A Girl and a Boy
I'm just a girl.
Not pure of mind or pearl of skin, nor with silk as hair or lips of red.
Not your princess in a tower- never lost to be found- always calm, always sure.
A girl with a story, but none to be heard.
Eyes of blue, waves of white- watching a puddle, blending with the sky.
You were just a boy.
A boy of thoughts and a boy of shadows, a boy- eyes dark as night.
Lack of laughter, a smile of sunsets, seldom seen.
Wandering through the hours of midnight- hands shoved in pockets, foggy breath his only light.
Stumbling through the minutes of early dawn or late dusk, opposites can attract.
Life of a MusicianLife of a Musician3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It starts as a quiet humming in the darkness- a disruption in the air, tense with expectation- only felt by those who start it.
A sudden, luminescent thought- inspiration is a fickle beast, and none can argue with who it chooses to show itself to.
But there, there it starts. It all begins behind a closed door, in another realm without others to interrupt. He throws off his half-hearted doubts and restraining weights- a muted strum of an old acoustic guitar flees from his exploring fingertips.
Hesitantly, he tunes the guitar and strums three notes, building music where there was once nothing. Dim flashes of light fill the dark corners of his empty hideaway; a sense of color in a gray bedroom.
He stops, but his mind running all the faster. The infection has already started- the music won't leave his mind, his fingers strum invisible chords if he ever dares to set the guitar down.
He builds notes, one on top of the other, without even a hint of a seam. Bent over acoustic guitar on an unma
HeavenI'll show you how special one breath is.Heaven3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I'd teach you to breathe like humans should, like every atom of oxygen flowing through your lungs creates a new flower bud on the ivy curling about your ribcage. Like each breath is heaven itself, because what if this is it?
I'd pull you by your skinny wrist to the street down the block, where you could see the fireworks without the trees getting in the way, and we'd lay on our backs and look up at humankind's handmade stars. I'd show you how to see the glitter in the air instead of the smoke, just for a second. I'd illustrate the pleasures of innocence, of molding to world to see what you wish. Because this, this could be all we get of heaven.
When The Wax Melts-For RJL7983"Build me a set of wings,When The Wax Melts-For RJL79833 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
out of your finest wax and string,
add the birds' outermost feathers,
make the straps with good leather.
Using string of ebony black,
sew the wings to his back,
Cast him off into the sky,
smile as he plummets and dies."
The girl's voice reaches out and caresses each note of the song, as she runs her fingers through the flames.
"Build me a set of wings" She hums and reaches in through the fire, scooping up a handful of the still hot and gooey wax, molding it in her fingers. Gently she pushes and presses the wax, and it begins to take shape.
"Out of your finest wax and string" Her voice a steady rhythm as the shears come out. She rummages through the cupboards, searching for the twine.
"This'll do." She mumbles, pulling out a foot long piece of cord and beginning to intricately weave it through the soft wax.
"Add the birds' outermost feathers" She sings to fill the silence, then dances over to the cages on the earthen wall. Still humming, she
The Lost ThingsThe Lost Things3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Lost things are often left trodden underfoot. Through our ignorance, the ones that once belonged grow only more aware of their peril- the slow evanescence of their existence.
Tell me, what good is a story if it cannot be heard? What good will disappearing do amongst those that have never seen you? In utter truth, there are legends written and breathing amidst us all, and they grow by the day. They grow with each minute, each thought, and one lives within us all- never to be published, always to be lost.
Such things as stories often dwell among the lost things, the mental equivalent of a treasure among the blankets of mold and dust upon the attic floor. We all wish for our stories to be remembered or cherished, but this is often only accomplished by our children before it is once again stuffed into the attic. We don't wish for it to happen, but it must- room is needed for all the newly awakened stories being writtten below, and so, we are
RememberingI'm walking along a path, each lined with flowers. I touch one, a bit black around the edges, but pink in the middle. A memory comes to mind.Remembering3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I recall large, strong hands pinching my cheeks. It's a warmth I can no longer feel. He is gone now. I feel sadness only recently, just discovering what my young self didn't realize: I'm missing someone that is so important, because he helped bring my mother into this world.
The thing that always brings a sad smile to my face whenever I recall him is what I said at his funeral. I looked at him and asked my mother, "why is Tata wearing lipstick?"
Utterly absurd, but that is what I remember.
I release the black and pink flower now, and continue walking until I see another one. It's dark blue, and reminds me of loneliness and tears, though I somehow know that this flower never cried.
My first best friend, the one whom I would always go over to the house of, from kindergarten to the end of grade two perhaps. Her name was Tonya, she had
In Our Hidden WorldsIn Our Hidden Worlds3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
A strong breeze blew through the garden, and petals and leaves swirled up from the ground like wayward confetti. For a moment the image resembled a spring snow globe; then the wind was gone, and the image shifted.
There was a figure walking towards you at the other end of the hidden garden, seemingly from nowhere. At first, a flash of anger filled you for someone to infiltrate your hiding place, your only sanctuary from the world- then sudden curiosity filled you as you realized it was a woman.
She walked with a type of grace that was unseen with most humans, each step seeming to awaken everything around her. The calm sun peeked through the shielding leaves overhead, dappling her pure white dress in sunlight and shadow. Morning glories and ivy twined up the still-standing stonework from decades past where she now trailed her fingertips, seeming to wonder who had once treasured this place. Poppies, roses, and all types of forgotten flowers seemed to reach out for her when she drew near-
For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,For My Daughter3 years ago in Letters More Like This
You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.
You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to the boy sitting alone at recess.
I will write you poems and stories about how you are my miracle. I will read them to you sometimes, just to remind you. As you grow, not a day will go by that I'm not thankful for everything you are. You will be dazzling and beautiful and brilliant and compassionate and playful and curious and all of the things
IntroAs I sipped the cool glass of water that rested in my hand, I sighed at the somber silence that lingered in Martin Tenderson's drab bar where once the excitable and sensual Beatrice Moreau danced and sang in her drunken stupor. Martin still kept that phone that she broke when she slipped and dragged it from the table to the floor; Beatrice had promised to replace it, so this was possibly Martin's way of believing she would return. It was a pathetic gesture, but a widower like him would always hold onto things he loved--old age never broke that resolve.Intro3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
And although I never said anything, I'm sure he knew how grateful I was of him keeping this hope, for the both of us. I wouldn't tell him, but I was waiting for something from Beatrice as well.
"Seems like only yesterday she was dancing on my bar," Martin said musingly, stroking his beard that was slowly graying with age.
I couldn't help but laugh, a pathetic thought honestly.
Pathetic for the both of us.
"You'd give anything to grab her
The extremely short storyI once heard the tale of a man who had the whole universe inside his throat.The extremely short story3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Was he a giant?" someone asked.
I thought for a second.
"No," I said. "He was a storyteller."
The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingersa glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway mapthe night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrivalafter all, it hasn't stormed in years.The Rainfall Kid3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Soon enough, her shoulders and the soles of her bare feet are collecting water along with the hardback that had slipped, forgotten, through outstretched fingersnow laying broken-spined with white pages exposed and its words all bleeding together in thin rivers of smudged ink. The leafless trees seem to shudder, emerging from
An Itsy Bitsy Story "...crawled up the spout again."An Itsy Bitsy Story4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Dad?" spoke a boy, neatly tucked into his bed.
"Why did the spider keep trying to reach the top?"
The father proclaimed, "Well, why do heroes in stories do anything? To save the princess of course."
"There was a princess!?"
"Well of course there was a princess. Can't have a good story without a princess," he said with a wink and a grin. "Everyone knows that but that's the looooooong version and you," he said placing a finger on Toby's chest, "are a little boy in dire need of sleep."
"But I'm not even tired and I wanna hear about the princess!" he pleaded ever so sweetly.
"Alright..." the father sighed in mock defeat, "but you're in for the long haul now so no nodding off. Telling stories is a serious business. He cleared his throat and began. So...a young spider named Wilfred wa
i am my own twinin each rainbow gasoline street puddle, in each broken glass window and aperture, i search for myself. what it is exactly that i am searching for i can never tell. all i know is that i know nothing of anyone, not even of myself.i am my own twin3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i walk the streets and avenues as if i've been here before but not. i peer across the smog-smitten skies, trying to find familiar shadows to remind of home--yet no faces come to mind. as i follow the trail of a limping dog, i see how she is a crippled bitch feeding her pups nonetheless: i digress. i pursue a pink tricycle and her pretty pint-sized owner; she leads me out of the smoggy central station and into suburban slumber land. my feet carry me over to a canary yellow door preceded by three chipped brick steps.
i sit there and so does another me. this hallucination reminds me both of the broken bitch and alice understudy. i who am the mere reflection of puddles and portals.
The Things We Give AwayDrake couldn't keep still.The Things We Give Away3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The restlessness, the agitation, the anxietywhen it got to be unbearable he would pace across the creaking floorboards of the basement and moan in anguish.
I listened to the rapid pattering of his bare feet below me and wished he would go to sleep. It scared me, his psychosis. There were times when I was tempted to up the dosage of his meds, but I never did; his doctor had specifically said no more drugs. His body couldn't take it.
A banging noise resonated from downstairs and I jumped. Then sighed. This was getting ridiculous. I needed to talk to him. I needed to calm him down. I forced myself out of bed and groggily meandered down to the dimly-lit basement where, for some reason, Drake felt safe. My bones creaked almost as much as the stairs did as I descended them. I was horribly sleep-deprived. I'd been staying up all hours of the night for the past couple of weeks and it had taken its toll on me. His doctor suggested having him committed, but I cou
Dear StrangerDear Stranger,Dear Stranger3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I hope you are reading this letter before you have gone outside. I imagine you will have a few questions on your mind when you see how things are out there. Luckily, you happen to have this conveniently placed "doggy-door" through which I have slipped the letter you now hold in your hands.
First, I would like to apologize for the state of your mailbox. By this point I imagine you have ventured outside and seen a few things worth the raising of an eyebrow or two and I assure you, all will be explained. The mailbox. I am deeply sorry for the condition it is in. You may notice that the box itself is hanging askew, the flag seems to have disappeared(I searched high and low, I promise.), and the post seems to be broken in several places though I have done my best to repair it with duct tape. It might also be worth mentioning that it has been moved several feet to the left.
You see I was driving home late last night from work (They have me working another man's shift while
LointainListen carefully, for I am plucking spider-web harp strings in the light of your glistening, rain-sodden breath. There is such beauty in this city, and in symphony, you seeso keep rhythm with these skeleton trees dancing on street sides, winter branches quivering. Can you hear the beat of your heart? Its cadence is being matched by that of the shadows, ephemeral figures waltzing hand-in-hand across cobblestones and twirling at the very cusp of the lamp posts' soft glow...Lointain3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sway now, my dearest, to the allure of this chorus in the night; to the echoing sound of this moonlit sonata.
The RingsHear me read itThe Rings3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Almost everything about my funeral was perfect. My body rested, awaiting its captive audience, in the church hall over night. A Catholic tradition only afforded to true believers of the faith.
My entire family gathered and told stories of my better days. They remembered my contagious laughter, my love for them, and how I would cheat at cards to help my grandchildren win. They remembered the best parts of me, and my suffering fell into nothing.
I'd always loved flowers, and so there was no shortage of them that day. There were more flower heads in the church than there were people, but then, most of those I loved were waiting for me here.
My youngest grandchild had a great cross of lilac and white made. It included all my favourite scents and the muted, clean solemnity of white roses. I saw her grind her teeth when another bouquet arrived in the same colours. I saw the grit of anger that her thoughtful testament, crafted fr
Seasons and Endings, Summers and Dandelion WineSeasons and Endings, Summers and Dandelion Wine3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The first memory of her I have is of the first of June, the very beginning of summer. My friends and I have always held an annual party in the nearby beaches, each always a little different than the last.. Squished in a big black van with a bunch of miscellaneous friends and quite a few others who were just friends of friends of friends. The amount would grow every year, every face not quite the same.
It didn't matter who you were, just that you're along for the ride together- everyone laughed and joked, already high on the fresh summer air and the ocean breeze we could almost taste. There was your best friend Davey and that one girl who used to smile at you when you walked down the dusty hallways of the schoolyard. There was the girl with the bright, rainbow colored skirts and the boy with the broken smile, arm hooked around his cheerfully talkative boyfriend. Looking around the crowded van and giving a name to every face (some squished with five others on a single seat, others swayin
The DoctorThe Doctor3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Doctor?" I questioned uneasily. The figures and faces around me nodded, shifting around unsettlingly as if staying still was too much work for them
"I don't need a Doctor, I'm fine." I had no desire to see the Doctor. Even the title sent shivers down my spine.
"We know dear, but we were thinking that some people mature faster than others, and that maybe you should see the Doctor earlier," one of the figures said. I couldn't even see them, for I was seated in a hard chair that dug into my back while everyone else was crowed around me. Their like faces and similar statures all began to blur into one solid black surrounding of grey and more grey. Even their voices were beginning to blend together.
"I don't want to see the Doctor though."
And I truly didn't. There were so many rumors about that place, the place called the hospital. I heard that when people entered they didn't come back the same again, that they Doctor messed with their minds and changed them into unfeeling robots for the
III."I don't get it, why not just buy a new one," Beatrice said plainly as she sipped the coffee that I provided for her. She sat next to me while I continued working on my clock.III.3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
She obviously knew nothing of sentimentality, so I wouldn't bother explaining it to a degenerate like her. As she moved to sit on my couch, she removed her run stockings. I looked at her pale legs, those thin calves flexing as she pointed her toes.
I could see her looking at me, like she wanted me to look, so I shook my head and went back to work.
We sat in silence, together in the room but separate in proximity. I heard her slurp her coffee like a child would play with milk. I wanted to scold her, to snatch it up and tell her to leave. But like an obnoxious brat, she increased the volume of her drinking. Like she knew it annoyed me.
"Did Kirkpatrick's kids teach you that?" I said under my breath.
"Hm, what did you say?" she responded.
Beatrice watched me while I wound the clock, and when it refused to
SANGUINE Chapter 1 - 1SANGUINESANGUINE Chapter 1 - 13 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
A tale of vampires, twists and delusions, by Chen Yuan Wen
Chapter 1 1:
THE DOORS TO the council chamber swung open slowly; whining as the metallic bolts ground into place. A lone knight, with long flowing blonde hair that was ever so slightly curled at the tips, made her way to the podium, where several robed priests were gathered. They sat in silence, illuminated by crystalline orbs that burned with a magical fire and one in particular stood out from the rest. He was clad in robes of golden finery, woven from highest grade of silk and adorned with numerous precious gemstones; most of which covered the cuffs of its sleeves. This man was known as Bishop Rogan Volthair, once the son of Baron Volthair, he had earned a high place in the Church of the White Lady for his natural oratory skill and religious fervour. It was his duty to pass on the orders of the Church to specific high-ranking Knights who would then take on extremely dangerous or forbidden quests
dear emmalove is a person.dear emma4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
he is a man with cocoa skin, writes with weak hands and a strong mind, tuned ears and speaks in a placid voice. it sounds of ivory, smells of coffee, and is music in a silent world with unmade beds and the typing of keys, the quiet hum of black and white re-runs speaking to the crook of his back.
he is a boy with fine, chapped lips and a thin cigarette between the thin cracks of his teeth, a being seen in dimmed lights and close things under stars, the ripple of cars passing by, the tapping of cooling engines. lit, green eyes under night sky hair with a starry shine.
she is a girl with fireflies to dawn skin, a burned nose and pale scared knuckles. she is speaking under the monotones, cities of skinny, magazines she curls in balls at the foot of her bed when she sleeps, with rose cheeks and the hiding of doe, scar eyes.
she is a girl with vertebrae fingertips, cracked red fingernails of resin; one with bracelet wrists and rings on her lips. the type that has a naked f
Dreams Caught and HeldWaiting. Waiting and searching and leaving and finding, but never ever staying. For, you see, love is fleeting.Dreams Caught and Held3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The girl looked outside her window, sitting on the ledge that overlooks the ocean waves, thinking about all she has lost and all she has gained. Nightgown blowing in the slight breeze, she waits and waits for nothing at all.
Wondering, she glances down at her pale feet against the blue waters, then raises them to compare against the glowing moon. Perhaps she is of the moon instead of the Earth, and for this there is no love for her.
Soft night caressing bare legs, wavering candlelight dancing astray- the wind moves all things. The once-silent dreamcatcher above her chimes in the wind, a low, gentle melody in the smooth ocean rushing. She rests her head on the cold windowsill, wishing only to dream of a warm lover's arms to lay.
And here, here! Is this but a dream- is this just a wish given light? Does she dream of these arms around her waist? Does she imagine being swept off
Winds 1The house is dilapidated: the roof is bent sideways, a few of the windows are busted out, and several of the boards that had made up the structure are now broken and jutting in every direction. It's a pitiful image, but it'll have to do for shelter. Nightfall is fast approaching and the father and his sons need a place to stay. Here is as good as anywhere.Winds 13 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
They wrench themselves through the slanted front door. The inside is just as unwelcoming as the out. Everything is grimy and sad. The remnants of what was once a home look betrayed and hopeless.
The oldest son, Isaac, wanders into a nearby bedroom and finds a fallen-over bookshelf. The books it once held are scattered across the floor, sopping and ruined from the rain that had come through the hole in the ceiling directly above. He picks them up, one by one, and inspects them. The covers and pages are soggy, the print faded beyond legibility. He almost wants to cry. It
Twenty Minutes to LiveThere was so little time left.Twenty Minutes to Live3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Penny knew that there was almost no time left, and that was the beauty of it. She could hear the people outside; the panicking, screaming people. Shattering glass and gunshots rang out every so often, often accompanied by a chorus of audible pain or rage. The news was still broadcasting on most of the radios, she knew, although it was mostly just re-run stories at this point. Even a news reporter wouldn't stay at work when there was so little time left. The news wasn't on here though, and Penny felt at ease with that. She had heard the reports, the rumors, the street preachers and the governmental confirmations. The end was nigh. Yawn.
She made herself a cup of coffee, smiling as she stirred in the sinfully sweet sugar and the smooth, thick Irish Cream. She tossed her scraggly red hair over one shoulder and walked slowly up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. For once, her legs were strong enough to carry her without wobbling and she took that as