Star-SentOnce there was a girl who was in love with the night sky.
She had visited planetariums and read children's books on astronomy. She had learned to identify nineteen different constellations and would always look for them on dark, clear nights. She had gotten her father to stick glow-in-the-dark stars and planets to her bedroom ceiling. She had eaten freeze-dried astronaut ice cream and thought it tasted better than anything else in the world.
As time passed the girl began to learn about the universe, about things like asteroids and black holes. Little by little she came to know the invisible forces that governed outer space, and the night sky became more than just a sky to her. It was a giant treasure box, filled with the secrets of the places beyond earth.
The girl's love slowly turned to longing. She wanted to know the stars through more than just pictures and models, because deep down she believed that there was something in the universe she couldn't find on her own planet. The thoug
Angel's GamesThey say that this city was made by Angels, and sometimes I am almost inclined to agree.Angel's Games5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The graveyard is filled with them, weeping stone tears from blank eyes, hands spread wide in supplication, or clasped in grief. They fill this city. Watching from rooftops and doorways. Clinging to the corners of old buildings or sitting silent in hidden courtyards, guarding the ruined tumbles of houses no-one ever bothered to rebuild.
Stone angels watching over a city of dust and ashes. Choked with the burning of a thousand fires, the soot still clinging to the church-towers that ring out with the mournful pealing of bells.
Many wars have passed through this place, and I have no doubt there are many more to come. I have seen my fair share of sorrow here. I have watched as piece by piece the city is rebuilt, the wreckage gathered, the wound mended. Its people are as old and dark as the place itself. Distrustful, generous, proud, a mess of contradictions, and yet you find yourself expecting nothing
A Way to ForgetI was seeking aimlesslyA Way to Forget5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through the jars of my life.
I found them in a dream,
these great, magic urns,
one containing butter, one, milk
others filled with grains or brass or gold.
I was looking for the lids, in order to cover them up
but i could not find even one.
Sometimes, I would spill a little and
sometimes, I would return from elsewhere
to find them empty
This caused me a great deal of anxious sadness
just sitting there, looking into the empty containers
that once held my life
I woke up some time later and checked the clock
I had not had a drink in several hours.
I needed a drink.
I got up and
produced shirt, pants, keys and shoes.
In the car, I shifted to reverse and then to "D"
drove down to the local bar.
Dream dream Dream
My feet slide over the flooring.
The light addresses my eyes.
It's a quiet night, Tuesday, and
the bartender has the beer and shot set down
before i get there;
I slide a ten across with my wrist
and get the shot in
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 Saying6 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,
Beyond Absolution: ProloguePrologue: Sweet Raptured LightBeyond Absolution: Prologue6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I broke the surface of consciousness like a drowning man. Gasping thin breaths, I strained for air against the angry band of pain that crushed my throat to the width of a narrow reed. My fingers felt as thick as sausages as I dug them into the rope. A weak, phlegmy cough rasped air painfully past my throat, dragging me back towards unconsciousness as the pain threatened to spill over.
Im dying, screamed the wild part of my brain. Im dying Im dying Im dying Im dying!
Darkness blurred the corners of my eyes; coughs wracked my body, doubled me over on the floorboards. My pale, snatched breaths werent enough to save me; they just prolonged the inevitable, kept me conscious as I scrabbled about my neck, tugging desperately at the rope that cut into me like fire. A heavy knot was tied at the base of my skull. With my last reserves of
Eat"Oy, let me see your calorie card!" The skinny man at the hotdog stand demanded, holding my hotdog just out of reach.Eat6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I sighed and dug the plastic out of my pocket, handing it to him with a sour grimace on my face. I was sure I had already exceeded my allotted 1500 calories for today, but I was just so darn hungry. Seriously, what was one hotdog going to do to my figure anyway?
He shook his head as he swiped it through the scanner. "Sorry girlie. This hot dog is 242 calories. You only have 10 calories left for today." He shooed me away in preference of those with enough calories on their card to afford his food.
My stomach grumbled its complaints all the way home. If I had really wanted that hotdog I could have gone to the gym and earned more calories on my card, but I really wasn't in the mood for exercise.
It started in California, taking hold among the mothers who didn't want their kids to become fat
sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.sticks and stones.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.
broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.
"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you
keep ramming me into your eye, thorn first."
"i am uncut grass and you roll around in me,
joyful, shaking, but when you stop to catch
your breath and look at your forearms you
see that they're covered in hundreds of tiny cuts."
"i am a dandelion. i don't know why but goddamnit
i am tender and damaged and i've already written
a poem where i've mentioned turning into
In MemoriamAfter: I set on the walk to home,In Memoriam5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
By woodland paths; I paced, I paced
But then as the cloak of dark came down,
I nearing my old town- was not braced
For that image of moths, flickering blue-
I stumbled there; reminded of you.
So I spun on my heels in evening gloam,
By autumn leaves I raced, I raced
Away from the moments that rendered in silver,
Cast glamour on the forest face
And stabbed through the shimmer of early dew-
I could have died there, surrounded by you.
How To Spell 'Love'String my vertebrae togetherHow To Spell 'Love'5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And personally adjust
Each subtle curve.
Steal the words I finally said
Though they may be more than you deserve.
My "love" and your "love"
Are just a few letters off.
Outline my clavicle valleys
In shadows cast by candle light.
Let the folds of my ear
Bend the currents of your breath,
Laden with monochrome words.
Honesty and lies
Come only in black and white.
I could dwell forever in gray areas
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
telling a sad story backwards-17.telling a sad story backwards-6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
it smells like grief and sterilized metal.
i climb into andrews bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. he closes his eyes and holds me tightly, because he says when he cant see me, it is easier to pretend i never happened to him.
he pushes the cart aggressively down the aisle, pretending to mow over old ladies doing their sunday shopping.
"stop," i say giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at him.
for a moment i think he simply didn't see me throw the can; it glances off his chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. i don't notice his eyes rolling back in his head or the graceful way his body collapses to the floor.
the only thing i notice is the distinct thudding sound as his head hits the metal shelf and the screaming that may or may not be mine.
later in the hospital he calls for me and says he wants to apologize for keeping secrets, and the doctors launch into a medical explanation of his cancer.
their eyes are sad.
...27... She wore barbed wire necklaces so that every time she laughed, it hurt....27...6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Little Freckles Frankie was the first to make her laugh so hard she bled. He was ten, she was eleven. I dont think he has found anything funny since. It was too bad really, baby blue eyes tend to twinkle when they laugh.
I caught her counting the scars in the bathroom mirror once. They were soft puckers of white against sun tanned copper, they would have been morbid, if they werent so beautiful. There were 27. I met the reflection of her blatant blue eyes with my broken brown, and she said,
just never check your junkmailWhy is it that you contaminatejust never check your junkmail5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my feeds and favourites? Why
is your website my homepage?
Why are there playlists with
songs that remind me of you
or files dedicated to you? Tell
me why the first thing I do when
I get home is go on the Internet,
Google your name. Slap myself.
Google both our names together.
Did you mean Never in a Million
Years? Actually, I meant billion.
Fuck you, Google.
Drag mouse. Point-click the top bar.
Erase web address. Enter new URL:
promise me three things:
to never reveal my password.
to never read my messages.
to never send me Spyware.
that's what your
heart's made of)
Logout. Sign on Myspace. See that
you're online. Ignore you. Wait for
you to do, I don't know, something.
Refresh page. No new messages.
Refresh it again. Still nothing.
Refresh, refresh, refresh. &
confusing stars for satellitesi dream of your armsconfusing stars for satellites6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
around me, in empty hallways
lit by nightlights like dreams, imagine that
your breath would be like raindrops, maybe,
and i'll be the river
into which they fall, and i'd catch you,
lightly, i promise
we won't make a sound,
like mice on christmas eve, tiptoe across
holly staircases, tiptoe
on lakes, dance and watch
the moonlight shadow our
around my dreams, in them,
and find that i would
fax you a smile, a rainbow, a
sunny day, even
my heart -
and yes, it's yours,
but only if
you hold me.
Karate-kaWe are the ones you'd least expectKarate-ka10 years ago in Open More Like This
to know anything of strategy or warfare.
We are the ones who never start fights,
But are quite willing to end them if need be.
We are not the trouble-makers in life,
But neither are we the straight-A students.
Some of us toe the line on issues more than others,
But for the most part, we blend in.
For all our camouflaging ways, however,
We are the ones who stand alone
Against the struggles of everyday life.
Some of us neither want, nor need, anyone to stand beside us.
We have our philosophies to keep us warm at night,
Our creeds to sing us to sleep.
Our weapons are our teddy-bears,
And our katas lead us to dream.
Bleeding HeroHow can I explain my feelings to you? My bitter, tarnished love, how it burns in my throat like too much soda. How I hate that I love you more than you know. But I love you all the same.Bleeding Hero5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I am the burnt-out streetlight under the falling night sky. The fleeting joy of a balloon that slips away to the clouds. And I'm sick of band-aids that don't work, I'm sick of being the bleeding hero.
Don't you realize what I'm worth? You dropped me like a penny on the street corner and everything went black. I gave you a choice and you ripped my love to shreds.
Love isn't what I read about in sweet-dream magazines. It's not worth the doubt, but I doubt even that. I can't fit this band-aid on my broken heart.
You are everything to me, but I don't even know what everything is anymore. You used to burn in my thoughts, but not anymore. I'll let go of the balloon and I'll drink a sweeter poison.
I am the world's worst Romeo.
you can't make them love you.He is beautiful, new, unexplored. He has wanted to kiss her ever since they met one week ago and fell prey to helpless chemistry.you can't make them love you.6 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Dont, she says, moving her hands in a subconscious yes pattern along his arm as he rubs his cheek against hers. You dont even know my favourite colour. The wind cuts through her thin jacket, and his chest is so warm.
Red, he guesses, improbably correct. His ears are cold.
And how many dogs do I have?
Two, he says, and she laughs wildly at his luck as he nuzzles her neck.
Im trying to save you, she tells him, pushing fruitlessly against his broad shoulders. So you dont wa
a poem for terrible people.i want to write a poem about primrosesa poem for terrible people.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and how i am not a terrible person.
i am disordered but not disorderly. i am broken up.
i think nice thoughts like "streetlight" and "linens,"
and is there an instruction guide on happiness?
i could write one for you.
step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers.
step three, turn into a dandelion. blow away.
my heart tries to escape from my throat.
okay, i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone,
ever, not even imaginary best friends.
or real ones.
freud says i am an iceberg, but i don't know
if he means i am full of repressed thought
or just a frigid bitch who will cut you open.
step four, there is no step four.
if i am an iceberg, i desperately need someone
to warm me in the palms of their hands.
no one ever will though, because i sink ships
and tear people apart.
once there was a girl who told people
that she was not terrible, but the primroses
in her garden would never bloom
as if th
the speed addictthe speed addict knows if he stops moving,the speed addict12 years ago in Other More Like This
he will die. so when inertia takes hold
his heart falters and his head slams against
a future, lit by the dashboard. he hears
his veins stuttering like gears grinding out
a staccato refrain, while the wheel spins and
goes numb. as his breath twists away from his grip,
rasps a hol
Born AfarWe would beBorn Afar7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Matter of fact.
I'd turn into Penelope.
Pen-e-lope, like cantelope;
she was ripe, over ripe perhaps,
withered with the waiting years,
Penny parched from rolling tears-
enough to swim him home.
If he was water you are stone.
Sandstone. Solid. Something -
young boys need to cling to, something -
a bow to fit the string to, something.
That's not me but it's something.
You would be
weighted and one.
Entirely a second son,
a second son and quite undone,
Stay. Smile upon my
wasted weaving fingertips,
shun your father's treasure ship
and hold me close, alone.
yellow daffodilsMy mother says she named me "Lily" because I am the only pure and good thing that has ever come out of her. She always laughs when she says it. I think she must have called that out of some secret, subconscious desire for flowers in our house, all the time, because whenever I accomplished something or something good happened to me, or any holiday, especially my birthday, rolled around, my mother's latest boyfriend or an adjudicator or my grandfather or the well-meaning local car salesman would send us bouquets of lilies, because everyone was just so original.yellow daffodils5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The only exception to this rule, which was fitting because he was an exception to most rules, was Micah.
Micah was a poor kid in a too-large family who often skipped school to work. I had science with him, which is how I knew both that he skipped school a lot, and that he wasn't skipping to smoke pot like everyone said. Micah knew a lot about exactly what pot did to your brain and he said he didn't like it. Micah said a lot of thi
learning how to lose.last winter i fell in love.learning how to lose.5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
i fell in love with a boy who had jutting collar bones and skinny legs, and whose mousy brown hair curled in all the wrong places, who had perfectly thin lips.
he kissed me for the first time in the middle of the night, and we sat on an old brown couch, under two blankets shivering in the cold watching the stars and waiting for the sunrise.
last spring i was his world.
he was everything i'd ever needed, everything i'd ever imagined. he told me he'd love me forever and ever, and that i was more important than anything in the world. one night, he spent hours on end reading me fairy tales from all over the world, until i fell asleep curled up against his chest. he'd walk me home, and i'd tell him of my father, and he'd tell me of his mother. some times i felt like i could just watch him forever. brush my fingers through his hair until the end of time.
last summer i lost my mind.
i never slept. i never ate. and he was always there. he'd hold me through the night