The Angelic AnachronismMy turn-of-the-century French Boy
An anachronism, lost on his way home.
Walks by the stone angels,
Growing out of the ground.
He spoke with the tip of his hat
And French love letters
Waiting on my doorstep
I saved them,
Unanswered, and unopened
In an old hat-box
The frivolous-French boy
Traded his pea-coat for a business suit
And his eloquence for a profit
Sometimes he still walks by the angels
And wonders if they are sprouting,
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.Impressionable2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about getting caught in a gust of wind and tossed down in a field somewhere, but secretly, she hoped for it.
She missed you. She wouldn't admit it, but I could see it in her face and hear it in her words.
She lost her right shoe one night. She walked a half mile in the rain without it and arrived at the front door with a big smile on her face. Sometimes I
Cyanide MindI lost my voiceCyanide Mind2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
choking on my own tongue.
The words still spill out
from my eyes.
I bit my lips raw
hoping to stem the flow,
but ideas still drip
from my fingertips.
A soggy brain leaks, I suppose
and all my thoughts taste like tar
The Little GirlOne day a little girl asked her father what did he think she would be when she grew up? The father bent down to one knee and looked in his child's eyes. He looked at her and told her that she would be a miraculous being, that she would be anything if she put her mind to it. The little girl smiled and hugged her father. "Thank you, Daddy." Was all she said.The Little Girl4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The little girl began to grow up and went into elementary. She walked up to her father one day after school and asked him again "Daddy, what will I be?"
The father sat at the table staring into his growing daughter's eyes. He told her that she would be a miraculous being, that she would be anything if she put her mind to it. The young girl smiled and hugged her father.
The little girl continued to grow and grow until one day she began middle school. She was carrying many books home along with her backpack. She placed them on the counter and looked at her father. He was starting to have gray hair and lines carved his face now. She ask
Movie NightWe're sitting in a movie theater,Movie Night2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
her silhouette barely defined in the dark,
the pungent smell of cigarettes
masking her breath.
It's playing the previews,
The coming soon's flashing on the screen,
followed by snippets of what
done-to-death storylines Hollywood
is going to tell next,
and my arm brushes against hers
on the armrest that she and I share.
I don't even remember the title
of the movie. Some horror flick, I think.
She picked it. Said one of the actors was hot.
$12.50 to stare at rock abs
her idea of money well-spent.
Our feature presentation starts.
She dips her fingers into our shared
bag of popcorn as her hot commodity
drives down a dirt road
with his onscreen girlfriend and two friends
in the back. She watches and chews as
they innocently tour the South
until they blow a tire and break
Horror Movie Survival Rule #1:
Don't accept help from eccentric strangers,
Shit hits the fan, just like that.
No room for character development
not in hor
Crib DeathBaby's heart stops. She lets go.Crib Death2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Blister and Bleed.It was a lovely day when the disease came in. A third of the people within the town limits developed bursting pustules and bleeding sores.Blister and Bleed.1 month ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We put them all into a building with three nurses who had shown early symptoms themselves. But when they needed food and water, someone had to bring it to them. When they needed to bury their dead, one of us had to dig a hole. They were dying, but we still helped them.
Old John the undertaker began to blister and bleed after the fourth round of funerals. The disease gained momentum again and claimed those who were only trying to help.
"We can't do it anymore!"
"Why die for the dying?"
"We must do something!"
We did what we had to do. We rounded up anyone else who was getting sick and locked everyone in that building. We lit a dozen torches and burned that horrid place to the ground until the dying were long dead.
We never built anything new on the scorched earth, but the streets were no longer running slick
Ode to the NovelYou thirstOde to the Novel1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for the completion.
only the clots of ink
will satisfy you.
You crack its spine, relishing
in its dusty, primal scent,
its papery flesh.
over your hands, congealed
already. You eat.
Gorged on imagination,
you drain the dregs,
You fold away
the words, saving
some for later.
You stroke it,
The track marks
reach your mind.
Growing Up, and Other StoriesThe three blind mice,Growing Up, and Other Stories2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Were sitting on a wall.
So I went and found a cat,
And made it catch em all.
Poor ole Humpty Dumpty,
Had a massive fall.
I loved to loot the body;
Got in a major haul.
Tom Thumb and the Giants,
Did have a minor brawl.
I laughed, I grinned I cackled
Til I couldn't help but bawl.
The Ugly Duckling sat there,
So vunerable, so small.
I cooked him in the kitchen,
And sold him at my stall.
The Happy Prince was dying,
And paradise did call,
But reality is harsher -
He's in the devils thrall.
Our fairytales are failures,
Children, hear my word;
Those happy stories crumble
Into memory, absurd.
Two SeasonsIvory skin and the fresh taste of apricot,Two Seasons2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Flowers that blossom and yet soon, forgot.
With winter, lives are cut away...
And yet, another year arrives in May.
Epiphanies of memories, rest deep within,
And though you may not be aware,
It's our choice to remember...
Young hearts so true and fair,
Until arrives yet another December.
C Wing GroupTo all those in the broken place. To the lost trapped in a sterile white carousel that spins round and round too fast, so no matter how hard you try you can never get off. To the hurt locked away in burnt orange cells with beds and desks bolted to the ground with no mirrors to see their names. To the people who fell too hard or cried too often, here are words for you.C Wing Group1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
There are universes out there you cannot see. Stars blocked by concrete and suns behind shaded windows. I am telling you this because they are whispering to you now, of the secrets you tried so hard to keep hidden beneath your faded jacket sleeves. If you stop and wait, hold your breath behind fractured lips, you can hear them as they promise, as they swear they'll protect the fragile memories you've entrusted them with. I am telling you now to believe them, for galaxies are too lonely to betray your trust.
Behind civilized monoliths lie towering redwoods. The horizon is marred by leaf-
Why writers drinkI have this theoryWhy writers drink4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
About why writers drink
Its not the absolute truth
Just a thought, I like to think
Its because there is a lot that rhymes
Easy stuff like
And real beautiful words combinations
And its the same
For the common cold beer
Even long words like
But where my theory
Gets a little glitchy
Is with vodka...
Because I can only find
Something as silly
As a "Ford ka"
Smokey GrinSmokey Grin1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
You see that guy three seats down? Yeah, that guy. The one with the beanie. Never a good sign, beanies. Look at him, sitting there, head in his hands, cigarette wasting away unsmoked. Christ.
He's the sorta guy I don't like. It's -his- fault, indirectly, that people think of gloomy melancholy whenever they think of smoke-filled bars. They think of drinking away your sorrows and trying to forget the past. What the hell would even be the -point- of having bars if they were just full of gloomy introverts smoking and drinking? No, people like that guy who come here to drink, smoke and be introspective are the minority. Most of us are, you know, sensible people, here for sensible reasons.
I come here to people-watch.
It's a habit I picked up last year, and since then I've analyzed dozens of people over the rim of a shot glass, and found most of them wanting. Bikers, for example, and their white-trash hangers on frequent the corners, ordering some too many pints, looking down on other liquor
The man of my heartTo my dear soldier brother:The man of my heart4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
please come home,
momma's not the same,
her brain's gone lame
with all the pain.
She worries night and day.
fearing she'll never see you again.
Papa's gotten colder with you bein' away.
I've forgotten how to laugh.
The clouds are overhead again.
Do you remember way back when
when we would go cloud gazin'
when the summer sun wasn't blazin',
at least not too much.
And then you'd treat me to lunch.
Those were the days.
You remember that little boy,
the one you beat up because
he stole my toy?
He's takin' me to the movies tomorrow.
I've got momma's necklace
I am goin' to borrow.
I don't want to be a bother,
but can you come back home soon?
It's almost June
and I want to go cloud gazin' again.
your little sister,