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I'm your donorIf you're getting this letter, I'm already dead. Either that, or that good for nothing Dr. Maynard just cheated me a bag of gummy worms to satisfy that sweet tooth of his. But I'm getting away from the point. So here it is: you're the lucky bastard who's getting my heart. Excuse the language, I'm not usually this rash, but hey, what's a dying girl to say? Which brings me to my next question: why do you need a new heart anyways? Were you a murderer in your past life? Do you have a bad soul or something that makes it so that your own heart won't wI'm your donor3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Runner's DeathRunner's Death3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
December twenty-fifth.
Christmas time.
In other words, the time of the year my parents put their everything's-alright smiles on and Anabelle fills the toilet with puke so that she can pretend to be filling her stomach with food when all our relatives come over--the time of the year we all pretend to be normal.
It's also the anniversary of Runner's death. But, like they always do, my family has covered the events of December twenty-fifth, one year ago, the same way they did the cracks in our living room wall--in a layer of brig
secrets (movie stills)Listen to me, and listen close. This is a story hidden between trees and their branches, between ghosts and human fingertips, between innocence lost andsecrets (movie stills)3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
innocence found.
Listen to me and simply listen. Clear your mind of that maiden's kiss and the way your gentleman-to-be stroked your cheek, of that crack in your vase and your broken doorbell. Think white. Think grey. Think nothing. Think seashell air and foam kisses. Think sound, sound caught in leaves, leaves caught in earth, earth caught in spinning.
Listen.
See beauty and see elegance and see the way the sky
CharlotteWhen you grow up on the crooked side of town, you become a sort of expert in the science of naming the alcohol on people's breath, determining a person's drug of choice just by their appearance, and deducing what kind of abuser someone'll be just by the way they look at you. You learn that words are unreliable, and beatings on holidays inevitable; and eventually, you learn that heroes, despite all the stories you hear, don't exist. They're just that: stories. Fiction.Charlotte3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Most importantly, growing up in the cyanide district, you develop a lot of foresight. As it is with any art, practice mak
songs we humonce, in first or second grade, i spoke to emily. it must not have been a very deep conversation--how deep can seven-year olds get?--because i don't really remember what each of us said. i just remember emily's wild blonde hair and long eyelashes; the explosion of freckles across her face. emily lived down the street, but she lived far away enough to be on the stop before mine, so we never had a chance to speak. or maybe i just didn't want to talk to her. i don't know.songs we hum3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
now, here's the thing. emily, you still live down the street from me. you have a daughter--angela-
jump - chocolate sunrise -Ten.jump - chocolate sunrise -3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
To Caleb,
Remember kindergarten? I do. You were a jerk. And not even a popular jerk. You were the type of jerk who wanted to be one of the popular jerks, but hated them at the same time, so you stuck with making fun of the brainiacs because you were too afraid to make fun of the popular kids. I was a brainiac.
But, as they say, opposites attract, and one Wednesday during the summer, the one we both spent at camp, I had finally had enough of you being a big asshole and made a bet that I could climb to Sadie Point, the highest peak of our hiking trail, before you could.&
Valentine'sDayatSpringbrookFor most people, the worst thing that can happen on February 14th is a little bit of heartbreak and a maxed out credit card. But, for the residents of Springbrook Camp for the Young and Unstable, suicidal roommates, barbaric parents, overbearing psychiatrists and way-too-creepy-to-be-funny sexual advances are all things you have to watch out for on a holiday such as Valentine's Day. I know what you're thinking: "You're one to talk. You're a resident at Springbrook, too. You're probably just as messed up as everyone else here." Well, maybe I am on some deep level, but I'm functiValentine'sDayatSpringbrook3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
light storiesshe closes her eyes and lets the in-between moments take her thoughts. the parts of the story where it's simply peaceful, the places where you feel beautiful without having to try and the quiet just hits you. she is still.light stories3 years ago in Scraps More Like This
car lights walk across her walls, colors inverted.
smoke. smoke and orange peels, and a girl from a night from a memory from a mistake. tomorrow he will paint.
the problem with peace is that too much of it will make her heart stop beating. she wants to move, to shift, but the world has already started to leave her behind.
daytimes are wheat-c
whisperswe are too fragile to be great,whispers3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
but we are too great
to see (remember) that we are fragile.
RickieRickie3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I have this thing with skin. I want to peel it off. All of it. At first, it was just the easy skin; you know, the skin over your lips, around your nails, on top of your knuckles. After a while, I started peeling at, well--everything. I thought that maybe, if I grew new skin, I'd be a different person. Back then, I didn't know bruises stained all the way to the bone. I thought it was just your skin that bore the hurt--the shame. So I tried to peel them off, the bruises. I'd take the kitchen knife and run the edge up and down my skin, telling myse
c'est ma faute black + white4 years ago in Conceptual
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rain makers (Composition)3 years ago in Emotional
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autophobiaimagine living in a five-wall room, the air made thin by mirrors and the ground made unstable by your own claustrophobia. imagine the floor being so black you can't tell it's there and these mirrors being so all-consuming they make you forget the world beyond them. for all you know, they are the world.autophobia4 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
now imagine five reflections. each one moves when you move, frowns when you frown. you make sure not to smile, because you fear the expression on all five of your reflected faces is enough to drive you insane. and what good would that do?
reflection one. she is a mu
BreckelerBreckeler3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
You know how they say there are moments in life, exact moments, where you make the decisions that determine the rest of your existence? And during these moments, you're fully aware that your life, from then on, depends on the choice you make? Well, that's a load of crap. That fateful ninety-degree midsummer day after second grade, I woke up in my power ranger pajamas with no clue whatsoever that hanging out with Riley Thomson, the new kid from down the street, was going to change my life forever.
Now, it wasn't like I'd wanted to hang out with Riley. In fact, I thought he was weird, just like I did
03. birthday5.03. birthday3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Even then, I knew it was going to be me who was really gonna mess him up. I could tell by the way the flames of the five candles on his birthday cake seemed to get stuck in his eyes; by the way I hated him for having eyes so susceptible to light--to hope. I remember how he'd squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip before extinguishing the candles. He looked so cute it was disgusting. See, I don't like innocent things. Ink is best on a white canvas, and people are best without their light, because, I figure, if I can't hide my true colors with it, no one should be able to. No
the other side3 years ago in Conceptual
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sound constellationslittle misses with ballet shoes (banana peels) dance tosound constellations3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the lines of idioms made upside-down and queer
by the beat of rainfall, each drop
a silver streak in the air
the factory-air streets
shiver in delight, their smiles like
music caught in chimes--
a wrinkle in genetics.
boys from another town
with smart fingers and lips that
murmur static
fly kites into upstairs windows
agape, a
crow sings
a song of hard-lighted rooms that taste like
emptiness, like copper and nickel and
empty cups that ring with the sound of conversation
which the lilacs on the side of the road listen to as lullabies
before their slumber is disturbed
penumbratoday, i believe in rhinos and penumbras.penumbra3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
i saw this boy standing next to me who wasn't beautiful until he smiled. he had crooked molars and the incisors of a cheetah. he had the hands of a pianist and the heart of a lion and the feet of a green giant. i never did see his elbows, but i knew they were just like mine.
(we haven't met, but i'm your sister. we have the same eyes and our hearts beat at the same time and our fingernails grow at the same rate. at one point we might have felt the same way at the same time, like two fish swimming against the same current. do you know why fish never float to the top of the ocean? the pressure coming
waterwater3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The raven-haired boys come on the twenty-eighth of every month, when our city grows ill. The buildings will begin to peel, copper under skins gleaming like blood under the gasping sun, and they will navigate their way between them to Central Square, where it is the driest of all. There, the streets are ashen--parched. Dust fills their creases, unforgiving. Beside them, sewers open their gaping mouths, waiting for water that will not come. And then, there are the water towers; the structures that have spread the name of our city to millions of households abroad. "Gleaming tokens
footprints3 years ago in Spontaneous Portraits
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the difference between lost3 years ago in Surreal
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Riley There is a distinct difference between lost and wandering. Most people, they just think they're lost when, really, they're only wandering. Sure, physically, they might be misplaced--out of range of whatever they're looking for or whoever's looking for them, but that's exactly it: they're still looking for something. Someone's still looking for them. A connection exists--it's just that they can't see it. I used to always think that I was lost. That, because there were twenty-eight hundred miles between me and home and I didn't know which road would take me bacRiley3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
would haves“You wanna know a secret?”would haves4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She nods, eyes innocent as eyes can be when they are greedy.
“I don’t like boobies.”
“Really? Me either.”
And that’s how they hit it off. They were an anomaly, but being atypical from the very start, it didn’t hurt them. They were pieces of a different puzzle.
A year later. Kindergarten. In the midst of spilt goldfish and bottles of paste they dared not taste.
“When I grow up, I want you to marry me.”
“Why? You don’t like boobies, remember? And when I grow u
traffic3 years ago in City Life
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Sta.sh
