JarsMy childhood home, a gray, old farm house, sat nestled near the small town of McKean Pennsylvania. My father moved us there from Pittsburgh in 1954 when I was no taller than a limp potato sack. I was their only child at the time. He said the city was no place to raise a family. We needed room to run and explore and my mother needed a quiet place to work on her writing. However, in three years of living there she gave birth to four of my brothers. So much for peace and quiet. There must have been something in the water.Jars4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Folks in town liked to whisper about that house like it was some kind of architectural Jezebel. By the time I could spell my own name I had heard dozens of rumors and stories surrounding our home. There were certainly enough to keep my young mind racing through many sleepless nights. Some of the more elaborate stories suggest a mass murder of the previous occupants by their deranged
ghosts in a slideshowghosts in a slideshow6 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
I Found Your Lips In The DarkI Found Your Lips In The Dark12 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"Good things come to those that wait."
A night full of smiles.
I can't look at you without getting weak in the knees.
Grasping onto my hand.
Running your fingers slowly across my palm.
Deep conversations about nothing.
Making me giggle.
Being so completely comfortable after a few drinks.
Poking your belly.
My leg touching yours as we sat next to each other on the couch.
We're at the peak of our innocence and something's bound to happen.
I tell you I have no talent.
You share a story.
I share my praise.
Sharing a drink.
Lingering over the thought that your lips touched my straw.
Would those lips meet mine anytime soon?
The songs played on.
I wanted nothing more than to imitate a feline.
Pounce on my prey.
Devour it whole.
You gave me:
A kiss on the hand.
A kiss on the forehead.
A kiss on the cheek.
Nothing would suffice.
Staring into your eyes and seeing the way you look at me.
Like I'm something amazing.
"Kiss me you fool" would have been innap
The Gentle WolfSera's searched the cooridors of the mansion, trying to find any information on Raven. The archives just repeated what she already knew. No, she had to confront him and meet him in person. Grabbing her coat and tieing her hair behind her head in the pony tail that was forced on her to wear for formal events, she put her hand on the door knob when Cynthia's hand touched her shoulder.The Gentle Wolf6 years ago in Teen More Like This
"Were are you going Sera's?" she asked.
"Did i disturb your slumber, sorry Ma'am, i was uhm going to feed." Sera's quickily thought up at the last second. Cynthia bought into the lie and smiled.
"So young and innocent. It is truely a crime to make someone as young as yourself a true vampire." Cynthia said walking up the stairwell and disappearing around a corner. Letting out a sigh of pressure release, Sera's closed the door and walked out into the cold night, in search of Raven.
The empty buildings was the first place she searched but to no aveil, Raven did not seem to be anywhere she looked. The back alle
this is not my cardiganGod, he is smiling at the waitress with big eyes as she brings him his dinner. i can see the gnarls of his hands from a dozen feet away, his chair pulled close to the wooden table. i watch him reveal his little teeth, presumably polydented dentures. he is wearing a yellow sweater, a cardigan with elbow patches.this is not my cardigan6 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
the chair across from him is empty and in the same grain pattern as the table with his towering pile of supper. my brother asks if i know why he is alone and i tell him to keep silent. his wife died, he told me, with a smile. the old man turns his eyes to his meal and slowly begins to eat.
God, please forgive me for not sitting with him; forgive me for not telling him i am so sorry and i love him; please forgive me for not crying into his sweater or being enough
epiphany # 244: we will find this man again someday, and show him love still exists at the bottom of our hearts and a teacup.
David FirthThere was a little boy named Sheila. He didn't like the name very much, but it was what his parents gave him in pretty Hanukkah wrapping paper for his third birthday (in June), and he lost the receipt a while ago.David Firth5 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sheila lived a few houses down from me, and you would often find us shooting at whatever living things we could find at the park till the sun got bored and fell down behind the ground-pimples.
One day, Sheila got very sick. He went to the hospital, and I visited as soon as I could and came into his room. There was a very old man in a dusty coat stroking Sheila's forehead, but Sheila didn't know him so he asked the man to leave. The man revealed that his name was Death, and he told Sheila it was time to go. Sheila couldn't prove the man wrong, so he got up and left with him.
To this day, I haven't seen Sheila again.
But I have tea with Sheila's tortoise, sometimes. Her name is Thomas. It seems the apple fell closer to the tree than Sheila would have liked to know. Hehe. He.
your warmthyou stood in the doorway, damp orange light falling across your skin, black hoodie falling from your shoulders gently, hair a mess - and you were all but perfect. you stood, leaning against the door frame a little too drunk, and smiled at me. it was that kind of smile that i knew meant more than it should have, the one i have seen too many times since - the kind of smile that meant something. i'd like to tell myself it meant the world - that when, for the first time in a year, our eyes met and you told me something that wasn't a lie - the stars had aligned or the universe corrected itself - but i know that's not true.your warmth4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we kissed that night, the alley way beside your house. you ran your hand along my legs, along my ripped tights, and i could feel your heartbeat under the sleeve of the shirt i had always loved. you stared at me, face relaxed, and told me that you had wanted that for a year.
sometimes, i think i have too.
my heart didn't explode though, and my knees didn't shudder undernea
Prince!England X Reader: The Royal BloodlinePrince!England X Reader: The Royal Bloodline4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Arthur escaped from the castle again for the who knows my many times with his horse. According to him, life inside the castle sucks as hell, everything gets on your way, not letting you do whatever you please. No matter what you do, you were always get dictated.
He got out from the castle by disguising as a carriage man, thankfully it worked unbelievably, the security inside was so tight. Arthur went out to town to see what his people doing.
'Lively as always...' he thought to himself as he tied his white horse at the fences.
He always loved this town, the smell of the foods and the kind and cheerful people. He walked and walked until he got satisfied, and then, he saw a terribly familiar looking girl with a (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes. He approached to her and talked to her without a second thought.
"Hey there, can I ask what's your name, miss?" he said with a calm voice. He didn't care what she'll think of him.
"_-_____..." you replied shyly, surprised at the unusual question.
wish upon a starthe air is always cold this time of year, you once told me as we lay in bed, warm, watching the last few seconds of christmas eve fall away. you whispered merry christmas in my ear, ran your hand along the the valley of my waist and told me that you had the best christmas present ever. i didn't need to ask what it was, because i already knew.wish upon a star4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
'this time of year, miracles come true,' i could tell you were murmuring through a smile into my shoulder 'if you just close your eyes and wish upon a star hard enough.'
giggling, i closed my eyes and wished that i would wake up next to you. when you asked me what i wished for, i turned to face you, and through a succession of small kisses i whispered that i couldn't tell you, or it wouldn't come true.
god, we always thought we were so young.
you know, i have closed my eyes every year since then, and wished for the same thing. this year though, i lay in my double bed alone, sheets littered with cigarette burns and little pieces of wrapping paper.
the greatest show on earthlast night, I glimpsed a great white egg,the greatest show on earth7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
in the dark behind my eyelids. it was being
broken open by a dull, green beer bottle. out
poked the snout of a drunk, under-age Tyrannosaurus
Rex. he spoke in a spray of tiny bubbles.
"I've decided that 'The Kensington Landlord' is
a hilarious title for a fake, black & white, British,
horror film. at first, I didn't know if it was hilarious
or if it was only funny to me. then, I realized they meant
exactly the same thing."
"back in the 1940s, Webby was a tough, bright yellow,
baby duckling who wore a faded brown cabbie hat. he
took no nonsense. he ruffled a lot of feathers
...things are different now."
"it is unusual for a panda and a lion to go out on
a blind date. however, it is more unusual for them
to hit it off over a few drinks - only to discover
they share a close family relation, make identical
flimsy excuses for sudden departure, and leave
the bar, awkward & ashamed."
"in a fight between a giant squid & an angry cow,
location is everyt
Izaya meets a fangirlIzaya meets a fangirl4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
A fangirl asked a Izaya if he thought she was pretty and
he said no.
She asked him if he would want to be with her forever and
he said no. She then asked him if she were to leave would he cry, and once
again he replied with a no.
She had heard enough. As she walked away, tears streaming down her face Izaya grabbed her arm and said....
"You're not pretty, you're ugly as $h1t. I don't want to be with you forever, I don't want you to exist. And I wouldn't cry if you walked away...I'd laugh my @$$ off."
♥♥ ~~THE END~~ ♥♥
introductionAlex has come to terms with the fact that his father is going to die soon. It hurts, but what can he do? Things like this happen. Alex believes that it won't be a natural death. He honestly believes his father will kill himself sooner or later. He can see it in his eyes, in the muffled sobs he hears when he calls.introduction6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Sometimes Alex wishes he could ask his dad why he left. He was always told it was so he could get over his drinking problem, but as far as Alex can see, it's just made it worse. His father told him once that it was because he couldn't handle the cold of Melbourne winter, but he had done it for the past thirty seven years, why was it so much of a problem now? Sometimes he sits in his room and goes over all of the excuses he's heard. He wonders how his mother believes he cant swallow that bullshit.
His father doesn't usually call often; it depends on how he's feeling. The more often he calls, the more reassurance he needs that he still exists and that the world isn't
Done Because it was a dream, it didn't seem quite real. The dreamer slept lightly under an equally light quilt.Done4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When the dream was over, the dreamer woke *snap* wide awake, and sat up to think about that dream.
There wasn't much to it.
There was a hand holding a white rose.
There was another hand reaching for the rose.
There was a voice like a narrator.
The voice said this...
Consider this flower. No, not the half-bloom of the rose, though it is a single flower and is to be noted. No, consider the leaf on the stem of the flower. It is also single, just one deep green leaf. There is only one leaf. Why is that? Leaves are usually surrounded by others. It is the single leaf you must see, not the single rose.
The dreamer, awake
incendiaryit was the city -- you know, a self-contained organism, a microcosm of reality in which we all take part. it's like a play, with our very orchestrated roles rehearsed perfectly until we can pull them off as smooth as ice.incendiary4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
it doesn't matter which city, because really, they're all the same -- paris, milan, barcelona...lawrence, pittsburgh, atlanta.
what matters is only that we were in the city. i was myself, playing the role of a love-struck jeweler, praying i could find just the right gem to put on my lover's finger someday, and she was herself, playing the role of sara.
sara, my love; sara, my heart; sara, the snow beneath my feet, the ice begging for me to slip
but still, we were here. glimpses of this city swallow my hunger -- i might never eat again if this were my home, the way it filled me up. but the moment i broke eye contact with this entity, this city with its glittering skyline, i felt the hollows in me ache again.
it felt rig
the fall of winterthere is a full moon, haunted, hanging just above the clouds. kind of the like the pictures we used to draw when we were young; back when we all thought we were artists. at this time of night, i can't help but wonder if its the same face of the moon that watched you left.the fall of winter3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
but fuck, we're not artists any more are we?
and this full moon - it hangs over us.
it watches with wise eyes the fragility of your heart in my cupped hands, and it waits. and with weak shoulders, i watch too. time and time again in the dead of the night i watch the crashing of the white-tipped ocean over our naked bodies, clasped tightly together, and every night i wait.
but i know we do not resurface.
and, oh the moon. it waits, waits, waits.
while deep on the ocean's floor, light filtering through the near-black water down onto our faces, i watch you and you watch me. and we know that we failed.
but my dreams are not meaningful things to you, because my words have never moved you like music; never awed you like p
Top 10: World War IITop 10 Indicators That World War II Isn't Going So WellTop 10: World War II7 years ago in Humor More Like This
10. Instead of "Heil, Hitler!" minions now greet you with "Hi, Shitler!"
9. Eva keeps talking about that handome and distinguished Churchill fellow.
8. All correspondence from Wernher Von Braun now has a return address of "White Sands, New Mexico, USA".
7. Door-to-door salesmen at bunker entrance dressed suspiciously like US Marines.
6. Disneyland, Paris.
5. Taunting emails from MacArthur hurt more than before.
4. Staff looks uncomfortable when you ask what they'll be doing over the holidays.
3. All these time-travellers from 2069 asking you to sign their copies of "The Last Days of Hitler".
2. American armor batallions rudely ignore Berlin in-city speed limits.
1. Your discovery that cyanide tastes a little like blueberries.
Don't Be Nervous ::Frerard::Don't Be Nervous ::Frerard::8 years ago in Teen More Like This
Hair danced into the wind, wishing desperately to be free but unable to free itself from its bondage. Blinding emerald eyes rose, merely gems cut into the cool porcelain face. He was like a doll, a tiny, frail doll: black hair framing his face, the deathly white skin, the overall perfection of his layout. It made his knees go weak with desire, just thinking about him. And he hated it.
Frank, the doll whispered, a hand trailing forward into the air. Please dont be angry with me.
A shudder wracked his body as he held tightly onto his sweat jacket. Im not angry with you, he murmured softly, looking down at his shoes. They were the canvas style, in which he had painted all over them; designs were laced onto them, things he had thought of off the top of his head. Lyrics from songs he enjoyed or he had made up, but they were there, beauty and all.
The crystal-like eyes sparkled with tears that were too frightened to be released from their
a spiritual agnosticismthe search for truth in the universe,a spiritual agnosticism4 years ago in Editorial More Like This
is not a denial, but an affirmation -
that there is a mysterious 'godliness'
in the way the cosmos proceeds in
its endless evolution:
- 'bending toward justice'.
- spiritual, not religious, pervading
every atom, therefore pervading us.
- common to everything.
- connecting everyone.
- a patient faint consciousness,
in touch with all sentient awareness.
- no 'one' answer; each of us connects
in our own way... or fails to.
not having a need to believe in 'a' God,
leaves one open to have common faith
with everyone, to think of all others
as brothers and sisters.
we are all 'of' the universe.
if, there comes a time when one feels
a connection to a special religion
or concept of a God, then one may,
without dogmatically condemning others,
'decide' to accept that as one's own form
it must be done voluntarily... and
with true humility, in that one keeps
in mind that faith is a personal choice,
that there is absolutely no honest way
one can 'kno
please let me get what i want.For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone.please let me get what i want.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you.
It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you're standing face to face and in one swift breath, you remember it all.
You remember everything.
The sky is always biggest right before it rains. That's how I learned to always couple disappointment with expectations since no matter how beautiful something seems, a disaster is always right on the horizon.
The waves are crashing quickly on the shoreli
VisionsThere's a saying among my people. It was something about how you have nothing to fear from a pond full of leeches, how it's not the pond's fault. I used to remember it a lot more clearly, but that was before the loss of cohesion.Visions4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The elders say I was sent as a warning of things to come. The medicine man never said much of anything. He waved his bones and feathers and trinkets around, he lit his grasses and fanned his smokes, and after singing his songs he just stared at me with a deep pity shining out from under his skeleton make up.
I am subject to visions. They are sudden and striking and painful to the point of debilitation. When they come, my senses stagger and die off. There is always a great sound like a huge zipper being pulled, and as it unzips, all other noises fade into nothingness. Gray static envelopes the edges of my visual field and creeps slowly and deliberately in, turning my surroundings to an indistinct slate.
I discovered this gift when I was fourteen. A robber had b
Nano Day 011.Nano Day 015 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
His birth was one of the first things that Anwen remembered. The beginning of her life in memory began with the beginning of his. Idwal was her anchor.
Truth be told, she did not remember his actual birth. She had no real memory of him slipping into the world, inevitable and streaked with blood. She recalled the long, slow months of her mother's pregnancy. She remembered the growing, physical thing that held her separate from her mother, that pushed her away, an anthill growing day by day beneath her mother's clothes. As ominous as an anthill. As unwanted.
She remembered the careful explanations, the clearing out of the small room at the back of the house, the re-construction of the cot and the re-painting of each cylindrical dowel that made up the bars in white, gloss paint. She remembered thinking, what kind of creature has to be kept in a wooden cage?
And then that day That day when her mother became preoccupied, and poured out tea onto the breakfast cereal. A