Runner's DeathRunner's Death6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
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 bright paint and wallflowers.
Like usual, my mom will make an excuse: when my beautiful Aunt May asks in that discreet way of hers why the space in the corner of the dining room beneath the three-pane window is empty, my mother will reply, "Oh, poor Runner contracted kidney disease. We decided to pu
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 work properly? I sure hope not, because if you are a bad person, and you end up getting my heart, I'll haunt you forever. No joke.I'm your donor6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
But, from the looks of your photo, you don't seem evil. They won't let me meet you because they think we'll get too attached. "They" as in the doctors, which is ironic, because
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 hum6 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--and i have my beautiful melissa. melissa's first day of school, i walked her the extra few blocks to get to angela's bus stop. while melissa counted cars and found animals in the sky, i had eyes only for the fair-haired, blue-eyed girl that stood to my left; the stars scattered upon her cheeks. maybe if i'd been loo
jump - chocolate sunrise -Ten.jump - chocolate sunrise -5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
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.
You started running before I even said go. Asshole.
But I'm glad. I'm glad you went with me, because that's how I got to know youfor more than your assholeness. We stank of sweat and grass when we reached the topI think I beat you, I'm pretty sure I didbut I w
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)5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
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.
See beauty and see elegance and see the way the sky wrinkles like your palm--the way your lifelines run like the birds. See the pale white of eggshells and the harsh green of age-old trees that whisper in roars. See wardrobes and see windows and see attic doors--portals that exist solely because you believe them to.
Leaving is a beautiful thing. Do it delicately.&
whisperswe are too fragile to be great,whispers5 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
but we are too great
to see (remember) that we are fragile.
RickieRickie6 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 myself that once it was over, I'd be pure; the bruises would disappear, and my secrets would be gone. It was kind of like skinning an apple, except instead of being red on the outside and white on the inside, it was the other way around. And how beautiful the inside of an apple looked.
But, it didn't work that way. Bene
Dear Mick,You were always brimming with facts about the world that most people considered arbitrarylike how elephants could cry and laugh.Dear Mick,6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The truth wasand maybe its because I knew you so well that I can say thislife really fascinated you. Some might say its ironic your life was so short. But I say its not. I say you lived each day like none of us ever dared.
(maybe you lived too fast to still be human. maybe thats why you had to leave so soon.)
Anyways, I feel like I owe you one. Im not going to give you statistics, because you know too many things that prove their unreliability. Im not going to give you a list of words without any vowels, because you probably already have them memorized.
(and words, after all, have no worth if theyve never been used to say anything meaningful.)
Instead, Im going to tell you a few things Ive learned in the last three da
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.Charlotte6 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 makes perfect. An artist will learn the right lines after drawing enough wrong ones; a mother will better raise her second child after making all her mistakes with the first one; and just like that, I learned, after being hurt enough times, to be able to tell when it's coming--when something bad's gonna happen. And that, that's th
would havesYou wanna know a secret?would haves6 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She nods, eyes innocent as eyes can be when they are greedy.
I dont like boobies.
Really? Me either.
And thats how they hit it off. They were an anomaly, but being atypical from the very start, it didnt 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 dont like boobies, remember? And when I grow up, Ill probably have ginormous ones like my mommy.
Thats okay. You understand me best.
For a long while, Veronica was under the impression that most boys didnt like boobies. After all, Jason was the most normal boy she knew: he played soccer and was good at it, never covered his mouth du
waterwater6 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", they've been called, but gleam is the last thing they do. Looming stout and unimpressive over the twelve acres of Central Square, they smile at the everyday passerby with chapped cement lips and scar-ridden faces. Wry.
But the boys, they are unlike our city. They are beautiful, like birds, with
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 functional. Even more than that, I was functional before they decided to put me in this place. I guess just like people aren't ready to accept gay love, they aren't ready to accept a boy's love for fire. It wasn't like I'd hurt anybody--I'd gone inside all the places and checked for people before lighValentine'sDayatSpringbrook6 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 stories5 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-colored. his windows are picture frames.
she gets caught in one, a lost image.
and the bikes sing.
penumbratoday, i believe in rhinos and penumbras.penumbra6 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 at them from all sides keeps them eternally submerged. i would like to call myself a fish and spend the rest of my life chasing worms at the ends of dangerous hooks and swallowing rocks and sinking like the Titanic, but the gods have deemed me human and who am I to defy them?)
human beings are the only animals who blush, laugh, love, have religion, k
BreckelerBreckeler6 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 any kid too scrawny for his own good. Hey, I was seven. Plus, he had a scary dad. I don't mean stern-face-broad-shoulders scary; I mean scary as in he had beady little eyes, a greasy face and a smile so creepy it was better left unemployed. Again, I was seven.
But, moms being moms, I was forced to
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.autophobia6 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 murderer. her cheeks are flushed with savage beauty and her eyes are hungry for fear. she is the most beautiful monster you've ever seen, but also the most frightening, because she is you. she is you those split seconds you are willing to trade your own life for the taking of another; those instances you dream of people
01. letterdear stranger,01. letter6 years ago in Letters More Like This
i'm fifteen years old and i still have no idea how to be a girl.
why do the singers always write about the same things? is falling in love really that special?
these days, most girls who are my age have boyfriends--or at least a boy interest. most of them would swear the boy they're with is their soulmate. but me, i'd swear most boys these days think with their dicks and not their heads.
i find kissing gross. does that make me unkissable? (i sure hope not.)
my teenage years are going down the toilet. i need to do something crazy.
what is it that kids my age are supposed to do? sneak into concerts? get kicked out of the mall? get high? oh, dear god, am i supposed to fall in love?
is it normal to be nostalgic for things that never happened?
is it normal t
sound constellationslittle misses with ballet shoes (banana peels) dance tosound constellations5 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
fly kites into upstairs windows
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 by gasoline and
chanting city bells;
in the distance birds sew the sky
lines where their brother-sparrows step to receive
the brittle kisses of
thunder and dew, threadbare like the
plumage of others lost in barbed wire.
gargoyles watch with
yawn as dew laces to make
the girls with banana-peel shoes continue to dance
as lost oranges ro
Liar***Liar6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The first time you realize he's lying is a Sunday. He coughs a couple times, maybe once or twice, and you find yourself reaching out, asking, "Are you okay?"
It's habitual, something you always do. It's just reflexive, years of politeness grilled into your head. He knows that, he knows that.
And yet he glares at you suspiciously. "I'm fine."
A small voice in the back of your head says, 'Liar' and you wonder just where that came from. Because you know he'd never lie to you, you've been best friends for far too long for that.
But that's the only logical explanation as to why he's staring at you as though he's trying to puzzle something out. Maybe he's just wondering how you could possibly know he's not telling the truth...
The second time you realize he's lying, he's at school. The professor approaches, asking for the essay he was supposed to write.
"I don't have it." His face is troubled, worried, and, as that tiny voice inside your head points