we, the freshIt started with a tiny bottlewe, the fresh5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of hand sanitizer
given as a gift
and at first it was forgotten.
Tossed into his car
the passenger seat.
But it was only a short time later
he strangled her to death
and chopped up her body.
of course, no one knew about it then.
He hid the body parts well
burned some of them
buried the rest
a flawless execution.
He cleaned up his house
and took a long warm shower.
He pulled the steaks out of the freezer
and cooked them on the stove.
He poured of glass of fine wine
and sat down to eat his victory dinner.
He realized he had forgotten to get a knife
and made his way to the kitchen.
With his knife in hand
his thoughts wandered away
pondering what the neighbors might say
if he got caught and they got interviewed
certainly none of them expected it
he was such a friendly neighbor.
But he wouldn't get caught
he chuckled vaguely
and walked back over to his steak
and started to cut into it.
As he lifted the first bite,
he smelled it.
the reek of blood just under his
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
The Station of a PoetThe Station of a Poet9 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
The station of a poet is one that connects the mind of man with the mind of god into a fluid consciousness. This unity is one that helps the world grow and thrive, amidst all of the heartache, oppression, and depression that can be seen today.
We are the vanguard that continually, in every age and sector, force the envelope that makes people think, debate, and dig into their psyche. Take John Donne, as a prime example: in the fourteen lines of Death, be not Proud, the poet creates both a well of hope, and a clearer understanding of the ideas regarding death, the afterlife, and mortal fear of that death.
But poets and poetry dig further beneath the skin; we, a rather eccentric lot, reach for the curtain that separates man and god and attempt if not to rip it away, then to unveil for a glimpse. Most poets will no doubt understand that the supreme powers we define as god are in fact, scarcely definable, and in most cases difficult if not impossible to articulate in any human tongue. There
Chapter One"So... what's his story? I've never seen someone like him."Chapter One5 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
"Xander? You won't meet another... well, it's easier to tell you the story than to try and explain..."
It starts off real simple... Man finds a book. A tome so old, it's literally falling apart; buried underneath the Earth since time immemorial. Book is said to contain some of the most powerful spells ever devised. The strongest barriers, the most lethal attacks, regenerative abilities that can pull one back from the threshold. Magic so old that the verbal incantations are lost to history.
Through some bookwork, he finds that the words weren't lost, they never were. None of these spells have ever been spoken aloud, because they can't be; not properly. It would come out as unintelligible gibberish.
He also learns some of the massive history behind the book. The confirmed history is that the book itself started as Sumerian, proven by the type of binding and parchment, but the language and spells inside are second to none. So
Hope....Hope....5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will never bring a blade to my skin.
Not with the intent of seeing a
River of Red.
No matter how far I fall,
Into that darkness in
No matter how tempting the silver is,
Though I see very little appeal,
I will not let it come to that.
Even if the pain grows nearly unbarable,
And the weight seems to heavy to hold,
I'll push on through the tears.
Because I know,
"The night is darkest just before the dawn..."
And I know
"...The dawn is coming"
Isn't it funny?Isn't it funny?Isn't it funny?8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
How a heart only breaks in the night,
When you're alone,
And there is know one to tell you you'll be alright.
Isn't it funny?
How the tears only fall,
When you have been hit,
And your backs against the wall.
Isn't it funny?
How can you see nothing at all,
When your eyes are wide open,
And your hopes about to fall.
Isn't it funny?
How my heart only breaks in the middle of the day,
Where everyone can see me,
Yet no one asks "are you okay?"
Isn't it funny?
How when my tears fall,
I still stand up straight,
And pretend there not there at all.
Isn't it funny?
How you don't know a thing,
About what's happening to me,
But you see my heart breaking.
Isn't it funny?
How it isn't at all.
Resurrecting SylviaResurrecting Sylvia5 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
Even amidst fierce flames
The golden lotus can be planted,
So let the mystified crowds begin amassing!
Again she will rise like a climbing rose,
Lady Lazarus, lifted from soil, decomposed
But lifted, living, sepulcher sprung; she cries-
I have risen again, once in every ten!
Thrusting upon the crowd a demure smile,
Reminding them with coy cast of amber eye:
And like a cat I have nine times to die.
Blame not her tempest-mind for the tragedy,
For amidst those flames of madness and insecurity
Her grave-bloom yet sprouts its mystery-
Her verse, a curse: a blue flame filament
Unfurled from the nadir, a testament
Suckled on the siren song of Lorelei.
From the great beneath she claims: I will rise
Yet again, to bid you recant and to reclaim
A lyrical promise penned in misery:
This is only number three.
So amass, friends, 'round the funerary shroud
extirpate collab01.extirpate collab6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
we've lived in darker places
but this blackness is unbearable
like this hollow feeling i have
in the space where my ribcage used to meet
and the sirens scream louder
when they're refracting dying octaves
and last chance words that spell out "i'msorry"
in the flashing of red lights against stucco walls
and as they roll out the sunny yellow caution tape
that seems so out of place in starless night air
i notice how the floor feels colder under my crooked spine
and i try to figure out when it got so hard to breathe
well, we've been in the cracks for quite a while,
but it feels so different now, and i figured
it's no longer fun when it's only you who's laughing
and it should be an awful sound, but it
sounds like the winterwind singing the prettiest lullabies;
cold, but so, so damn beautiful
and when i touch your peach cheeks
i feel the need to tell you
that you're the sky, the clouds that hide the lights up there
that you're the grass, tickling butterflies and all the little things
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.
Never Give Love a NameNever Give Love a NameNever Give Love a Name6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the Chachapoyas did not call
themselves the Chachapoyas
this name an invention
by the Incas the history
of the Chachapoyas recorded
in ruins fragments
of bowls tombs
tucked in mountain cliffs
breath caught in the throat
erodes the lungs scratches
against the empty caves
left by the ribs the broken
bowl of a shoulder blade
twisted bridge of the neck
that can no longer be crossed
ridges of the spine
a chipped necklace
memories of a kiss embalmed tucked
in the folds of an ear
now there is only this
Objects in SpaceThe general gazed pensively at the viewscreen. He was tall and slender, clean-shaven, his hair greying at the temples. His bearing was rigid, yet his posture betrayed some unease.Objects in Space5 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"How far away is it?"
"It's just passing Pluto," said the science officer, a short, bald, bespectacled man. "At its current velocity, it will reach our position in approximately seven hours."
"And it's alien."
"Well sir," -- the science officer licked his lips -- "it doesn't fit the known trajectories of any comets or asteroids, nor does its composition match any of those. It's definitely man-made... except mankind has never made anything like that. Not to mention it's coming from the wrong direction."
"Seven hours, then. Initiate first contact proceedings."
Seven hours later, they assembled in the largest hangar on the space station: five men and two women. The general stood in the centre of the group, tall and proud, unmoving. Next to him stood the science officer, fidgeting nervously. The others were lin
First of the Danger Days - 1"P-please don't shoot me."First of the Danger Days - 14 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
The scarlet-haired man stared at the little girl. "If I was gonna shoot you, I would've done it when I first saw you."
She huddled into herself a little bit more, hugging her knees with her tiny arms. He kicked himself mentally. You can't just say things like that to little kids! he thought. Okay, try to be comforting.
I'm not good at comforting, he said to himself. But I'll try.
"I'm, uh I'm not gonna shoot you," he said. "I Jesus, kid, what are you doing all the way out here? Shouldn't you be with your parents?"
"They're dead," she whispered, staring at the sand.
"I'm sorry. Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Look isn't there anyone who can keep an eye on you?"
"So you're alone." He found it hard to believe what she was saying. A tiny little kid no more than eight, by the looks of her surviving out in Zone 4 all by herself? She must have had help.
Why I can't support the Day of SilenceI’ve been informed that this Friday is the Day of Silence. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it is an event conceived by an LGBT rights organization called the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network(GLSEN). High school participants take a vow to not speak for an entire day to represent, and bring attention to, the silence that queer youth are forced into every day. Now. I think it’s great that we are involving youth in these kinds of awareness campaigns, and thereby facilitating valuable discourse about the plights of LGBT youth.Why I can't support the Day of Silence2 years ago in Editorial More Like This
And that is where my issue with the Day of Silence arises. I once participated in one of these events, back when I thought I was straight(all my friends were LGBT and I was an ally), and I observed something that didn’t occur to me as problematic until recently. People all over the continent, and possibly the world, are keeping quiet. They are not sharing their experiences, their thoughts, the problems they fac
Mr. and Mrs. BottleFor a while now, she has been convinced that with a bottle in her hand, she could tackle the world.Mr. and Mrs. Bottle6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Like lightning, alcohol had taken control of her life. One night, in the chaos of a party, the vile liquid touched he lips, and she was in love. A few more nights and they eloped one Saturday morning. Day in and day out her spouse accompanied her secretly, hiding himself in a pocket or bag.
Unfortunately, her husband did not come cheap. At first, he demanded money from her parents wallets. They were newlywedshow could she fail to comply? This provided the couple a brief respite, but as the girls need for her lover grew, so did the cost. She had to get a job, otherwise her parents could not help but notice the money liberated.
She could not work in any store or company. If she drank during hours, someone would catch her for sure. Once the secret came out, they would force the two to divorce. Her parents would say their marriage was unacceptable. Others would say s
We Scream, We Shout Prelude ChWe Scream, We Shout Prelude Ch4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A/N: This is my first Black Veil Brides fanfiction. This is a prelude chapter to the actual story and so its sort. I also do not own Black Veil Brides, they own themselves.
Emily always wanted a child. She always wanted to be a mother since she was a teenager but circumstance were obvious obstacles and Emily was told that it was god's reason that she couldn't conceive. Emily was a young lady of nineteen and she always did what she was told.
Emily sat in the church in the same spot every Sunday and listened to the church sermon go on about the crumbling differences between heaven and hell. With a mental sigh she tried to direct her attention on the sermon but she found her mind to wander on thoughts that were not so innocent for the little church girl.
'If god was so absolute and powerful then why won't he give me the ability to have a baby?'
she began thinking and other thoughts similar to that. Emily sat in church and
if my heart could talklight plays off the curvesif my heart could talk4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your skin,
the salience of your lips,
releasing prayer like birds;
the silence of your jaw,
a midnight orchestra
under heavy streetlights;
and the bone of your chin,
constellations like the
way the world turns.
it must be
the year of the rose,
and pink like clouds
pressing your fragile skin
between pages of
a beloved anthology
Five's a CrowdA Saskatoon year is not symmetrical:Five's a Crowd6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it has five seasons
stumbling into one another
toasting timeless acquaintance
is grey and tan
a folded old woman
a stalk of straw in her gravel teeth.
Limping, smiling and wet
from between Winters supermodel thighs
she stains white legs
damp cigarette butts and chokecherries
knotted in her grove of hair.
Yet we smile
we only feel
her forehead warmth
her wrinkle-dust like talc
she unbends her back
to reach behind us
and breaks the hour-hand
suggests she stay.
Her cracked lips like sidewalks
crusted folds of her face
cold fingers up our backs
are nothing like Spring
So She Can Forget That--She knows the French for hummingbird and he can divide fractions in his head,So She Can Forget That--5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
and none of it means a thing anymore.
She's pictureimperfect and happilyneverafter, and he's playing guardian angel.
She already knows all your secrets, and he's got too many of his own to have
space for any more.
She knows just how to take his heart to pieces, and he could shakeherapart
in the blink of an eye.
She's made a mess of him, and somehow he still can't look away.
She's unfamiliar to herself, but it's ok because she's learnt him off by heart,
stitchbysinglestitch, and he's happier not knowing.
She's clawing at her own skin to find buried silver, while he's happy enough
with not being able to get her off his mind.
She dances with the dark because she just can't tear herself a w a y; he
does it because if he doesn't, he knows he'll lose her to it.
She's slowly slippingthroughhisfingers and part
tomastomástomas5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
man at the counter,
feels the steel rim under his
for an hour every day while he
stains his cup with his dirty mouth;
wore his wedding ring from 1973 until
yesterday afternoon after seeing
his wife kissing another man
he put his hand on her shoulder and
roughly turned her, she
just told him how
he can never remember the divorce
in 1974, please won't you remove your
ring, you're making my husband
used to write poetry on the backs of
napkins at the diner with the red stools,
wrote them for the pretty girls he
always wanted to kiss and turn their
blonde hairs between his thumbs and forefingers
and never even asked their names
forgot his own after he let it
erase from his wrist in black pen in the rain
forgot his amnesia from the accident
he was in last week, forgot the accident, too;
went home and burnt his hands on
the radiator he always thought he needed
to save, cried at the skin dangling
in helical sentences and sang,
the future is for gypsieswe are all twenty three point five degrees shythe future is for gypsies5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of even, a people off-kilter and invariably prodigal, timid
as our buffalo. you have a hometown, i say out loud
while driving in it, and you murmur something about murder,
the dusky war over your head. you say those birds don't
even know about the obliquity of the ecliptic, and here
they are, trying to change it with all their weight in the sky.
twenty three point five, you repeat, your mouth around it
gingerly as a psalm, as a lioness with cubs, and we keep driving.
there are sights: a stripped-wire cherry tree, its fragile arms tipped
with ravens, their children unstrung and clinging to
the window screen. people here grow thin and taut as their
nerves, hysterical with sedentary fear. we've stayed too long,
grown roots, become as player pianos too comfortable in
our tilt. twenty three point five makes echoes in the canyon
of your mouth, awake with heavy birds, bloody with desire
for symmetry. we pass our house and we keep driving.