It Was The Burglar's Idea The worst people hired him because he was the best burglar around. No one knew his given name, not even him. As a child, he'd grown and fed himself by stealing what he needed on the streets. He had no name. But since many people called him- "That one!" -the growing and adept burglar decided to call himself "Thone." He knew he needed at least a name, if not food, home, clothes -- and why not some kind of fame and fortune? Yes, he decided, he'd have both infamy and fortune. He was certain he was a clever, quiet, sneaky, and nice young man, fully deserving of both. Soon he had both.
Late one night, a very rich man hired Thone for a new job and asked him the usual questions. Thone was as silent with the rich as he was with the poor. For that matter, he was more silent with the rich. Thone never explained his work to anyone, and it was always the rich who hired him. Thone was the most expensive burglar ever known to o
Another Take The human I live with calls me "Tommy Gun." Or "Kitty." Sometimes "Cat." Yeah "cat," but I'm really an alien. Though we got here first and are highly evolved, humans insist on calling us all these names. I think it's because they're unable to call us what we call each other. They can't hear us talk most of the time. We usually use what humans call "telepathy," except in extreme cases. We try other ways to talk to humans. Use "meow" umpteen ways and you'll see how hard it is.Another Take4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I like my human. She's a beautiful girl calls herself "Mimi" when she's on stage. Yeah "Mimi," and she's definitely human. She's a belly dancer and an excellent one. She can enchant a room full of old humans without even a drum, without even taking off any of her very many veils. She sort of undulates, like a wonderful snake might. But snakes I can eat. Mimi is way bigger than me, plus I want her to live. I won't kill her. She feeds me so I won't bring a dead sn
2. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' If you just began reading this, part one tells you who's who.2. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I was a very young writer--don't expect good writing, but perhaps interesting storytelling.
John and Mary, me and Larry and Pat went to Libre today to pick up records and a drum. We had a very pleasant time talking to the people there. We were all quite happy, and it could be felt clearly all the way up there, because it seemed the people there saw it well, and showed it back to us through their own pleasure. There was a lot of interest, good will and affection. The visits to their various houses were very comfortable.
We did our thing with our usual style: jokes, spirit, talk, getting mud on their carpets and a car in their mud, and they with their style: talk, jokes, stories and questions about rumoured "orgies" we supposedly had. Mary answered most of those questions. Peter Rabbit asked how the sex was going and if we into Tantra yet, and Mary, laughing, said "Oh no. It's all the regular
FragilityPardon meFragility6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is my new lipstick
I need ghost lips.
My rib-cage needs fragility
like the bones
of bird wings.
I need to be light,
need to float. Like a bird-
no, like a spirit.
My pallid skin
so you can see
with the moths.
3. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' If you're just beginning to read this, please refer to number one to know who's who.3. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I was a very young writer, so don't expect good writing--look for some interesting storytelling instead.
Pat is really nice to talk to because she's been very happy and has all sorts of interesting things to say and, more than that, she listens well to what you have to say. I really dig her enthusiasm for music too (it's the sort I like!). I would feel more out of touch with all the old hard-rock concert scenes if she wasn't here to play records and talk all the "latent groupie" rap! The others, especially Terry (and sometimes John) get tired of our record-playing, but it sure helps when you miss that stuff, and we've all gotten into good dancing from them.
Dean came over from Libre and there was a lot of talk about domes, that was fun.
Plans flew for our idea to build a sixty-fo
1. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'Keep up, we'll gallop through this introduction, written directly in my true journal, just as I see it open in front of me now.1. The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist'3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It's in faded cursive handwriting, in a black leather-bound book.
This is the 'Cast of Characters' who form a commune at Red Rocks Canyon:
Vicki - Peter's sister: A dark-haired, dark-eyed Hungarian beauty, who thinks her hair's too thin (it is, but who cares?). It took her weeks of country living to realize she did not need to wear false eyelashes daily. Funny! Such a gorgeous woman. An artist.
Mary - Initially with Terry: Lots of thick, wavy brown hair (short, unusual for the anyone then) with a smile that's a (de)light, who often thinks about Vicki's appearance and hers as a competition (no way!). A writer and [later] a teacher.
Winnie - Peter's brother: His name is a nickname for "Winston." Like they all were, he's a good-looking man, shorter than the others, with a stiff neck from a bout
Tornado Talk She'd never heard wind like it. The girl, Lilah, was from a place where the only season meant Santana winds blew, and they blew hard, but not as hard as this wind. The man she was with didn't wake up. He slept on while the day began.Tornado Talk4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
One of the six children they babysat, a little boy, came to their room.
He shook the man's foot to wake him.
Lilah was amazed to see the man she'd marry pull their blanket over his face to hide.
It was up to the Lilah to ask the little boy, "What's wrong, Jake?"
"The wind," Jake said. "Why Uncle hidin? I scared! Want Uncle ta save us!"
"Come here, Jake," said Lilah. "Are the other kids awake? Come here, I'll hold you."
"No, they sleepin 'n' I want Uncle! Willya wake him?"
"Sure, Jake," the girl said, pretending a calm she didn't feel.
"Wesley!" she said, nudging the man next to her. "Wes! What're you doing with the blanket over your head? Wake up! Jake's in our room. And the wind is--it's different than a
Cellphones, Pay phones.Cellphones, Pay phones.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wish you'd pick up your cellphone more often, but I heard you didn't pay the bill. I figured that's why you wouldn't pick the phone, no matter how many times I called. Where were you today? I thought you'd come by, like you said you would. Just to visit. Maybe you'll call me later today from the pay phone down the street from where you used to live. I heard you and him are living in your van now, but you said that now when you visit, I can really sleep with you. Even if it means sharing a bed with him, too. I haven't gotten a call from you in a while, so I tried calling your old cell phone number, just to see if you'd pick up. Of course, it told me the number had been disconnected. Why don't you get a new cell phone, or at least call me a little more for the pay phone? I know it's only twenty five cents to spend a few minutes on the phone with me. I miss you, you know. I want you to co
The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' - Interlude.................................................................Interlude........................................................................The True Journal of a Fake 'Communist' - Interlude3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
-- This is a "laundry list" of memories not in the previous journal entries, nor to follow. --
a.) I didn't leave Red Rocks to return to UCLA or Santa Monica or Venice or to go to New Orleans with Gene because I wanted to leave Red Rocks. I was asked to leave when my unhappiness showed like a sagging slip on a woman in a dress. So I missed the greater part of building the sixty-foot dome. But I saw pictures when I returned and they were very entertaining.
a1.) The folks there (and during the time I was first there) loved blowing holes with dynamite, and used it for the many holes needed for the foundation of the big dome, and for huge logs holding up a mezzanine inside it. One hundred holes at least. Dynamite is fun, but you kids, don't use it at home. The only underground-treatment I
One of ThoseShe was one of those strange little girls, the kind who never fit in with the dress-wearing ones . . . the ones who played with dolls, braided hair for fun, and talked about being mommies one day. She preferred overalls to little pink sundresses and hiking boots to white Keds. She played with her brothers friends, the only blonde in the roaming pack of testosterone.One of Those6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
With her hair pulled tight into a ponytail, she chased the ice cream man and outran the Heinburgs German Shepherds. She leapt over creeks and onto dog piles, having nothing to do with clean games.
The little girls she was predestined to play with called her names whenever she walked by their tea parties. Her revenge was quick, however. One well-placed hit during a cul-de-sac baseball game was all she needed to splatter their dresses and stuffed rabbits with Lipton and send them crying to their mothers.
At night she would escape from her family: a grandmother who said she would die alone, a mother who
Bones.We are made of smoke tonight.Bones.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We are made of deep pits of longing in our stomachs
and years of waiting dancing across our eyelids.
The earth does not exist tonight,
and there is no rust beneath my finger nails,
no glass between your teeth.
There is only you and I on the edges of town,
where the dandelions fell and the fire swallowers hid.
Our footsteps in the grass creak like breaking bones
until the drill bit stars are sobbing our names.
"You'll live forever," you whisper, breath hot on my cheek,
but my heart beat fast until my chest caved in.
Forever can't exist if we haven't lived at all.
We fall from the ferris wheels sunk into your eyes
and lay amongst the broken bones,
sucking down an atmosphere hung from thin metal wires.
You are silent and I am screaming, and we are two different galaxies
brought together by a love of gasoline and retractable razor blades.
But tonight, you taste of iron and there's blood in my hair
and I'm getting drunk off the feeling of eyelashes on skin
McMasters"I can't even believe this," Mrs. Nesbitt spat as she tossed down the history textbook she'd been given to teach out of in the coming year.McMasters5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What's up with it?" asked Carrie, an English Major who was working in the school to pay off her student loan.
"'What's up with it' is the cover art, for one thing, and I don't even want to take a look at the contents," Mrs. Nesbitt answered disdainfully, pointing at the images of McDonalds through the years, from an old fashioned drive-in all the way up to the newest McHome food processors (because who should expect someone to leave his own home just to get some McDonalds?). It was disgusting.
"Oh, the McDonalds stuff on the covers?" Carrie asked dismissively. She wouldshe wasn't even twenty, and Mrs. Nesbitt was well into her sixties. Carrie had been born during the war, Mrs. Nesbitt remembered how things were before. Her leg still ached and her teeth set on edge whenever she remembered it.
"I've taught this book for years. The cover change
butane promisesi use to be such a scared little boy,butane promises5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
always running from nothing,
and screaming for everything,
and laughing and crying.
but now i am numb, sealed at the soul,
tapered at the seams, i no longer
have a pulse in rhythm or a hair in line,
i run circles around ant piles and lakes and large streams,
i want to feel alive for more than five seconds and it almost feels nice for once, but
it never satisfies what i lost, what was taken from me, what i never had.
for the last time, i am not going to count
or whisper, or scream out loud.
if i am going to die, it may as well be
silence, passion screeching against the upstairs wall,
i repeat my name over and over and over,
and maybe if i etch the letters into my skin,
maybe finding my emotions won't be as
hard as i thought it would be.
the reason i stole black pens was
to trace the lines that crack my hand
and spread the cuticles and break the cells,
creating maps of multi-continent story telling
nothings, maybe i will find a forest filled with
michelangelo's wife named godyou've met karma in the boxing ring,michelangelo's wife named god6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
vincent van gogh is helping me
form my own starry night,
staring the queen of england
soviet dictators all in a line,
gorbachev is just a fun word.
if suicide is an art,
the moths are
lights so beautiful
are killers masked
ballerinas have taught
insects to perform
nothing is not okay anymore,
not that anything ever was,
what ever happened to
two plus three,
and the color blue representing
what ever happened to holding
hands or making
something more than nothing.
is the only math
i do these days.
no more crying now,
this isn't another pity
poem or heart wrenched
fucked over prose piece.
the broken hearted
aren't fucking reading this.
because guess who is.
the people who are broken
beyond repair, so fucked over,
they invented the word fuck,
they etched its definition across
they have a right to,
for inventing the damn thing.
i'm not one for apologiesthe earth is crashing down around me, the sky is sailing away and my tin can dreams are trailing behind it making as much noise as they can, screaming catch us if you can. i need a friend with talking hands, one who will say what they are feeling as their touch demands. my heart is sinking into my stomach like a billion grains of sand, i'm getting sick, time to turn over, my arms are too weak for hand stands.i'm not one for apologies6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i don't think you will worry but i'm insisting that you don't; i have made it my goal to get my fingers pinched in doors and my knees constricted by telephone cords. i plan on wounded trials and heavy empty hours displacing the air in my lungs until i wash up on indebted shores. i need a friend who doesn't see me as another chore, i'm getting sick, it's time to turn over, my immune system's too weak for any more.
believe me when i say i refuse to be a mess, believe that i am not romantic but an aphrodisiac at best. i can feel birth pains for something bigger, contracting within th
tell me when your heart stopswe are laying in cradles of heart stopping emotions, running through our hair on a sunday morning, and after confession and around mytell me when your heart stops6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rose colored rosaries. i want you to know that when you leave, i will be watching from our curtained bed room window and i line up plants under my feet because if i am going to cry the water might as well be
put to good use. tell me when you stop thinking, or stop breathing. tell me
when you hear silence so keen in the air you run back to me and realize,
i am gone. i never existed. tell me
when you loved me.
so that i can forget.
Her Necklace Now It began as a very small thing.Her Necklace Now5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Junior and his dad disagreed on an item made in their silversmithing shop.
That shop was kept away from the family's houses, set up in an old outbuilding because of noise.
Silversmithing was always too noisy for the dozen homes on the family's half-section of wood and meadow land.
The lapidary equipment alone made a terrible sound.
Allie, Junior's wife, used that equipment to smooth rough turquoise and coral into stones ready for silverwork. She used a spinning grinder of damp and charcoal gray stone for her main work. When Allie put a stone against that, it sounded just like the machine it was. She used a smaller spinning buffer to polish stones.
One Saturday, human voices escalated in the little, old shop about who owned a particular design.
Even Allie, using loud lapidary equipment, heard Junior and his father argue. Naturally, curiosity won and she slowed her work, listening through a thin old wall of warped
someone's octobermaybe tomorrowsomeone's october5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i will lace my fingers through
my ribcage, or
lay pennies in the hollow of
my throat, just between
(i carved my skeleton
with my bare hands, so
leave a wishbone at my feet
& let it break)
maybe tomorrow i will
on the sidewalk, all skinned knees and
scraped palms, and become
someone else entirely:
i will unfold my eyes
and linger behind them,
warm as winter
insomnia.o1insomnia.6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my mind runs like
empty trains as i stare
into the dark ceiling, wondering
what it would be like to dream.
there are notions running through my head
that i cannot turn off,
that i cannot ignore.
i get up and write them down,
hoping that these thoughts will finally
quiet down and allow me to sleep.
rain drips, drips, drips
down the windowpanes and causes
havoc on my brain.
they demand attention even as i get up
once more and
wish for the sky to stop crying so much.
i count the jumping sheep and
5-6-7-8 wish for sleep to penetrate
through my shield of endless wake.
i notice that in the night light,
the ceiling creates patterns of shadows that
shift and change before my eyes.
i turn around and gaze at my roommate,
who lies soundly asleep.
your resolve gets you through the end
and i am left here in the dust,
waiting for sleep to come.
i'll refrain from confessionsi've grown fond of beingi'll refrain from confessions5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a three ring circus,
prancing around in
i took no part in
let's trade names,
wring someone else's
neck for once.
i've learned to
and all i am is one
down hill spiral
of a verb.
this is like
cindy lou who,
gives a fuck,
i've taught everyone
how to act like
it was so easy
The Spider That Ate Cleveland Steve and Lucy lived in a suburb of Cleveland and liked it very much.The Spider That Ate Cleveland4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Steve liked sitting on the porch every Saturday evening, drinking beer and looking at his neighbors' houses, identical to his, dreaming about ways to make his house different.
Lucy liked spending weekday afternoons watching soap operas on TV, dreaming about ways to spend her afternoons like the people did on TV.
Steve liked going to work in Cleveland on weekdays, not so much for his job but for the drive, during which he dreamt about other places the freeway could take him.
Lucy liked a little house-cleaning and a lot of going-to-the-mall, where she dreamt about what she could buy with soap opera money.
But both were too content, and never changed a thing.
Occasionally they talked about one TV program that show
FunctionFunction6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
When I was seven, I tried to commit suicide. Everything was dark, except the floor, a long way beneath me. My feet dragged me towards the edge of the building. All that I knew was that it was windy, and getting windier by the second, my neck was quite itchy, and I was about to die.
"Ring a ring a rosies,
A pocket full of posies,
We all fall down!"
I was never really a child. I had a childhood, and I looked like a child, but inside I was more like a machine. I did what I was told to do: I functioned.
"Survival is an instinct built into every animal on this planet: See prey, chase prey, pounce. Dinner. A cheetah would not misuse its speed. A leopard would never let its spots run away. Nature carries onwards. Life carries onwards. Things go the way that they should, and always will do. In the end, everything functions. Now just you remember that, son."
Black hair, brown eyes, thin face and no smile - The only things that anyone from my primary school ca
Dear Memory,Dear Memory,Dear Memory,7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And glitter ballerinas.
Pop star fame
Mom's stolen lipstick
And secret pink diaries.
Blurry days of firsts:
And three-inch heels.
A year of new
And "Losing It".
Old: Grandma's love letters
New: white lace dress
Borrowed: the big tent in the park
And blue: sapphires.
A beautiful baby.
He has Dad's eyes
And he's gorgeous.