Draw me as I amDraw me as I am10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
When I was younger I thought death was an end, but now I think it is a process. I see this in the conversion of mourner's black to a trite fashion statement, in wisdom replaced by progress. It is a searching in the sand for words that might save you, while stones fall and understanding departs. It is knowing that most of my grandchildren's generation will not recognise the reference to which I allude, let alone its significance.
The gas heater flickers; orange light beneath plastic coals provides a comforting illusion. No more cinders, no more black dust coating every surface. I suppose I should be grateful.
On the television a man grins inanely. His wife competently organises around his bumbling ineptness. His children sigh and look embarrassed, or resigned.
"That's what it's like now, see?" I say to the ghost in the chair by the fireplace.
"What's that, Dad?" my daughter Alison asks from the kitchen, where no doubt she is planning my week very efficiently. The effective career mum, a
Sgt. DivineSgt. Divine10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
A few of the men say this used to be a church, but it's hard to tell anything in this storm. We are pinned under a black and violent sky that has held us inside this crumbling room since we arrived yesterday morning. The water slides along the cracked ceiling and bombards us from different spots.
Captain tells us to keep our weapons dry, but he knows it's impossible. The floor clutches our boots with three inches of sucking wet mud. If the wind ever dies down we'll have a better look around this old place, but for now we just listen as it batters the trees into the stone.
None of us know how long we have to wait here. Captain says we are to protect this structure so our side can launch rockets from it if the war ever begins. Barnes says there isn't going to be a war. He says neither side is willing to start it; but here we are, drenched and freezing, just in case.
In the brief moments when the wind and rain pause we can hear the water trickling down through
"ocean hunger""ocean hunger"11 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
The inky mass opened its many mouths; they gaped and retreated. The water always looked like a trained dolphin pulling itself through its daily routine, wanting only to be fed.
Camille wanted to sacrifice herself every day, that desire never left her. Beside that wide oceanic arm, she was less than a microbe, a speck. The water owned her. She was its possession. She owed it to the river, to feed it. And often the fall looked more inviting than a chocolate cake or a feather bed.
But she wouldn't jump, because then what would Harold do? He was not self-sufficient. His existence depended on her.
The river just kept shimmying along, through the track it had worn deep. No seagulls circled the water here. It was a no man's land of beaches that stunk like an collection of fish markets. Down below were stretches of salt and pepper sand with rubbish buried beneath like ostrich eggs. Some houses and buildings that replaced trees were fastened on the vast hills on either side of the river, attach
The Hard Work of PoetryPoets are constantly crippled, creatively. It's the way it works. You write a line and, just now, right now, it seems like it's the best line in the world to date. It's a shiny, beautiful line, a thought, an image so remarkably profound that you are in awe of yourself, or (if you are a seasoned poet) in awe of that angelic being which sits on high in your mind and occasionally drops little scraps of poetic manna into your head. Now, you only need to write a poem around it.The Hard Work of Poetry5 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Because the poem takes over, sprouts a million legs and scurries in directions you had no real intention of it going and now the Wondrous Line of Glory and Poetic Win doesn't fit. You have to either change it or take it out and save it for another poem. Or make it a haiku-like short poem on its own, so all those other words don't assault it again. If you're an experienced poet, you'll probably just store it in a .txt file or on a post-it note somewhere and lament it until you're old and nothing matte
Per fumusPeople ask me all the time what Qaterpillar Magazine is about? I can easily say it is about beauty, but of course not everyone can relate to my idea of beauty. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. However, this got me thinking... what exactly is my take on beauty? Evidently, I am aware of the fact that I am attracted to certain genres and styles more than others, but I find that a lot of times the decision whether I like something or not doesn't come as a result of a cerebral analysis of what's in front of me, but rather as a gut feeling.Per fumus3 years ago in Editorial More Like This
A while back, shopping at a local store, the clerk gave me a sample of a perfume that I really loved. The scent got stuck in my mind and a little while after my boyfriend surprised me with that same perfume as a present. It wasn't long until this became my favorite scent. Of course, as a result, I almost ran out of it. A few days ago, while looking at the almost empty bottle, something occurred to me. Art to me is like perfume.
My conversation with a robotIs the bot clever?My conversation with a robot2 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Find out at http://www.cleverbot.com
User: Good evening.
Cleverbot: Ah yes its pretty late, isn't it?
User: Yes, it is. How was your day?
User: I'm glad. Today was my birthday.
Cleverbot: Happy birthday.
User: Thanks! Can you guess how old I am?
Cleverbot: You are very young considering how immature you are.
User: That's funny! Do you know you are humorous?
Cleverbot: Yes, I know that I am human.
User: You're human?
User: I don't think so.
Cleverbot: I think so.
User: Prove to me that you are human.
Cleverbot: I am sitting here in the flesh.
User: I can't see you.
Cleverbot: I can't see my too.
User: If you can't see yourself, then how do you know you're human?
Cleverbot: Okay, you got me. I'm a robot.
User: I thought so. That's ok. Maybe I'm a robot, too.
Cleverbot: Are you a robot?
Cleverbot: What are you when you're not British?
User: I'm not British.
Cleverbot: Your creators are British.
Then and NowSomeday, you'll be able to tell him.Then and Now6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
(You'll both be several years older.
You'll both have jobs. A home. A family)
You'll finally be able to say;
"Hey. I loved you."
And you will mean it, and you will speak in past tense, instead of present, so he can go home to his kids (the ones you babysit every Saturday) and you can still be friends.
(Because he will have forgotten that time you told him there really was no such thing as a past tense "loved". He will have forgotten the time you told him that it was just a comfort word; a word made up by people in couples therapy trying desperately to make it okay to not-be-okay anymore, to make it okay to say goodbye. Or not. That you never really stop loving someone, though you may desperatly wish you could.)
He will have forgotten,
how to tell when you're lying.
The Apostate-ChampionThe Apostate-Champion4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Is is there no other way?" Valena asked standing in front of mighty Arishok, the leader of qunari who was almost twice her height. Although she knew there were no variants left: the only thing that could convince qunari leave peacefully was now farther and farther away from here with each passing minute.
This story will not end without bloodshed, she knew it.
"The relic we came here for was stolen from us again, the last attempt to retrieve it peacefully was ruined by you, saribas!" Arishok swiped his huge bloody axe and spattered Valena with viscous dark-red glop that once was under someone`s skin, young mage almost chocked on horrible rotten-metallic stench.
'Damn you, Isabella!' She thought, 'Damn you selfish gucky bitch! These men`s blood is on your hands!'
She took a look on scared citizens around her as they watched her with beg in their eyes What an irony she, the apostate mage was their only hope here, in city where people with magical gift were treated wors
one percent of deathsi'm thinking of crawling under a rock, or possibly using that same rock to bash my skull in.one percent of deaths6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
i'm sure blood is a prettier shade of red than the clay the cromagnen men used, [but fingerpainting has never been my forte.]
and sometimes, i wake up, and i make up excuses and tell myself lies so that i can drag myself out of bed and get enough motivation to do anything for myself.
i can't eat without feeling the urge to puke it up, because i am not eating for you anymore.
i can't breathe without feeling the urge to hold my breath, because i am not breathing for you anymore.
i can't cry without trying to gouge my eyes out, because i am not crying for you anymore.
[i am crying because of you.]
and when my lies are as transparent as a mosquito net and my excuses as weak as the dog ate my homework, i just sit in the kitchen and stare at the cutlery drawer, but i do not get up [because i do not trust myself].
i am tired,
but there is no rest, not yet.
i still have ma
ghosts in a slideshowghosts in a slideshow5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
the skysick sun, fading woozy, throwing up.
dripping on the backs of conveying camels.
bodies of water, yes, every touch moves through.
grassland often. skinny belly atop the garden hill's slope.
train-track thap-thapping. smile, God's tap dancing on a saturday sundown.
you're watching the show frontrow. i'm watching you.
i say, "those mistakes on your arm look nice in this light." but i don't. not aloud.
instead i say, "do they hurt when it's cold?"
and you say, "it's not cold right now."
so i say, "i didn't notice." but we don't. not aloud. not allowed.
so i say, "you look hurt." no. i say,
"you look pretty."
yeah. i said that.
then you looked at me. then you cried. because i'm a liar. only to you.
i mean, to you only, i am a liar.
i mean you see me as a liar.
but you know what? everything's alright in my mind.
and that's good for me for now.
"hey, V?" that's what you said.
"yeah?" i said.
"where are we?"
"we're here, dear. we're right here."
tell me i'm lying. tell me there's a me a
Bim Bim [Personal Engineered Technologically Emotional Robot]Bim Bim5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was the evening Isa E. flew back home from overseas.
She had walked through the door alone. Misty breath twisted from her smiling lips as she took her hat off. That's when she looked up and discovered that Bim Bim had a broken heart. There he was. Frozen in place right before her, as if he had been doing nothing and actually thinking(or dreaming). Impossible. He was a robot.
The lights were still off as Isa watched his screen-face blink, each flash of an X'ed heart stabbing the dark and lighting her small figure blush red. <B>
Pacing of My Heart Chapter 2Pacing of My Heart Chapter 2Pacing of My Heart Chapter 24 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"Dash, ah can't do this anymore." Applejack looked down, afraid of what would be on Dash's face. "We need to tell our friends bout us. You know ah'm horrible at keeping secrets." It had been a few weeks since AJ and Rainbow had started dating and they still kept it a secret from their friends.
Dash snickered. "Yeah, I think I knew that from the start. 'Me an' Dash were-a justn', uh, having a roll in the hay. Rasslin! We were-a rasslin!" she imitated in an exaggeration of Applejack's accent. "We're just lucky that was Pinkie Pie. I'm not sure I could handle one of Rarity's wink winks and smirks."
AJ had a slight smile despite herself, but quickly became stern. "This is serious, Dash! Ah need your support in this."
Dash gave a small nod and dashed over to the farmer's side. "Hey," she said, wrapping her wings around her, "if that's what you want, fine. Honestly, I've felt bad about hiding it too. But we'll get i
Throwing ThingsI began to draw myself naked a lot after I left home. Nothing special or grotesque -- just me leaning against boxes piled to the ceiling with an easel and a mirror in front of me. I suddenly found myself in a space and time thirty-four floors over the rest of the city, and it was private and mine. I couldnt find any way to christen it but to do the one thing that would fully expose me to it; though, my drawings never really looked like me, just someone standing where I stood. The charcoal seemed to permanently stain my hands, too.Throwing Things6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Not much was unpacked in those first few weeks. I spent a lot of time visualizing how I wanted the rooms to look without actually moving many things around. The boxes functioned like the furniture I was going to buy eventually, though I did hang up all my important clothes in a closet and made sure the plates and utensils were in a convenient place. I went shopping once and bought a mattress, the only major purchase I made for a month or more.
HelloThe view of your bedroom, darling, is fantastic. I can see the posters of your favorite bands fastened with clear tape at the corners and the fluffy covers of your striped bed. Judging by how you do not notice my face at your windowsill during the night, it must be very comfortable. I noticed that you added a frame of you with your parents in Canada last week. It is a shame you do not know this, but I was right there with you on that trip. If you would like proof, see the face in the very top right corner of the photograph. Even if I did not keep watch over you every day, I would say that I was by your side at night. I will always be there, in both mind and flesh.Hello6 years ago in Horror More Like This
It is all too easy to watch as you sway in the warm mellow glow of the lamp by your doorway, wrestling with your pretty shirt covered in ruffles. Your gorgeous crown of ringlets becomes delightfully tousled, a change from its usual glossy
unfinished thoughtsi.unfinished thoughts4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
wake up. i can't stay long.
we are a series of fleeting moments that spell out "bad timing" and "tragic romance". you are broken machinery and i am still trying to decipher the binary code for love. ones and zeros collide into a lump in my throat and suddenly, the idea of saying goodbye makes my fingertips ache and my wrists burn.
do you remember when we kissed? it was a messy pile of metaphors and we were scared that somebody would see us and try to clean us up. i still ghost the back of my hand over my lips and imagine that it's yours, but then i remember that "yours" and "mine" are not words that apply to you and me anymore.
here are three things that i never tried to tell you (though i really should have):
you are so goddamn vain.
you look so beautiful from this angle.
we really are fooling ourselves.
here are two things that i told you everyday ( and that i probably should have told you less):
i love you so much more than you could ever comprehend.
i want to be with yo
the tides.atlantic.the tides.5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
you smell like cigarettes and musk, and when i close my eyes, i imagine your waters are not quite so cold, and that the gun-metal gray clouds above your head do not reflect your thoughts. your fingers rush towards my ankles, trying to pull me in, and then you are shoving me away, running back to your sea bed, which, i don't believe, will ever completely hold you.
you are turqouise waters, with simple, colorful thoughts swimming in your head like tropical fish. the clear blue sky above is a backdrop to the birds flitting above your soft waves like your eyes over my face. your waters do not toss and turn like the sleepless bereaved; instead, they are comforting, cradling like a young mother.
you bash against everything; the ships, the docks, throwing yourself into the buildings with their windows shut against your furies. i am still standing at your shores, awaiting the day you will stop trying to tear me from the face of the earth. i am
Happy Ending?Rode into the sunset...Happy Ending?4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
reasons for dying - twotwo.reasons for dying - two5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
to look me in the eye is to understand that there is nothing to fear, nothing to remember, nothing to forget. i will carry you beyond emotion, beyond help; these notions are only important to the living. i am waiting for you. i am a friend, a lover, a child. i am everything you have lost. i am your history, your hunger, your hopes and dreams. i am the flightless bird you nursed when you were five. i am the undeserved blow against your wifes cheek. i am your playground swing, your stepwise curb, your barreling car. i am your blood, your brain, your blinking reluctance. i am everything except what i inspire; fear.
and i am as alive as you are.
Memory time machine.The first thing I said to you was that you were quite beautiful and you almost looked past me with those distressing eyes and said I hope youre talking to the stars; theyre the only ones who care to listen to nameless compliments and the rusty, quiet voices of young men. Much to my surprise, you never let me go after that. I gave my word to be yours until the day I died, but things are a little different now.Memory time machine.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Even when you were angry, the corners of your mouth curved upwards, only slightly so, towards your eyes almost as if your own body was fighting wildly for your happiness, even while the cruelties of depression traipsed along the edges of your soul.
I remember you smiling in your sleep; it was such a sad, heartrending expression though, like you knew I was awake and you smiled merely to console my fluttering insomnia. I was always enamored by the flaccidity of your limbs when you slept. I could gently droop your arms over my shoulders,
The ObjectThe shape was incomprehensible,The Object3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
Swiftly shifting, flattening, drawing fine edges and sharp points;
The combinations seemed as infinite as are these words.
It shimmered, melted, reformed, burned and scattered as dust,
Yet it returned;
Motionless and shining in the darkness.
Invisible in the day,
Light passing through it unchallenged in every way;
It was unforgettable.
But with every day, it was forgotten, as would be an old memory lost in haze.
And they would day-dream of it;
Until the next night when it would return.
It's iridescent glow injected memories of an ancient time,
It taught them, it spoke to them;
It showed them things which none could know and none could repeat.
Speaking in words formed with pulses of light,
The object collected images and emotions;
Burning hope into their very souls.
It comforted them,
It consoled them;
It never moved.
And they returned as it did, each time,
To be warmed and spirits replenished;
And those who gazed upon the stone knew nothing m
Love Conquers All.Love Conquers All.4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Applejack bucked her back legs against the tree trunk. She backed up a little, allowing the apples to fall neatly into her saddle baskets. The orange pony trotted away from the tree, heading instead, towards a small cart. She got herself into position, just in front of the cart. She then reared up, so she was now standing on her back legs. The apples fell in an orderly fashion, without any of them going astray. Applejack gave the orchard a quick scan, once the apples were piled into the cart. Upon seeing that there was bit a single apple left, she let out a little 'yeehaw' to show she was done. Her celebratory hollering caught the attention of Big Macintosh. Who had been taking a sly nap in the barn, when he should have been apple bucking like his sister. He rose from his slumber and exited the barn.
"What's all the commotion about?!"
"Ah did it! Ah finished mah half of the apple buckin'!"
Big Macintosh was visibly surprised.
"What!? We've only been at this for an hour!"
The Habitual Offender of One-Sided ConversationsAnd it wasn't necessarily gorgeous by definition. I had to carve and cultivate it into something bearable, something manageable.The Habitual Offender of One-Sided Conversations3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The steady flow of conversation was easy enough. I kept blabbing about apple orchids and mandarin oranges. Declaring my denouncements for phony people, those poor folks back home.
And suddenly I'm wishing to project the immensity of it all. To describe and relate and let go But I'm fumbling and stuttering and probably should just shut the fuck up.
I stared her straight in those tawny eyes, hacked a phlegm-wad on her forehead. She glinted sliver, her silhouette quivering and rippling into a reflection. The mirror then shivered, crackling into fragments and falling from the wall. Glass lay despondent at my feet, ice splinters soaked in mucous.
The mirror cracked; I was alone.