyes follow the turning of his wrist without seeing his pale, cracked skin. I lack photoreceptive organs, but I see. I see the world in all its hues, and then him: a disturbing lack of colour amidst it all.
He slips the key into the pocket of his coat and carries his briefcase down the stairs, head neither bowed in humbleness and contemplation nor held high with pride and assurance, but somewhere in between. He loads the case into his car and climbs behind the wheel.
An experienced driver, his reactions on the
Empty SpaceEmpty Space11 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I need space. I'm not claustrophobic, exactly, but I'm certainly more comfortable outside than indoors. I think, as an author, one's own special space is absolutely vital. Space to think, space to reflect, space to write.
It's wonderful. Or so I've heard.
When people ask me my profession, I reply that I'm an up-and-coming author - whatever that means. The truth is, I've never written anything truly worth reading, and I'm certain this is because I haven't discovered my space. That fabled, unique spot that every international best selling author has.
I've read more books and articles than is strictly healthy for a man of twenty-something, and in all my readings I've found one common element. New York. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I'm certain my space is there somewhere, buried beneath that seething mass of urbanized humanity. I just have to find it.
It was disgustingly stereo-typical actually. A poor Australian author trying to make it in the Big Apple. Of course I wasn't technical
Infinity in practiceWars never end. They change positions.Infinity in practice5 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Experiment BackwardsMarietta could write books about bad books.Experiment Backwards6 years ago in Humor More Like This
It was a pretty bad book, really. She bit her lower lip. The end was the end, too. No.
Was the end the beginning?
The pages were printed backwards, so the beginning was the end. She waved the magnifying glass around. I read about this once.