The red ballet boots part 3The red ballet boots part 3 2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The red ballet boots part 3
Clara, among the crew, listened to the red ballet boots’ story as she watched astonished how Nancy danced with the red boots on. Ernest continued to make Nancy dance as the boots glowed in an intense red color.
From behind Ernest, some one approached him. He made Ernest turned around by grabbing his shoulder and punched him in the face. Aside of this person was Diana.
“Leave alone Nancy, stranger!” Bill demanded Ernest.
Ernest rose again and shook his head. Bill tried to hit Ernest again, but this time Ernest rose his had at him. Without touching him, Bill fell back as he was in trance. Quickly, Diana approached Bill to help him.
“Bloody Yanks! Never appreciate what people do for you!” Ernest stated as he watched Bill.
Ernest continued to make Nancy dance. Nancy felt like she was inside a horrible nightmare. Without knowing what exactly was going on, more students continued to arrive.
“Well now that you are trapped like th
Sincerely your stranger.Sometimes,Sincerely your stranger.6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I see flowers growing on your skin,
Messing time and time again with ways that we wanted to be,
Shaking rows we measured with
Taking their time informing us of
Tragedies in their coming.
This is a novel written,
Spoken weakly to a growing
What deserved of you has deserved of everyone,
None the better words to say at lockpicks,
Taking glasses from your shelf,
Making you who
I wanted you to be.
Our roads meeting,
A set of parallel lines,
Telling us to
Go in the opposite direction.
This is why I take your fingers,
Drag them across a chalkboard,
Call it a masterpiece,
Gather a following to follow a gathering,
Break down your doors,
Sit myself down,
And declare a last time that
This is for you.
Therapy: Forcing a CosplayTherapy: Forcing a Cosplay5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Place: Dr. Thomas Tredish General Hospital, Emerald States, NY, USA.
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Username: Erica Nova.
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Therapy with Surraco, Richard E.
Transcribing Voice Files...
Dr. Nova: *to the mic* 1... 2... 3... Testing... Date: September 25, 2009, Subject: Surraco Pereira, Richard Edgard, a.k.a. "Zetastrophenow", a.k.a. "Irrespondible", a.k.a. "irrespondible2", a.k.a. "el demente surraco", a.k.a. "The Thousand Nicknames Man". The subject forced three girls in
The gold queen part 1The gold queen part 13 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
THE GOLD QUEEN
At one of London's museums, an employee rushes through the basement. It's past 10 p.m. and the place is been closed by the guards. The clack of her high heels echoes as she hurries. The young woman embraces a large cardboard envelope against her chest as she watches no one follows her.
She reaches a room at the other side of the vast underground storage room. She locks the door of the small, abandon room and moves an old wood cabinet at the back and enters a hole in the wall that connects to a dark passage. The passage leads to an ancient old room lighted by candles and filled with a collection of old objects, but not valuable as she would like. The room looks like it was a medieval catacomb, never the less, it has a 1920's desk with a large shelf full of books aside of it.
The woman sits down and opens her envelope. She places over the desk some old documents, a book, notes, and a diary. As she works, the dairy falls down the floor. It opens in the last page and
FaithFaith3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the faith of a child
complete trust in purest form
has no boundaries
The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquisitively.
"It's one of her emotions. This doesn't attack the same way that normal diseases do, there are all sorts of different symptoms. Right now, she is sad and the only way that I know how to explain it is that she is feeling down."
"What do you mean by down?"
"Her emotions can best be described as ones that are upwhen she is feeling good, and
MotherAs you sweat over petunias,Mother6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I watch shadows
pour from chlorophyll branches.
when delphiniums bloom,
on your roses.
You tramp with shovels, rakes,
And garden hoes,
dancing in lime green galoshes,
to the passing tempo of July.
All while my minutes bunch
at the windowsill,
a half-done row of knitting
cast aside. I recollect my thread and leave
to forage for dinner in the kitchen.
ThingsThings3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who is to blame
who is responsible
for this crashing
growing ever stronger
My mind is falling
from its place in my skull
sinking in a resigned
Behind the skies
there is a building light
sensitive to the touch
stinging in my eyes
Coming undone, I have
found a place inside
an eye composed
of calm and only
the slightest touch
You are here
and there is no where left
to run from
the force of you
I need this place
to remain a quiet force
seperate from the thing
the thing that pulls me under
under this cover of clouds and smoke
under the sheets where our bodies lie waiting
Why must you keep me here, in waiting?
Alone, I have
created a life that you
you can neither touch nor feel
you search it out and find it
crush it beneath your hands
strong and yet
smooth and melting to touch
my lips come open
at your command
how to become a writerhave parents that separatehow to become a writer2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you’re in high school;
a father filled with unused anger
and a mother too busy to care.
pretend it doesn’t hurt.
let your friends treat you
everything is your fault.
listen to their problems with a fake smile
all the while crying out because
everything hurts and no one can see.
press a knife to your skin,
but be too cowardly to
draw your own blood.
fall in love with people
who could never notice you,
just. not. good.
chew on the multicolored
strands of your hair.
(you can’t stop running
from who you really are.)
carry around a notebook
and scrawl eve
CursedCursed2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Timo was quite the average fifteen year old boy.
He only had one problem: He was cursed.
At the age of eight, he had been playing at the beach and accidentally thrown sand at an old gypsy, who happened to have had a bad day.
Angry with the little boy, she had thrown a strange powder at him, which had made him sneeze. For the rest of the day he had felt a little weak, but after that everything had been alright again.
That was until his thirteenth birthday.
The night after it, Timo had had a strange dream, telling him about his curse: Whenever he got aroused, he would transform into the dream girl of whomever touched him next.
Lucky for him the changes were quite slow, depending on how long he was touched by someone. But it basically ruined his social life, since hed never know, when he would see a hot girl, which might trigger the curse.
Until now Timo had been able to keep his secret, since the transformation would reverse after fifteen minutes. At least if he wanted to, w
Earthen GypsyShe dances for no one, to a beat none can hear. The dance is her lifeblood. To stop dancing is to fade from existence.Earthen Gypsy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The moon and the stars; her eyes
The waves of the ocean; her hair
The tendrils of long-forgotten ivy; her snake-like charm
The mossy earth beneath her feet
They all feel her rhythm, share it
It's all the same.
Final ReleaseSleepFinal Release10 years ago in Typographical More Like This
Hold back no emotion
With a touch, with a kiss
I free thee from misery
Hold what is left
Split my love
Morbid and pretty
Cruelty is my master piece
Slavery at my best
With a touch, with a kiss
I am simply suffering too much
Take what is left
Morbid and pretty
Sing to me
Just release me
With a touch, with a kiss
I am sick with lust
Craving for the unwilling
No choice but this
Morbid and pretty
No one sees thee
But your sight awakens me
February 25th, 2005
© Diego C. Gonalez
Ninety four days...Ninety four days...6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
It has been ninety four days...
I have been thinking of all the things I should have said
sense that day I have thought of over a thousand ways
all while laying in my bed
three hundred ways to take it out on my self
five hundred different ways to commit suicide.
two hundred to take it out on some one else.
and there are more than a million reasons i hate myself for just standing aside.
God, I wish that I would have know that you would die
how the hell was I going to know what was in store.
I never got to say it before it was too late.
and people ask me why I hate the idea of fate.
nows the time to tell you why
twelve times a year I sit in front of a different grave.
yelling at this God that I have praised for so long.
demanding to know why every thing went so wrong.
cursing at him for taking those that made me brave.
I never got to say bye.
How To Say GoodbyeDear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;How To Say Goodbye3 years ago in Letters More Like This
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. Th