:in between words and worlds:i.:in between words and worlds:4 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
tears don't drown your sorrowlost one,tears don't drown your sorrow4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Why do you always seem so sad? Your eyes are deep cerulean swirls of the sea, calm on the surface but fatal underneath with endless anfractuosities. Crestfallen rivers find their way down your cheeks and fall like raindrops on your cold hands.
If you were a song you would be the most broken and desolate winter nocturne in solo. You would be the beautiful heartbreaking tune of the violinist in the park, leaning down to close his old case full of coins.
You said you could play the piano for hours, from sunrise to sunset and into the quiescent night, but I know your slender fingers always remain the same temperature---below zero. And sometimes, your heartbeat is so silent and your eyes so icy blue I could almost see the snowflakes waltzing in them, an endless snowstorm. What happened to your passion?
When the show is over, the stage swept sterile and the actors all gone home to live in the monstrous truth, you sit in the dark and hear the walls breathing, and the whisper war in
shhh.the chair i'm sitting on is hard, old and rocks under my movements like a rocking chair, except i know it's not a rocking chair, but an antique on loose heels. when i fidget, i trace my fingers through the cracks in the arms and legs, my wet, sick and clammy fingers sticking out against the mahogany.shhh.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
when he talks to me, his chapped lips move with the wrinkles around his eyes, the scruff plaguing the skin around his mouth like weeds. his voice is scratchy, the smoke coming out from his nose and mouth almost too smooth against the black of his eyes. they should be watery - like mine - but they're dry, tame from the countless years of smoking.
when he sits down across from me, the chair screeches against the marble floors and his suit furrows under his lean arms and rides up around his ankles. he's still young, i realize, despite the wrinkles and tired bags hanging under his eyes. he may even be in his twenties, give or take a few years.
one of my hands are fondling the small, silver spo
Arse poeticaArse poeticaArse poetica4 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Show, don't tell. A poem is a painting. Would you paint a blatant heart or skull in your scenery if there's a way to polish it up until it shines again? No-one likes dust on canvas. Be that Gustav Klimt.
It's a wrong thought that just refuses to die: a poem doesn't have to be beautiful. If a poem needs to be surrounded by thorns, has to scrape your skin till it bleeds, then the poem must never be beautiful. Keep this in mind: the poem always has to be good.
Rework your poems. Think of the person you could have been if your mother could have been able to give birth to some drafts of you, improving some flaws each time. An unstructured poem is a sign of utter weakness.
If you tell an anecdote, the reader must feel like he's drawn into some surrealistic, or even Dadaistic scene. Be intimate, tell details, try to get them out of the context so the reader can only guess what the realistic imaginary means.
If you let the surrealism flow, the
growing upI grew up on the back of a vegetable cart, counting the months of my life in seasonal vegetables, and counting the years in the objects I took on board to keep me company. Aged seven I remember perching on a sack of onions with my sock puppet and reading Alana’s book about a witch disguised as a pedlar woman. I flinched away from the crates of rubbery okra; green fibrous witches noses. When aunty stewed the witchy okra for our dinner it was unrecognisable. It looked like stars.growing up5 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
The ceaseless jolting of the cart against uneven terrain and the fresh air contrived to blur the words I read, stirring them into a bubbling green potion. Blinking fast to fight dry prickly eyes I read another page, then leaned back against the wooden flanks of the cart and realised through long heavy blinks that stars themselves were actually less-star-shaped than slices of okra. You couldn’t count their points, there were meant to be five, one two three four five. I couldn’t draw a pointy sta
a heavy chest of dying treasuresI found the place where she died the first time (they say we all die twice).a heavy chest of dying treasures4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
There were no ropes or razors or jewels of blood but I know she died there, because the apples were all mourning. I went to gather her belongings from the house and everything looked so normal at first. I don’t know what I expected. Suicide notes scrawled on the walls despite them saying she hadn’t left any, cracked light bulbs; the glass shattered like her heart, split-seamed cushions to match her broken veins, pools of tears in the ashtrays? I didn’t know this was what I expected until I noticed their glaring absence. My god someone had even bleached the toilet recently. Was it her? Did she look at the bleach and consider drinking it? I wanted to tell myself there was a smell of despair. That I found a single strand of her hair and cried over it. That the cushions still had the imprints of her elbows in them and the saucepan handles were still warm from her touch. But there was no sign of h
When You think of Me - A letter to HerThe season that finds you will not matter. Whether you shiver in winter colds or stretch your toes under the cherries of June, your breath should be easy.When You think of Me - A letter to Her3 months ago in Letters More Like This
No matter the season, your body should always mimic the birth of spring or the fires of summer. Your skin should glow brighter when my image appears behind your bright eyes.
You should remember the way a great muse meditates, for that is what you are. You should feel your chest letting go, like it does when you grace the sidewalk under linden trees. Your frail rib cage should expand slowly, to let your soul wander free, as it never was before. Don’t worry, your soul will find its way out and back again when your thoughts of me are done. Do not be troubled if it leaves for too long. However long it stays afloat, that’s how it should be. Your soul knows the measure of being in love beyond what you and I know - about us and about each other.
Your arms might fall to the side, your legs might feel brittle and your lips might p
twin flamesI dream of us, and the dream hurts with an almost-pain, one that can barely be recalled. It’s like blindly running a fingertip over a forearm dappled with bruises, and hitting a sharp spot here and there.twin flames1 month ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The dream is a red and smoky room. It’s the smell of wet suede and lipstick over toothpaste. Girls dance slowly as though their limbs are drifting in thick syrup, and we watch them but only see each other. There is a mirror behind our heads, and icy drinking glasses on the table in front with whole glacé cherries on the stems. Candied maraschino. We pluck them free with our puckered lips and the fruits burst full of liquor, burning the edges of our tongues.
Our tongues are two halves of a mahogany bascule bridge, and we must join them together for safety, but now the fire claws its fingers up into our mouths, dragging its raging body with determination behind it.
The burning bridge twists like a mirage and disappears into a tunnel, darker than the static pupil of
Don't Look Under the BedThe only rule we had when we were children was to never look under the bed.Don't Look Under the Bed5 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Not just any bed, but the bed of our mother. She hid something down beneath the bed that we weren't meant to see. Some great secret protected by the boogeyman, she would tell us. "If you get on your hands and knees and try to look... he'll jump out! And grab you!" After the threat was made, she pounced on either myself or my brother, laughing and tickling until we were nothing but a pile of small giggles on the floor.
We took the words seriously, however. Running into the room to awaken our parents on holidays like birthdays or Christmas, or Thanksgiving, any of them and never once did we look under the bed. Sometimes we hesitated, sometimes we thought there would be a hand reaching out to grab us if we weren't fast enough. The ruffles of the bed covered the foot of the bed, so logically as the little kids we were, jumping at the foot of the bed was safest. It's what we always did, to get onto the bed and avoid
Ironic Fact." We are powerless. "Ironic Fact.4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
said 7.000.000.000 people.
ThoughtsSadness is a lot more common in Heaven than people think. Generally, the higher up the ranks you go, the more of it you'll find.Thoughts4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the Archangel Raphael
A Letter To Little MeA Letter To Little Me2 years ago in Letters More Like This
Dear Little Me,
Today I read a letter you wrote to me so I thought I'd return the favor. I know that you can't wait to grow up. That you think that everything will get better as you age and that nothing can stop you.
That's only mostly correct. At the age of five, you've been through so much little girl. I know you're really scared of everything. Afraid to cry. Afraid to trust. Afraid to share how hurt you are. You fool everyone so well but believe me when I say this: You don't want to be that person. Open up. Share. Cry. Be happy.
So much weight is on your shoulders at such a young age and it's not fair. It makes you strong though. Keep pushing on but don't force yourself to do it alone.
It seems like you don't have any friends. That you're all too easily forgotten during school. It sucks but karma's got you and when you go to college you meet the most amazing group of people in the entire world. Not to mention your friends from Art Camp 2009.
No matter what your father says, yo
Cordyceps I don't have much time. I have to get this down before I go up something bad happens. Up, up, up. I don't know how this happened. All I know is my brother climbed to the roof up, up, up of our apartment complex in the sky, have to go up and died. Some sort of mushroom or something was growing out of the back of his head upupupup. The tendrils were small, brightly coloured, and I could see the spores fall and be taken by the slight breeze.Cordyceps4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
We didn't question his disappearance. He disappears all the time.
But then I went up up up to the roof.
And he was lying there, cooking in the sun, the horrible shrooms growing out of his skull.
Now I have to go up, up, up a fever or something. My head hurts, and there's a swelling at the back of my skull. I must go up don't think I'll survive much longer. If this is the same thing that happened to my brother
I want to go up. Up, up, to the sky.
I want to go to th
But one nightShe stares into the darkness as strands of hair decorate her countenance.But one night4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Her eyes hold pain.
––They’re damp with broken promises, and tainted purity.
She’s so aware of herself, it feels surreal.
She can feel her pulse in her wrists, her neck and her chest.
They feel out of sync, just like she does.
She prays to a god she doesn’t believe in just to feel safe, even for a mere moment.
She talks intimately to the empty sky, and asks it for help.
There’s an echo to her words.
––It’s windy, and utterly dark.
The full moon illuminates her doubting soul as she collapses onto her knees, not too far from the cliffs edge.
Her eyes are closed.
It hurts to see the beauty she can’t appreciate.
It hurts to feel so void of life, with a beating heart, and bated breath.
She inhales as deeply as she can.
With all the strength she can muster, she lets out a scream that shakes the core of the Universe.
The scream is long, and desperate.
my cat is sadmy cat is sad.my cat is sad5 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
no one else in his family is a cat
we are all human except for him
he is excluded from most things
and no one tells him why
he just wants to play
and be loved
he looks at us with wonder
he says hello i am a cat what is my existence
what is that / why it and not me / please can you look at me
and love me too
can i have some of your food please I'm sorry i don't like my food so much
do you want to play with my toys? this one is my favourite
do you like me
are we brothers
why didnt i grow up
why am i so small
can you help me be happy
where are you going
A Letter to MeDear Me,A Letter to Me4 years ago in Letters More Like This
I know sometimes the days seem long and the nights even longer. I know there are times you would hide from the world. You feel the weight on your shoulders, and see the accusing glares.
I'm here to tell you that it does get better. The sun does shine through the worst of our depression. It's there when you're ready to reach out and grab onto the ribbon of laughter.
Don't worry about those flashbacks, honey. There was a time when you had to deal with it alone, but that isn't the case anymore. No matter where it takes you, when you come back, you'll always have a strong person who loves you for who you are...imperfections and all. He doesn't care that you check out for chunks of time and can't always explain or even know it happened. He loves you and will watch over you while you're gone.
Don't fret about the past. Don't fret about the future. You can keep on living. Everything is going to be okay now. Not everyone may understand, and hell, some may look down on you for it, but
I am not my illness. I am not my illness.I am not my illness.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I've had depression for three years, and I used to hate the way my illness had changed me. I thought I could never be the girl I used to be. But my psychologist helped me to see that my illness can never change the inner me. In the end, I will have changed I will be stronger for this battle but my central values and the things that make me 'me' will always remain the same.
I am not my illness.
I have schizophrenia. People call me crazy, and avoid me, because I hear voices and talk to them. Maybe I am crazy sometimes, when I have an episode. But I'm not always crazy. I may be schizophrenic, but schizophrenic is not all I am.
I am not my illness.
The girls at school all tease me because I always stutter when I talk, and sometimes I try to speak but my mouth can't form the words. They call me retarded, dumb. I've never really had any real friends, all because I have autis
CartasDurmiendo en mi encierro de veinte días en aquella sala oscura me encontraba. No veía la luz del dia, me guiaba por mis ciclos de sueño. La comida la guardaba en una pequeña bandeja.Cartas4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
¿Cambiaría mi encierro algun dia? ¿O tendría al menos una forma de entretenerme en mi aburrimiento?
Oyendo mis súplicas y plegarias, Dido entró por la pequeña puerta de metal que me aislaba del exterior. Con su enigmática mirada, susurró:
- Ven, Kil. Vamos a jugar.
Tras bajar varias escaleras, yo por delante, ella por detrás, llegamos a lo que parecía era nuestro destino.
Era una mesa oscura en una sala roja. En la mesa una baraja de cartas, y dos sillas, una a cada lado. En resto de la habitación era impoluta, vacía, y la puerta por donde había entrado desapareció tan pronto como ella se puso delante de mí.
- Siéntate y barajea.
Empecé a barajar con la cabeza baja y cuando la alcé para repart
barnes and nobleshe said she wants to lose her virginity at a barnes and noble.barnes and noble4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
it makes me feel so comfortable to be there, she said. the books, the pages, the people - all engrossed in print and words and new worlds, all like me.
she said, i want to make love in the fiction aisle. she paused. right between the palahniuk and plath, that's where i was this morning, i was reading the back covers of everything beautiful and thinking of you lying on top of me on the floor, and making something beautiful ourselves.
i want silence and intimacy, she said, i want bookstores. i want to be surrounded by book-bindings and straight spines with flat pages.
she said, at a bookstore, i can talk to anybody. i can be anybody. and i can know everyone by the pages they turn, and they can know me.
she said, it's beautiful.
she said, i can't write like you.
she said, i want to make something beautiful, too.
she said, let's do something to get us in the pages of a novel.
she said, i want to make love in a barnes and noble
"Lucruri" care ardÎn total eram şase. Cutiuţa în care ne aflam eram mucegăită şi umedă. Ai deschis-o cu degetele tale tocite de la toate inimile pe care le-ai atins. Ne-ai privit şi m-ai ales pe mine."Lucruri" care ard4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
Prima dată când m-ai aprins a fost magic. Nu ştiam că ceva, aparent atât de simplu, în mâinile potrivite poate deveni ceva atât de frumos. Ai continuat să mă aprinzi de nenumărate ori doar ca să mă priveşti cum ard. Fără să fac lumină, fără să te încălzesc, fără ca măcar să-ţi aprind ţigara. Nu-ţi foloseam la nimic şi cu toate astea, datorită ţie, puteam să strălucesc. Şi de fiecare dată încercam să o fac şi mai tare, şi mai viu, şi mai fierbinte, şi mai roşu. Ştiam că la un moment dat lumina mea se va sfârşi, dar am continuat
Chrissy and PaulChrissy and Paul4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Shit," Chrissy mumbled under her breath, bending down to pick up the shattered pieces of the flask. "That's the second one. What's with me today?"
Chrissy looked around her small lab and sighed, suddenly regretting having chosen such a drab color for the walls. She'd been surprised the boys had let her paint them in the first place. The boys being her landlords: John, Paul, George, and Ringo. They were in a rock and roll band and were beginning to become quite popular. Chrissy scoffed to herself, wondering why she even bothered to pay rent if they were getting so much money coming in. Then again, the boys didn't really press her for and funds, mainly because they knew that though she was brilliant, she wasn't bringing in very much of an income. Not on what she had invented, anyway. She'd been working on a teleporter in the form of a phone-booth, but seeing as phone-booths were public property and not easy to come by, she'd hit a few bumps in that road. Paul had simply suggested she us
Roleplay: Luna's Tiny TroubleBy schoolfilmer and suikerdiamantRoleplay: Luna's Tiny Trouble5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Note: When a character is talking with a squeaky voice after they have shrunk, the text is in Italics.
(Stella is in the practice field, where Stella and Luna can practice on newly gained spells. Right now, Stella got "Star Shrinker", and Luna got "Lunar Shrinker". That's right, they share some of the spells they get.)
Stella: Look at that, I'm making progress! Just a few more of those, and I'm all ready!
(Luna enters abruptly, scaring Stella so she flings a Shrinking Star spell at her)
Luna: Whoa! (Shrinks to a very tiny size)
Stella: Oh my... Luna, are you OK?
Luna: Yes, but what did you do to me?!
Stella: I must have shrunk you by accident...
Luna: So I'm tiny, you said? Turn me back to normal at once!
Stella: Sorry sis, you have to wait 24 hours, and then you'll grow back to your normal size.
Luna: I have to wait for a day fo
Egoista Pero... ¿Por qué no te gusto? ¿Qué tengo yo de malo?Egoista4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Mira.... ¿Ves esto? ¿Lo ves?
Sus inmensos ojos verdes ascienden desde el suelo hasta el punto al que él señala; no dice nada, se limita a llorar en silencio. Una lágrima tras otra. El nudo crece justo sobre su lengua. Abriría los labios para añadirle un zumbido a las lágrimas pero su orgullo no se lo permite.
Está vacío , él y su crudeza, él y su maldita tranquilidad . No no no sé cuándo empecé a quererte, tampoco sé cuando dejé de hacerlo , engulle saliva, buscando un poco de tiempo para poder ordenar un par de palabras que tengan algún tipo de sentido . Me lo has matado... Todo este tiempo... No se puede hablar contigo... es intentarlo... y... Una tras otra, sus vacilaciones otorgan incoherencia a todo cuanto dice.
¿Qué tengo yo de malo?
Chekhov's gunChekhov's gunChekhov's gun4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
A short story
That's how the unreasonable man and I am talking. He first, then I. Just as it ever was, or maybe with silence as an extra Leitmotiv.
At a certain moment, he's searching his bag.
"You know Chekhov's gun?"
My answer is negative.
"Chekhov says: if you put a gun on the table in the first act, it has to fire in the next one."
He's putting something on the table. It's no gun.
"Love letters. Yours. Those with the poems in it too."
And he puts his lighter on the table. He doesn't smoke.
"And the pistol fires?"
"The next act."
We carry on. He talks, I talk, we drop silences sometime. We are like stage-actors. Actors with Chekhovs gun on the table.
"This is the third act."
When he takes the first letter and lets the lighter click, I'm putting my hand on his. The one without the lighter.
"Where do you want to leave the ash?"
There's a puzzled look in his eyes.
"Where was the ashtray in the previous act?"
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