:in between words and worlds:i.:in between words and worlds:3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
With amorphous regret in my mind and genesis in my notebook I turn the page and there is the hateful etching of your name a hundred times over and over until its engraved on my wrists and under my eyelids, those crimson marks dispersing into atoms when I close my eyes, there is the slight tremble of the summer leaves and the south birds migration, there are the salmons leaping in ocean's tears and mountain's streams and there are cars whizzing by the empty voids between our words and worlds.
To you, words exist in worlds
And to me worlds live in the existence of words
But you'll only frown and turn away, and accuse me of being philosophical and boring.
Because maybe that's what I am, a cluster of clashing words,
Clashing worlds when I shut my eyes
And clashing sounds like soap water when I just l i s t e n .
In the translucent yellow of this candlelight, the lisp of words soften to words sifting above whispers, and in vain I sketch in my mind the shape of your smi
The Importance of Being FrankThe Importance of Being Frank10 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The Importance Of Being Frank
At the end of this story, a Frenchman will be eaten by African driver ants.
* * *
Silvie closed the stall door behind her; she closed it timidly, with an empty expression on her face. Her hand shook. She paused for a moment, her mouth half open, her lip curled upward, and a frown on her forehead.
Then she walked over to the wash basins.
A fly buzzed between her and the mirror. She turned on the faucet, filled her cupped hands with water, and splashed it on her face. She looked at the stall's reflection in the mirror, closed her eyes, and slapped herself.
Let us slow down to take in the sights. At the exact moment Silvie's hand hits her cheek, everyth
The PianistA warm, lilting melody wafted through the nightclub, nimble fingers dancing over crisp black and white keys as the song of the grand piano drifted down from the stage, filtering between the irregularly spaced tables to fill every niche and recess of the dimly lit room. The lone figure in the spotlight moved gently with the music, her long chestnut hair billowing down her back in loose waves and her wine red dress fanning out around her knees as she sat on the worn leather stool. It was not a complex song she played, with no difficult notes or intricate rhythms, but there was something about it that was so enthralling, so entrancing, as if each sound touched you, clung to you, whispered to you.The Pianist4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
As the tune swelled, as the notes danced, and as music came alive beneath her fingers, the pianist began to remember.
She met him at a cheap, backwater club on a cool autumn evening while playing yet another of those low paid unambitious jobs that she hated but needed to make ends meet. While
Revised Strike Witches TLSlightly revised Strike Witches Timeline.Revised Strike Witches TL3 years ago in Settings More Like This
753 BC: Rome was founded.
550 BC: Achaemenid Empire was founded in Persia.
525 BC: Darius the Great unifies the Orient.
509 BC: The Roman Republic was founded.
500 BC to 449 BC: The Persian Wars with the Greek states.
431 BC to 404 BC: The Peloponesian War occurs.
334 BC: Alexander conducts his Eastern Campaign against Persia.
323 BC: Alexander survives malaria to conduct his campaign against India.
306 BC: Alexander unites the the Middle East and South Asia to his rule. However, he dies shortly thereafter and his heir [who did not survive the civil war] and his generals fight for the control of his empire. The Alexandrine Empire collapsed soon thereafter.
272 BC: unification of the Italian peninsula by Rome.
264 to 241 BC: First Punic War.
218 to 201 BC: the Second Punic War. Rome defeats Carthage in Zama in 202 BC.
168 BC: The Battle of Pydna occurs.
149 BC: The Third Punic War sees Carthage destroyed by Rome.
60 BC: First Triumvirate rules i
midnight, minus threewinter comes to beijing like an old coat,midnight, minus three4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or perhaps a threadbare tide;
not a hurried cold--no, not yet so old
as an angry man--but careful, slow,
and weaving herself from wind after wind,
snow after snow--
like a shroud for a warm corpse
laying itself out on the street
at last to rest,
then, tugging like a baby at her own sleeve
she sees to them, the hot potato women,
the quiet men crying corn,
to the dusty coats and supplications,
and the sparrows blown like buttons
in a storm.
with a whisperthis is how we rule the world,with a whisper2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the forgotten, lobotom-ised,
of a long lost dystopast.
not with a SHOUT,
we do not argue.
we do not even unsheath
we whisper in your children's ears
the memories of what should have been.
the life we all crave.
the death we all crave.
WE do not discriminate
our opinions onto others
pressing the side of the blade
down onto the flesh
all are bitten
with the fever of our belief.
this is how we rule the world,
we tell stories,
we incite a generation
with their own scar/r/ed lungs
with a whisper.
This Empty Page.For here still lies this empty pageThis Empty Page.4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
No strokes of love nor scrawls of rage
Of yellowed white in candlelight
It speaks of naught but dust and age.
Fingerprints do smudge its face
Of tender touch when I would trace
Crisp cut edges long since frayed
While words of love within me stayed.
For now my eyes reflect its fate
Love bloomed within but spoke too late
And though frail fingers grip my quill
This ghostly page is empty still.
Whispered feelings lost to night
As phantom thoughts waltz out of sight
Failed; my heart in it's crimson cage
For here still lies this empty page...
tattoo artistone time you compare me to a dancer.tattoo artist5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i ask why.
you claim my every movement is as graceful
as the gentle turning of the earth,
as precise as the path of a raindrop
shattering perfectly into glass.
Where did you read that? Shakespeare?
Ye of little faith. I don't dance.
dumb puppy, soft-headed loser,
i adore you but i do not trust your brains.
it is freezing outside when we walk across
the gap between
cars, and you show me what it feels
like to be touched by numb
lips, pressed against a wall of my reticence
like a bone-chilling wind.
It was just a kiss. Why did you look at me that way?
For once I thought somebody understood.
i close the door
to keep out wind and fear and confusion and you.
it doesn't take me long to explain all
your bad points.
in summary, you are a selfish reckless rock-solid
phony with gossamer insides and armor out
idiot for love, unstable as ripe volcanic magma
and just as passionate.
But I will follow you on destruction's path.
Boy, we'll blaze out
a conversationi welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things -a conversation3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction."
i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts
like stones as the brine and tangling seaweed washes over my broad and open feet, i condescendingly believed he would give me straight answers-
"all languages we speak are diligent and binding, we bite our tongues against society, and she is just trying to say hello."
silence like a trainwreck passes on four feet and i wait, breathing, for the hour to come and announce itself to me in a rain-l
A Timeless ImageA Timeless ImageA Timeless Image3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A mirror's dainty reflection,
A young girl's perception,
of the perfect life to come.
Proud of the fact,
of her ability to attract,
attention for the first time.
Through the looking glass, so new,
Finding an alternative point of view,
where vanity isn't polished.
Warped by life
hit with undo strife
clouds her self image
Without fantasy's distortion,1
She's scared out of proportion,
as scratches change what she sees.
Make-up cannot hide,
her disfigurement genocide,
protruding through the mask.
The mirrors reflected illusion,
A blurred image of confusion,
of what she thought life was.
Distanced from the past,
To the future detached,
Caught in a sad hopelessness.
Weathered now and cracked,
Unable to attract,
anything but pity.
Cuts deepen in her soul
expanding to the whole,
as she falls apart.
Broken pieces on the floor,
InsomniaThere is no true concept of time for ones like this. Despite the numerous clocks on the walls around them and the never faltering pace of satelites and digital calculations, time holds no value. Merely a series of numbers that chase themselves from one end of the finish line and back. A continuous loop from night to day and back again, and at some point, they've stopped watching, stopped waiting, stopped counting.Insomnia6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Their nights don't bleed into day and their sunsets don't ripple into the starry sky above them. The contrast between night and day is indisputable and absolute. There is a morning, a sunrise, a burning afternoon, a smooth evening, a glistening twilight and a black velvet night. This too, for them, continues in a cycle that reminds them of a day, a month, and the years that pass.
But for them, that's all it is.
There are passages that show the motion of time.
But like many things in this world to humanity, it holds little value to ones like this.
Their days are marked in diff
Heaven or HellHeaven or Hell4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
There was a poll posted on Facebook, it was simple, all you had to do was click one answer or the other.
You only had two choices.
The question was: "Where do you think you're headed?"
The answer choices were: Heaven, and Hell.
A lot of people picked Heaven and there were people who voted Hell.
This made me sad to know that these people are condemning themselves.
When you say you're going to Hell, you're accepting something that isn't true!
If God set a Satanist free, If God sent his only son to die for us (even when we did not and still don't deserve it), and If God spoke into the darkness and created the light...
Then NOTHING is impossible for him!
The word impossible is a fallacy that hides the truth: I'm Possible!
Don't condemn yourself.
Doesn't matter what you did, God will still forgive you and let you into his kingdom,
you just have to stop putting yourself down all the time
If God forgave Hitler, Sodom, and Osama, yet they blew it, due to them choosing not to accept him and
life is gameА завтра новый деньlife is game3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
И новая игра,
Ещё одна ступень,
И новый взмах пера.
Улыбка на устах,
Веселый звонкий смех,
Но слезы на глазах,
Их видно не для всех.
Avengers: In MemoriamIn MemoriamAvengers: In Memoriam3 years ago in Drama More Like This
in memoriam, a Latin phrase that translates directly as 'in memory of'"Did you mourn?"
"We all did."They all mourn. Just in different ways.
There is a bloodstain on the wall.
None of them ever mention it or show any sign of letting it dwell in their thoughts, but Fury has noticedwith his 'good eye' as Stark likes to refer to it asthat there are a few rare moments just before a mission when they can be found gathered around the mark they refuse to let anyone clean away, and one or two of them at a time can be found giving it more than just a passing glance as they wander by it, fingers outstretched and tips barely brushing the surface.
The stain marks more than another casualty of battleit is a moment of triumph, of death; it is where, separate as they were, they became a team, where they found something (no, someone) to avenge. It is where they go on their own to collect their thoughts, looking into the empty void before them (th
Professional EulogistThe only dry eyeProfessional Eulogist3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Belongs to the perennial pallbearer.
His countenance cold, even in Kelvin.
Pine forests falling,
Fields somewhere filling with his friends,
They're carving out quarries
And ghostwriting eulogies.
People wonder aloud what's wrong with him.
He knows Dionysus drowns more men,
Venus takes more lives than Mars,
Walking on traintracks,
Eyes crossed like stars.
There's no ghosts left in this town.
In a real city of angels,
In a time called black suit season,
Death is a dial tone.
Soak My Feet In WineWhen the sun and the earth were in love, ever youngSoak My Feet In Wine4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I was born on a full moon with silver clarity
I'm that woman who sleeps on olive groves
Who makes angels fall in love with men's daughters
And lets herself be tricked by your sweet spells
Who obeys the very impulse of her heart
Do you know who I am, where I came from ?
I live where stars grow bigger on a light breeze
Where butterflies were once flowers
Where God blessed my garden in Eden with peace
There, where I lay on a cloud softer than foam
When the day splits into two halves, you see me
My steps are as light as those of a chamois
My hair running wild; wings of an evil crow
My mouth has the roundness of a precious ring
Cheeks, two fields of roses blooming again
Under my feet grow trees, and remain ever green
You need my palms, you seek my blood and fear
Before you crave for more, grant me what I wish for
Kiss the ground before me, show me your loyalty
Borrow the devil's wings, bring me bouquets of stars
I want that purp
The Poetic Mind as a MuscleThe Poetic Mind as a MuscleThe Poetic Mind as a Muscle2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
As a poet at any given skill level, you might ponder different ways to advance your mastery of the craft. You might spend weeks dissecting famous and not so famous poets. You might read countless articles on poetic technique. You might just plow through any and every collection you can get your hands on, track all of the most well-know journals, follow all of the contemporaries. All of these things add up to a knowledgeable poet. However, does this necessarily make you a better poet?
No. The reason is that most of us equivocate poetic skill with divinely gifted talent. We often think of poetry as a latent ability that we merely possess or do not. This leads to certain diseases within the mind, whether it be the idea that our words are beyond reproach because they are "self expression," or we decide that words come out and that's all there is to it. Other times we are stricken by the undeniable flaws of our work, even t
Death by SeaI left her dead by the sea shore.Death by Sea3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I left her where the waves were sure to pull her out to sea.
This is what she asked of me, you see.
She told me, days before, that she wanted to be buried in the ocean’s gentle, but masterful grasp.
She told me she wanted to always smell of the balmy salt water that always crashed on the shore.
She told me that she wanted to visit the Titanic, and the bottom of the deepest trench.
She told me that it had been her dream to see what it was like under all that water.
I told her that it wasn’t normal to be buried out at sea.
I told her I would miss how she always smelled of lavender after the rains crashed on our meadow.
I told her there wasn’t much to see on the Titanic, or the deepest trench.
I told her I would miss being able to see her, even on a good or bad day.
She sat at the crest of our hill and told me she knew.
She could sit at the crest of our hill overlooking the blue wonder that stretched to the horizon and tell me she knew.
Introduction: CharacterFirst lesson about writing: Characters are what makes the story.Introduction: Character4 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Think about your favorite story. Ever.
Well, I can't think about mine, so I'll go for "Which French anti-hero do I feel like fangirling for today?" Narrowly beating out the story about the tragic relationship between the bohemian sociopath with the amazing set of pipes and unfortunate skin condition (unless he's being played by Gerard Butler) and a Scandinavian soprano is The Count of Monte Cristo. That novel is, in its unabridged printing, thick enough to bludgeon a walrus with. It starts off pretty fast, but gets slow just as quickly. It's not a book for the short of attention span.
So why do I love that novel? For the titular Count. For the cast of cool main characters. For the One True Pairing of Maximilian Morrel and Valentine de Villefort. For duels and revenge and intrigue and character driven plot and a main character who is (and I am using the technical terminology, borrowed from tvtropes.org) badass enoug
In a dream, away from life.And now slowly swept somber eyes,In a dream, away from life.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Let my earthly body find no surprise.
For now I lay and sleep so soundly,
Ever kept so earthly boundly.
Bobbing, sobbing, still and silent,
Being earthly bound is quite violent.
Wars and whores,
On sodding shores.
Treasure trove, or tainted grove,
We're cooking now on ghastly stove.
Bumbling, Stumbling, sweet and soft,
In my mind I just scoffed.
Deary me, oh deary my,
What a life has gone by.
Truly Trembling, tossed and crossed,
Find me still and leave me lost.
Brooding, Feuding, Fickle Flock,
Don't forget to throw the clock.
Madness find me,
Chains now bind me.
Eyes will open and awaken,
To this earth I am shaken.
Crying, dying, dread and dismay,
Find me here and fly, fly away.