BibliophileI drove by that old coffee shop yesterday. When I saw it, the tip of my foot twitched towards the break, before remembering that there wasn’t anyone waiting for me anymore. The chalkboard sign still read “Welcome” in cursive French, and the usual group of hipsters and loners sat outside on the steps, enjoying the rare clear sky with fruity Italian sodas and iced chais. It felt different not to stop there. It felt wrong.Bibliophile2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
So on my way home, in the opposite direction, I finally gave in and walked inside, for old time’s sake. It looked the same, with long floorboards, knotted bruise marks in the wood and dents from furniture legs. It was chilly, the way it had always been, with high, lofty ceilings and a single fan that was never on. The first thing that had always caught my eyes were the tall, giant bookshelves. They were stuffed to the brim with books, their spines multi-colored and smelling of wax. Some had definitely seen better days.
But the same could be said
Ghosts in this MachineThe gear slips as the cog easesGhosts in this Machine4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
past the missing teeth
and slowly, one by one, the parts
begin to show signs of weakness.
The cylinders sigh with the hiss of steam as
the engine is forced
to tick over in its idle state,
shakily breathing between
the unexpected periods of hypermanic full-tilt and
static inanimate existence.
Un-manned controls at the helm
show evidence of interaction, but
that is all...all
till the next time
a foot hit's the floor and
the world races by...
Till then there will only be
ghosts in this machine...
Candles and LightersShe couldn't focus on the page in front of her, the tears threatening to fall from her eyes stopped her sight. She held back a whimper, refusing to let the people around her see the pain she felt. Her eyes tried to slide toward the desk to her left but she wouldn't let them. Yet somehow, like always they ended up over there anyways.Candles and Lighters3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
A tear fell from her eyes even as she tried to blink it away. His last sketch still graced the tabletop the fanciful creature staring at her with wide, innocent eyes. Her strength failed her; she stood, her movements harsh, and rushed out the room. A classroom of eyes followed her exit.
She dashed from the brick building, sprinting to her truck and climbing into the front seat. She allowed her head to rest on the steering wheel, tears cascading down her pale cheeks. Blonde hair fell down her back in waves, her cerulean eyes usually gleamed in the sunlight, and her skin was normally a rosy peach; yet, at that moment, she had never felt more useless, un
A Cold NightA bird flies over the horizon as the sun begins to set, leaving an orange ray of light over the sand. The ocean glows a deep blue, the waves splashing over a young woman's feet.A Cold Night4 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
The mushy sand covers her bare feet, a feeling both disgusting and comforting. It sends shivers down her spine, as does the cold California evening breeze. Her long blonde hair offers little warmth, nor does the sweater her boyfriend had given her two weeks earlier.
Cars zoom by on the highway, so close and yet so far away.
Se stands in the sandy water silently, waiting for him. Waiting to hear his footsteps as he comes up behind her. Waiting to see his face, surrounded by his dark-brown hair.
Waiting to feel warmth as he wraps his arms around her.
Her phone vibrates in her pocket, pulling her from her thoughts.
"Hello?" she says into the phone.
The voice of a worried friend replies, "They found him, Megan. They found him."
There is no question of who he is, of who they are. All she knows is that something terr
Conservative DictionaryConservative Dictionary6 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
As A Mother...
Phrase to be employed to give weight to any political argument (e.g. as a mother, I think we should teach those Iraqis a lesson).
(see Free Market)
A selfless act of generosity towards someone worse off than myself which I should be heartily congratulated upon. Not to be confused with a serious political solution to the cause (see Communist).
The accidental slaughter of people who you were meant to be liberating. Dont worry, they know its for the greater good and wont happen again.
Anyone who wants life to be better for people poorer than I am (synonyms- Liberal, Socialist, Democrat (US),).
Unnatural protection that doesnt work.
The most free system of government, in which nations can choose any leader they like from the two almost identical ones whove made enou
Your Mouth Is PoisonWords pour from your mouthYour Mouth Is Poison4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Stinging me like acid
So different from before
From the sweet words you said
Your mouth is poison
Your voice is like a dagger
Stabbing me in the heart
Even though I said it didn't matter
The look in your eyes could kill
And send me six feet under ground
The love I thought we had is gone
And it will never, ever be found
Your mouth is poison
Your lips like poisoned wine
I know I shouldn't dwell
But I think of it all the time
Your face was like a piece by Van Gogh
But then it became sick and twisted
I thought we'd really make it
But you betrayed me instead
Your mouth is poison
And even though I don't miss you
The words you said keep playing in my head
Simply because I know they are true
Dialogue: Tangled"You've changed."Dialogue: Tangled3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"I hope that's not an accusation."
"Of course not. It's an observation."
"But you have."
"Wanna tell me how?"
"You're a mess...oh, come on. Don't look at me like that."
"I washed my hair today, you know."
"Excuse your dry sense of humour, but I wasn't referring to your strawberry-scented hair."
"Fine, then. I'm a mess. Enlighten me, but try not to insult me, will you?"
"Don't worry, it happens to a lot of people, really."
"You don't know who you are. You're not a jock, even though you love soccer. You're definitely not a writer, even though I know what lies inside that pink folder underneath your bed. You're not intellectual, despite the absence of anything below an A on your report card. You don't know who you are, so you've slopped together everything you could be into a messy form, like a stained glass window with no real picture, and you project that image of yourself - a little of everything, a part of you suite