A Dust of SnowSnow was the great purification. All of the dark places of the land dotted with coated trees were blanketed by mother snows cold hand. The earth was softer in winter, in white. It was sleeping soundly beneath the coverlets where only wolves, rabbits and deer went tuttering by leaving their trails and magic.A Dust of Snow3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The girl’s cheeks had long turned chill-burnt red, polished and bright as two crisp autumn apples. They burned in the pale of her skin in the moonlight. In some other time, her lips as red as hearts and her hair as dark as raven’s wings might have stirred a poem. But the eerie mingling of fear and desire glass coating her brown eyes made her seem a mad, mad straw creature than a beauty.
The snow was deep and it bit to the knee, sometimes keeping her stuck in place. Frostbite tingled, a small sting at first and now a sharp bite in her feet; fingers. Her mittens had been swiped by a lashing pine, a boot kept by unforgiving drift. Her dress cold and wet.
NaNoWriMo Text Prompts 81.) He always grew misty eyed when he heard the bagpipes, it reminded him of her, of the stories she would tell of her home and the endless green hills. It didn't hit him until he put his hand down on her head stone, his wrinkled and age spotted hands pale against granite--that he was hearing them in a graveyard. Sharply, he jerked his head upward to the rolling fog creeping in.NaNoWriMo Text Prompts 84 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2.) You know...when you were Queen of the Dead it was really damn hard to get a prom date.
3.) They all gaped at the knight as he emerged from the gigantic cave unscathed, unmarked and un-burnt with his encounter of the dragon. Behind him, tongue rolling out happily and each step causing the ground to tremor came the dragon: faithful as a dog. Jaws gaping and eyes wide, they crowded around him and begged him the secret of how he tamed it. He laughed and smiled charmingly, telling them even a Knight needed his secrets.
Later that night as he lay on his pillow, his wife's arms around him and nearly drifting aslee
The DancerThe Dancer2 years ago in Art Features More Like This
The Dancer by BloodshotInk
The night I met Jessie she was beautiful. She swayed to the almost intolerably loud music as if her bones were made of it. She was something unknown. I remember the sharp cut of her hair had run across her cheek, parallel to her carved-out cheekbone. It looked like a wig, I wanted to touch it. I wanted to touch her, and see if she felt like plastic. Who could ever believe that someone so perfect could be so real. I regret that. I regret doubting her reality.
Eventually she bought me a drink; she called it an Appleté but trapped in the pulsating fuchsia lights of the club it looked purple. It tasted like jealousy; s
Squeak of a ghostThere is a rocking chair.Squeak of a ghost3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a girl in her mother's lap.
The chair sways under a lamp because lamps are the golden halo-gate to sacred things:
soft ringlets of hair, blue eyes.
A daughter day dreams--waves on a beach, being carried, the motion of back and forth.
She lets her eyes close.
When she opens them the lamp and its light are gone.
She stands cold by the chair that is empty but rocking.
Back and forth it squeaks like a child,
comforting only ghosts.
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.on clarity, seeing yourself as you are2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and we're all artists.
we paint ourselves
onto someone else like
it isn't painful for them,
like it isn't killing them
in the process. we give them
ownership of our failures,
we lay our flaws under their
tongues so when they speak,
more often than not, we hear
some distorted version of
ourselves. we expect them
to love the way we love. we expect
them to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we're
all fucking artists, right?
and we're all individuals, of course.
we're all on our brave, one-man
trip to enlightenment,
we're proud of the way
our word has been shaved
down to feelings, and moments,
mood swings, and oxy
off the bathroom sink.
well i can't be the only fucking
one who's tired of being an artist.
i can't be the only one tired
of seeing my skin stretched out over
everyone i know. i am tired of watching
my reflection shimmer and fade in their
smiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becoming
silver in one moment only to tarnish in the
next. i am tired of asking