vivian and valene
seperated age 3
twins forever will always be
lost eachother till age 13
played together for centuries
till one friday 13th
one fell in a well
the other ran for help
no one found
girl in the well cracked her skull
blood pouring out she died
the other tricked into killing her self
told she would she her dear sister again
vivian and valene
The Rat and the DollSome time ago there lived a Rat of fine whiskers and a finer tail who stumbled across a small porcelain Doll in a farmer's rubbish heap. Entranced by the Doll's beauty, he carried her home with him and, to the amusement of his fellow rats, instated her as his wife. Finding that she was of little assistance in his daily rambles for food, the Rat placed her upon a slight ledge of the barn in which he lived and brought her an offering of sustenance each day, as well as flowers and other pretty objects with which to enhance her loveliness.The Rat and the Doll5 years ago in Fable Me This More Like This
One day the Rat returned from his foraging to find the other rats throwing pebbles at his Doll. "Stop!" he cried. "Why do you abuse my wife? What has she ever done to you?"
"She does nothing at all," said the other rats, "and that is the problem. How has she proven herself worthy of the attention you grant her, or the offerings you provide?"
"Her beauty proves her worth," claimed the Rat.
But at that moment, a gust of wind swept the Doll off her perch an
The Crane WifeThe Crane Wife5 years ago in Fable Me This More Like This
The Crane Wife
Does that bird
think of bygone times
as it flies singing...
- Princess Nukada
There on the poor man's doorstep,
an arrow biting into my wing,
I flew into the arms of decision
my cries calling clouds,
even to the brow of Moon:
I would not be this;
kindness come to me,
and songs of a different flesh,
irresistibly new. That was why,
sped to health, I fled only to return
to the poor man's doorstep
a bird no more, a woman of silk.
And how the bamboo blinds
quivered with the storms of Spring;
how Wind shook Moon in the p
The Black FoxThe Black Fox5 years ago in Fable Me This More Like This
Once upon a time, in a forest where three streams merged into a small, fast-flowing river, the locals say a shadow took life in the form of a black fox.
So shiny and thick and smooth was the coat of this black fox, it was said that hunters who caught sight of her were driven mad with the desire to own her pelt.
The best hunters for miles around chased after this elusive prey, but none succeeded. Indeed, many of them chased after the fox, deep into the darkness beneath the ancient pines, and never returned. Some believe they came across misfortune. Some believe they were taken by the fox into the fairy realm. Some have even more sinister theories to relate.
In a time when the autumn was crisping the leaves and turning the air cold, a young man went into the woods to gather firewood to sustain his family through the oncoming winter.
His bow was slung across his shoulders, and he carried an axe to cut wood, but he had no intention of killing any living creatures this day, and after many l
you'll suffer unto meI was a four-year-old fatherless pageant baby when Mother found the listing for Challenger. For weeks she complained about the California public school system. Said I wasn't fit for it, wasn't right for it. "We live in a shithole. Public school systems rely on money and the income in this area sucks. They're all hoodlums here. You'll get raped, mugged, killed, murdered and then what? All the I'm sorries in the world won't bring you back. I'm not letting that happen to you. You're getting a better foundation than I did at your age."you'll suffer unto me5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Mother always wanted the best for me, didn't care about the cost. She scoured the Yellow Pages for private schools, called them up, visited them with me in tow, dressed in pink and bouncing brown curls. Harker was the better, more expensive school, the rival to Challenger. Uppity kids wearing blouses, sweaters and in-fashion light-up shoes roamed both places. We settled on Challenger in the end. Mother didn't like the whole "boarding school" atmosphere at Ha
The Worm and the EpiphanyAlas, the worm was blind. Making its way through fertile earth, never meeting a soul, not even its own. Not knowing kith or kin, it didn't seem to bother him as, day by day, he burrowed his tedious way through mulch and mire; heeding not the dark or the cold. Not needing to ask the question that never would tire because it never grew old. He was not simply "you" -- he was "it" who did not exist.The Worm and the Epiphany5 years ago in Fable Me This More Like This
So on and on, as often goes with a worm, it continued the clandestine tryst to turn the soil. It was what he had learned, or was born having known. Was he born -- and born to toil? -- flashed a thought in the dark. Had he not? He never thought to ask it before.
Then suddenly, the worm broke through the crust of ground! It squinted hard into a blinding light, and basked in the shade of a sunflower whose head bowed low with curiosity, and promptly doused the worm with a shower of dew. And
Europe, Twenty-SixAnd there, to the west,Europe, Twenty-Six5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
was a skeleton
that wasnt made of bones
and carried no flesh,
stretched taut across the skyline
and motionless, as if taken surprise
by the sudden black of night.
We gazed across the city,
electrified, two small eyes
peering out from the bright skull.
You lifted your arm,
fingers splayed like dark eyelashes
to catch the bright orbs
of streetlights on the horizon
and cupped them in your hand,
like small candles burning,
flickering luminescent in the midnight pupil.
call timecall time8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
alone with night i want to call up a friend
and i remember you
Truth and FalsehoodOne day, Truth and Falsehood met at an inn, both weary from their travels. "My old friend!" cried Truth, "Come, allow me to buy you a drink." So they drank and exchanged stories of their travels. As they talked, Envy walked into the inn. Upon seeing Truth and Falsehood, Envy grew jealous of their friendship. Envy decided to find a way to make them hate each other. Now, it so happened that Greed was staying at the same inn. Envy met with Greed to form a plan. "Look at those two," Envy hissed. "They can't be friends, they never agree on anything!" Greed was only half listening. Envy knew this, but was ready for it. "Of course," Envy said softly, "we need to stop it. It is unnatural, like a bird with no flight, or a fish that can't swim." At this, Envy pulled out a bag of gold coins. Greed's heart began to race, fingers itching to just grab the bag, to caress the gold with loving fingertips. Envy smirked triumphantly, the plan was working perfectly. "Now, this is what's going to happen,"Truth and Falsehood5 years ago in Fable Me This More Like This
craneo de un caballoSoon it was clear that the mooncraneo de un caballo5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
was a horse's skull,
and the air, a dark apple.
The gearshift shudder of
a heavy-laden truck fades,
all the while, the
sustained drone of bees;
past their prime and sluggish,
their wings cannot be stilled.
A dull glint behind the eyes
of a yoked pair of oxen,
standing at a crossroad
between myself and the fields
that bake in the August
of a Spanish sun,
waiting for the
hammer and anvil to sing,
for the echoing refrain
of rifle shots beyond
a stand of distant trees
shimmering from spent cartridges
in the waning afternoon
of your exquisitely curved spine.
Trinity RoseAs a teenager, he was the artist who painted sunsets just to see them bleed their light through acrylics, dandelions beheaded in the frost to prove that you don't need hands to come out of the world scathed. He created beautiful women with their hair over their eyes and their tummies sucked in and rose vine tattoos sneaking up their thighs only because he wanted to show how you become tainted.Trinity Rose5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
His theory: you look as helpless and fragile as possible and then you open all the windows and the doors and a violent man walks in, or a vengeful wind.
That came from a sixteen-year-old mind high on hormones and a lack of experience.
That came from a young boy who believed you had to feign tragedy to be a good artist.
The older he became, the blinder he let his paintings become, perhaps literally. The only places he'd ever looked were up to the sky and down to his canvas. No elderly couple, no schoolchildren ever stumbled out of the light he stroked excessively between shadows. Their eyes always
FFM 3: The Great ProcessSilence spun out on the grassy hill, and the boy analyzed his grandfather for some sign of a reaction. Cholas granted the boy a bemused half-smile, chewing on the mouthpiece of his pipe.FFM 3: The Great Process5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"It's horrible, isn't it?" Tian finally blurted. "You're not gonna tell my mom are you?"
Cholas chuckled softly. "Calm down, boy. Calm down. It's only horrible if you act upon it." He glanced down to see if it helped. It didn't. "Look, what you're feeling is perfectly natural for boys your age. Grown men get the same impulses, but we're used to it, we don't let it torture us."
"No, no. Listen for a second, child. It's just a part of nature. Like honey spiders gathering pollen in their great nets, or hawkflies snatching them away to feed their maggots. It's all a part of the great process: life, death, reproduction."
"But my own sister?"
Again, that throaty chuc
I'll meet her again...Its Samhain. The line between the spiritI'll meet her again...5 years ago in Sestina-ween More Like This
world and our own is a ray of moonlight.
Its the night when the reluctant soul sticks
to our plane, hovering - a withered rose
whose beauty is the figment of a dream;
a gleam gilding the surface of the lake.
For long hours of idyll would the Lake
poets revel in letting their spirit
soar free on the nightingales wings, and dream
of glimpsing their Muse clad in pure moonlight
but tonight magics afoot: clouds just rose
to blur the moon like fumes from incense sticks.
The Romantics habit of rambling sticks
to mind tonight, as I stroll to the lake
and sit down to recall the violent rows
wed have every night, before her spirit
gave itself over to the bland moonlight
and chose to rest and die, not live and dream.
But perhaps tis I thats strayed in a dream?
For in that small nest, fashioned out of sticks,
I see her visage, painted in moonlight.
I glimpse a lady traversing the
PallorI cried myself sane and thenPallor5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
moved on. How strange, that a man
can split open like a rotten peach and find,
at last, nothingness. How strange to realize:
only then can sunlight enter his veins.
Death dissolves us. Nothing has changed
but everything is different. I spend an hour
pressing my fingers against a wall, the skin
whitening as blood retreats.
There is no regret, no fear. Only a man
who whitens against his final four walls,
the empty chair, the selfish and wandering grief.
Only a man whose face slowly unravels and the way
I wash my face, make dinner, let myself forget.
Ademir ReturnsAdemir ReturnsAdemir Returns5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A Brazilian bricklayer reportedly killed in a car crash
shocked his mourning family by showing up alive at his funeral.
The Associated Press
This is how we will speak of that day
We will say his legs walked him
out of death. We will say his steps
kicked their dust from the road
into the sky, and the sky touches everything
the road cannot. We will say we must
sometimes go forward to get back,
taking the hearts from these things
as we speak. We will say we believe
all we know that his is only one way
for a man to become a stranger among
his own that we see now how he was
unknown to us, but that his eyes
have shown us how to look
at his return. We will say Ademir
is back; he lives like us, still
and again. We will say we understand
that looking is among the hardest of things.
Marlboro MeteorologyI can always predict the weather given how my morning cigarette goes. If it tastes like cardboard or an old apple, it will rain hard in the late afternoon. If burns the back of my nose, it will be cloudy all day. If I get a toothache it means hail and anything blowing up into my eyes means hot, humid, and sunny. My great grandmother had the same talent. If her back itched it meant snow, if her neck hurt it meant midnight rains had come and gone. Some things must jump generations.Marlboro Meteorology5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Looking at our flowerbed, you'd think it was snowing in July. The kid above me would chain smoke and scream language learning dialogues at his computer, tossing ashes out the window in a steady, Vesuvian stream. The land lady would always leave a filter or two as her treat when she'd leave notices for the rent crammed into door frames and mailboxes. And of course I carried my own weight, poisoni
A Song for SorrowAway on the hilltop that surveys the shore,A Song for Sorrow6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The sunlight shines down on the dress that she tore.
For there stands my lady with tears in her eyes--
My ship soon is leaving for stormier skies.
The daylight is fading, with promise of night.
And I from below cannot fathom the height,
The distance from hilltop to shadowy shore,
The space of the years, of a lifetime or more.
She's lovely in sorrow, but pain and despair
Last only as long as the wind in her hair,
For memory fades with the coming of frost.
(There's no one as fair as the one who has lost.)
O Captain! My Captain! There's wind in the sail,
A flurry of hats torn away in the gale.
A tempest is coming, we must not delay!
Her face in my eyelids as we sail away.
The ocean is fickle, unending, and bleak;
She torments the mighty and swallows the weak.
So why do we love her, we rashest of men?
When all of our roads lead to her yet again.
The world is too small for our changeable hearts,
No time for the wisdom perdition imparts.
MatthewThe silhouette in the back seat seems to say,Matthew4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what's a few more miles per hour?
Jesus, there ain't any cops around at two AM.
The needle on that glowing green dial shivers, taunting.
After forty days of temptation in the desert,
I turned his breath bitter and blue from nicotine.
The illuminated cone of open road chokes the windshield
And he cranks the gas, feeling his back press against the seat.
A rush of lines and blue-grey pavement.
His fists were scarred, probably thought even Behemoth
was wary of his mirrored sunglasses.
And he thinks: bitch, you're gone,
You're all gone.
Bet you didn't say your prayers right.
He grips the cracked leather steering wheel
Cranks up the radio,
His feet brush crumpled cans
Of beer and Diet Coke
And he feels them holy.
I made him proud of that stain on the wall;
Made his fists bruised from scrubbing and scrubbing.
He stops when it gets light,
Wheels kicking up dust under the dead tree,
Bone-white, like fingers in the sun.
The dust scratches his lungs t
daughterI find her in my kitchen, one ordinary morning with the harsh winter sun tipping full through the window. I haven't seen her for six months, and yet here she is, bruised knees pulled up under her chin, the light pouring through her hair like dull bronze. Despite the cold she is only wearing shorts and an old gray t-shirt, two sizes too big. Upon hearing my footsteps she looks up from picking at her nails, covered in chipped black polish, multicolored threads and silver rings slipping down her wrists. Her hair is tangled and long; longer than I can ever remember, and she tucks it behind an ear studded with piercings that glint in the dark strands. Her face is still in the shadows but a smile breaks through the silence and for the smallest moment I am stunned by the sheer momentum of life; the scent of baby powder, fireflies in the live oaks at night, the first time I felt her weight in my arms in a hospital bed, her tiny heart beating like a butterfly against my palm.daughter5 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I have to sift
Dear MeDear Little Rachel,Dear Me5 years ago in Letters More Like This
Yes, darling, you. You standing in the queue to get out of the airport, wrapped up as though it was minus 20 degrees Celsius outside when it was just 16 degrees. You there, aged eleven years old, your skin used to humidity and now cracking up like aging plaster in the blast of dry August air.
I know who you are. You brought me to life by your dreams, your bitter recollections of better days as you tried to defog the future, only to realise it was as misty as ever. I am who you are then, and you are who I am now. Call me a time traveller, talking to you and breaking a hundred physical laws but trust me, I'm just here to give you something.
Yeah, really, I hear you scoff. What have you learnt in the last five and a half years that you can tell me about? I mean, you're only about to turn seventeen. You're not even an adult. You're only an angst-ridden, bitchy, moody, internet-addicted teenager without one shred of philosophical decency. A teen advising
serpentPretending to be a lover,serpent4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you come to me as a man
to the pomegranate tree,
blind sighted by your hunger
to taste of its
Now, a serpent transformed
with darting tongue
sniffing out the promise
of fallen fruit
split by crows taking flight
as you approach
low to the ground, unblinking
stare like tiger's eye
when I succumb the weight
of cool scales wrapping round
the membrane, smothering
rubies of luscious red with the
undulations of your legless crawl,
to the heady quench and thirst
between the spongy chambers
of bloodied pith.
MotherAs you sweat over petunias,Mother5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watch shadows
pour from chlorophyll branches.
when delphiniums bloom,
on your roses.
You tramp with shovels, rakes,
And garden hoes,
dancing in lime green galoshes,
to the passing tempo of July.
All while my minutes bunch
at the windowsill,
a half-done row of knitting
cast aside. I recollect my thread and leave
to forage for dinner in the kitchen.
je ne sais quoiagainst my chest you make a soft semi-colon as my hipsje ne sais quoi4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
press into yours and you yield like damp paper
and against my chest the pulse of us
a filament-hum in a sixty-watt bulb
and my chin against your neck, an impromptu bookstop
and your cheek runs against
my stubble and it is an embossed leather cover
and our noses meet
beads of sweat on my brow roll against yours and we are
a printing press
until our dilated eyes meet like magnifying glasses
and our lips touch like the curves of an m
and the follicles on our arms raise into braille
ZipperIt happened again, soZipper4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a zipper, I put myself back together.
I was cold, sleeveless.
The sky was sliding off my back,
like a heavy down coat.
My sleeves came off again.
Leaves slipped off the arms of trees
like Band-Aids that had lost their stick.
Snow churned its hair in the wind.
in my hair, stretching its wings.
Then a cloud of snow was leaving my chimney.
Winter it was ice all over.
It happened again, so I put myself back together.
The moon nearly shattered my window, wind was so strong.
The moon a photograph.
The moon a falling leaf.
The moon curled up in snow.
We zip it up, and turn our heads against the wind.
How our eyes become so dark, like shelves.
Roses III: Blood RedA word. Face turned away to the silent distance,Roses III: Blood Red5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
A mirror of pain within eyes too young for this dance.
Terraced landscape down her graceful teenage spine,
Chin to knees, arms arched in a perfect synchrony of limbs.
She closed her stinging eyes and wished, as she inhaled the starchy air of the studio, that it was that easy to forget the ruins she had just postponed from her mind. With the abandon of despair, she chased one joint with another, her body a perfect arch of visual melody. Hers was the ballet of discordant precision, as she ravaged onto her body the same cacophony that her emotions drummed out onto her heart.
Within the darkness behind her eyelids, she aligned breath with heartbeat, following the disastrous staccato within her chest, reminding herself that the gallop of contained thunder therein was normal.
All was normal. It was natural to shatter continuously. She was all sinewy muscle, able to handle storm after storm.