White NoiseIt makes you feel alone, doesn't it? But at the same time, you feel like it's a crowd of people all centered around you close, but not enough to touch you.
It isn't quite the same as static on your radio or the ring in your ears. It's like you feel detached from the world if you stand still in it, like you don't really exist. It also seems to have a weird sound, something you can't exactly describe, but everyone knows what you are talking about.
It can be so loud after a while, as if it wants to recreate all the noises you heard before it. You might even wonder if it is trying to replace the world you are apart of, trying to fool you into believing that it is the world.
But the sound it has . It's like the stuff of all the things you couldn't describe, all the things that left you breathless and without words. It has a peculiar form, as it begins to shift without you actually seeing it shift. The only way to tell that it moves is by listening to it carefully.
If you stay in it for
DilemmaThis is nice; I like this feeling. I like to sit here, my back against the wall, next to my friend. The movie plays in front of us in its preprogrammed fashion. Without the sounds of the television the room would be uncomfortably still and quiet.Dilemma4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My friend sighs and I look over to see their eyes closed. I lose a little of my happiness now that they aren't watching the movie with me. I wonder if they became bored or if they were tired and didn't tell me.
Now I sit here and listen to the movie, not entirely focused on the pictures. My friend's breathing seems to be just as loud as the movie. I turn the volume down slowly so I don't wake them up and now I can hear their breathing better.
I watch their chest rise and fall in smoothly, rhythmically, and repeatedly. I watch the right side of their bosom to see if their heart beat moves their chest as well.
Minutes pass and the longer I stare, the more the movie seems to become quieter, their breathing becomes louder and my heart begins to be
love me, hate me."Do you love me?"love me, hate me.4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He stared. Another one of his odd, senseless questions. He had a thing for those. Like that time he woke him up in the middle of the night to ask if he loved people as much as he hated them.
He didn't seem surprised, however. Which didn't intrigue the other, presumably younger male, who responded with his typical smug look.
He had always been the serious, sane type. Very observant and technical; if something didn't make sense to him, he very easily discarded it.
So why hadn't he tried to get rid of him as well? After all, sanity and common sense didn't necessarily check up in his list of attributes.
Maybe because lacking those very things the other demanded made sense in him. As if it were unnatural to imagine the redhead with any ounce of normality.
Hypothetically speaking of course. After all, normality was a human's privilege.
He fidgeted his fingers in his pockets, the movement causing the wall to suddenly turn freezing to the new areas of his back that had
Living with A.D.D.Living with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.)Living with A.D.D.7 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Although I was nineteen before I was actually diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.), I knew that something was preventing me from performing as well as I could on standardized tests and in essays. Yes, those two areas were where I struggled most and still struggle most in my life. I never scored very high on those standardized tests, but did well enough to escape much notice from those in education. I also did not do too well on any sort of essays or long papers, but did well enough there to avoid much notice. I never knew that I had something that was affecting my educational performance.
Only when an English professor in college grew a little concerned did I realize that maybe there was a reason for the way I performed in certain classes. She knew I was a good student, but I always did a little below average in my essay writing. She was the first one t
.He breathed out, watching as the smoke that escaped his lips dispersed in that particularly chilly morning to further join the equally grey sky. He didn't know what was up with New Jersey, but the weather was always terrible..4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He coughed slightly, probably due to the fact he had been smoking more often lately, and not catching enough sleep. He replayed the recent events that took place in his uneventful life while going for his second cigarette of the day.
He had heard Marshall had failed the Academy, for whatever reason. Said blond had a hard time justifying himself, and albeit having laughed it off at the time, he felt saddened now that it had dawned to him just how severe the issue truly was.
He wasn't disappointed; after all, with his historic of education, he had no right to be. But he wasn't happy either.
Now would be a good time to consider leaving Orion's ass alone and move in with him, he thought, then smirking incredulous as he exhaled again, a small cough for emphasis of his
May I Go to the Funeral?May I go to the funeral, Mister?May I Go to the Funeral?7 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Oh, please, can I go?
I just want to see,
The boy I never got to know.
They say he's great;
The best they've ever met.
I wish I could have met him too,
We would've gotten along I bet.
May I go to the funeral, Mister?
Oh, please, can I go?
To see his corpse
Will surely make the tears flow.
Everyone will be dressed in black
To honor this sad day.
But, would that be what he wanted?
What would he say?
May I go to the funeral, Mister?
Oh, please, can I go?
I will never get this chance again,
Because he will be in the ground and remain forever so.
The heart that seemed to be so sweet
Has now failed to survive.
Had there been something else they could have done
He would still be alive.
elbows + kneeselbows + knees7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this is an epiphany,
my epiphany of
of a faster face
of dirty glass glances
& scattered debris.
for my kind
to be the kind
the languished kind
burnt & surrendered
the kind it takes to crush
sand to glass,
oh the heat
& the cold--
the dead sufficed
the kind that burns on contact
and blows crisply away.
i want to know more than this.
of scrapes i've got
from cat clawing
from picking locks
elbows & knees,
elbows & knees,
worn thin from
(oh god, the heat).
of marks i've got
flashlight incandescent of a shutterclick flame
all the stares
all the stairs
that i never get to use.
this is the kind
Sneak OutIt's weird, walking down a quiet, empty street. The only sound is the hum of the discolored street lamp. All the other sounds are drowned out by the grass and muffled by the houses that are dimly illuminated by the street lights.Sneak Out5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
But it's not the empty neighborhood that makes it weird, is it?
It could be this warm air that seems to wave against different parts of your arms and face. Maybe it's that cool wave you feel in your back when you realize it's warm. You don't do it, but you want to feel the grass with your warm hands to see if the grass is cold; contradicting the air around you.
Maybe it's the things you feel when you are somewhere you know is strange to you. That feeling you get in your elbows and ankles when you wake up in someone else's house or that tickling constriction in your chest when are suppressing panic.
As you stand under that humming light, you always look at your shadow, even if it's just once, you have to see it to make sure it's attached to you and secretly hop
Fleeting Thoughts"What?"Fleeting Thoughts4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The image of a moon appears and disappears in an instant only replaced by white strikes against a deep, almost dark, blue sky.
"Can you repeat that?"
A tree twitches in a dark landscape only backlit by amber lights from beyond the scope.
A leaf drifts across cold tarmac tarnished by paint and holes. The sound of a dry, light scraping echoes through the ears.
"Is it cold there?"
A building, grey and drab, stands still against a light blue sky. White streaks of cloud drift quickly past in a stuttered motion.
"You should put on a jacket."
Newspapers flutter in an invisible vortex behind the corner of a building only to be quickly replaced by a manhole cover venting steam in the center of a street occupied by darkness, silence, and caramel light.
"Do you dream good things when you sleep?"
A flower blooms, an empty swing sways in great arcs, a fish in a clear container swims in circles after a squirrel runs up a tree with large cheeks.
"Do you eat food?"
Ants crawl across a
Rain DancerRain DancerRain Dancer8 years ago in Scraps More Like This
So many things to do
But I can't concentrate tonight
Somehow I can't convince myself
That everything will be all right
I don't think I'll be ok
And all my friends seem to know
But the only one here to call on me
Is the rain, rapping on my window
And through the rippling glass
Again, I sit and stare
Down the empty city streets
And sure enough, she's there
In pigtails and pink ribbons
Ignorant of her age
Dancing for her unseen audience
Upon the asphalt stage
Tell me little figurant
How to dance beside my dreams
How to hear laughter though my tears
Teach me nothing's as it seems
And make me believe it,
Beautiful rain dancer
Let me spend some time with you
Tell me why I act this way
And do the things I do
Then teach me how to be like you
Teach me to dance in the rain
Tie ribbons in my hair
And let me be like you again
Free me from my pragmatic chain
A Short, Endless Biography...A Short, Endless Biography of TushiA Short, Endless Biography...6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Tushi was a cat who could have been an ocean.
She could have been other things as well like a blanket that smelled of warmth, a puddle in your green yards, a broken wristwatch, a collage of photographs never taken together, a pair of socks or even, a grey, cloudy afternoon.
But she mustve been destined to be an ocean. Its unquestionable.
Tushi wasnt always a cat. Before becoming a cat, she had been a balloon. Red with yellow-freckles. Hydrogen filled. After the kid had left the string that connected the balloon in a childs hand with the eternal call of the ether, calling Tushi. After the kid had let go of that divine connection, like children always do. After the inflicted independence. Tushi had flown higher.
The breeze playing with her artificial, rubbery skin. Carrying her hither and thither. Over many fields, cities and their adjacent court-houses. And one endless blue sky that encompasses it all with snowfla