Untitled Tiger Project Part 1
The strange feeling came over the tigress Penumbra once again. Her paws tingled, her charcoal hair rose as if electrified, and her body felt faintly as if it were being constricted by the air around her. She flicked her ears in irritation, but she was too used to the phenomenon to express actual alarm. She didn't even bother to raise her head off of her single broad foreleg. The sensation would pass, as it always did, and she paid little mind to it.
It was the water leaking from the rusted pipe above her head that caught her interest, though. She had been absent-mindedly watching the pure water fall, drop by drop, from the peripherals of her vision. Now the rhythmic, predictable dripping slowed until it stopped. Then, in defiance of every law of fluid dynamics that Penumbra knew, the drops of water began to rise from the floor and slip back into the pipe. Penumbra stiffened and swivelled her head to watch.
Untitled Tiger Project Part 2Untitled Tiger Project Part 23 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Silence had not found life easy as a young tiger. In fact, his name had originally been a pejorative moniker used by his snickering siblings to mock his constant, noisy stumbling over his own giant paws. His large size and clumsiness had been a terrible hindrance while hunting, his prey escaping with ease by ducking in or under any piece of machinery or tank or container that was too small for Silence's head and shoulders. And there seemed to be an uncountable many places too small for Silence. His only weapon had been to cultivate the art of becoming a shadow, invisible, until the moment to strike was so close and fast that his prey did not have time to escape. But until he had honed that skill, he often went to sleep hungry.
Silence often reflected with a degree of bitter satisfaction that neither his brother nor his sister was still alive. Through suffering and defiance, Silence had grown strong. But his siblings had not weathered through the same selec
Untitled Tiger Project Part 3Untitled Tiger Project Part 32 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Silence stood upright with his front legs splayed apart while Tintagel worked. Although the tiger felt tense and cramped, he did not complain. It was not in his nature to admit to physical discomfort.
Tintagel had wound sisal rope around his giant companion in a figure eight that wrapped around the tiger’s neck and lower chest. It was tied together in a fisherman’s knot where the two loops met between Silence’s shoulder blades. There was just enough slack between flesh and rope that Tintagel could slip his hand between them with a little bit of effort. The makeshift harness was tight enough to keep its form and position, but it was not so constricting that it limited movement or breathing.
Tintagel was thorough in checking his work. He inspected and pulled on the knot, then turned his attention to the four glass bottles that were suspended from the makeshift harness, two on either side. They had once held volatile ammonium hydroxide, and th
Metastasis98.00Metastasis3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gills carved into my hips, lopsided and crude.
I make fresh ones twice a day, slice myself open once in the morning and once at night in hopes the air will come a little easier each time. I make three and count them off:
and hope my heart stops.
The leaves have been carted away, pummeled into dust, and blown away in the wind.
OuroborosIt was obvious that Scratch didnt belong.Ouroboros7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
For starters, his coat colour was all wrong. With the exception of Ned, who possessed a rather handsome coal-black layer of fur, every rat in the laboratory was a sparkling, immaculate white. Scratch was the same dirty grey as the neglected piping runs outside. Secondly, he was young. The others, even Ned, were all quite old. Hyram, the leading rat and often simply called the Admiral, was jokingly said to be immortal.
It was also obvious that most of the other rats did not appreciate his presence. After all, they belonged, and he did not. They had been born and raised in this laboratory, the most prestigious analysis and research facility of all. Scratch was well, no one cared to even ask which laboratory he had come from. It didnt matter, after all, because there was no other laboratory in the world like this one.
In fact, Scratch would not have even moved to the laboratory if Ned hadnt requested a re
The Particular Sadness of Pomegranate Seeds IVBegrudgingly he closed Persephone’s door. He did not wish to part with her, but he knew it was too soon. He longed for the days when they would whisper sweet nothings to each other as their bodies entwined, their limbs inseparable and indistinguishable from each other. One day they would participate in such endeavors.The Particular Sadness of Pomegranate Seeds IV2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
“Hades, who is that girl?” Hecate approached him as he locked Persephone’s door, taking one last moment to linger in future memories yet to be made.
“Persephone, I brought her here to marry me.” She was just as he imagined: full of life and love. She was always dancing, joyously, with her multitude of flowers and trees bowing to her. The sunlight, all at once, radiated from her skin as she absorbed it. He could not picture a woman more suited to his tastes and desires than she. She would be his goddess. She would bring life to the Underworld. She would all at once rule over death and life—with him at her side. He would know
Drive"You ready to go?"Drive3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It's with sodden hands and soaked-through boots that he climbs into the back of the faded old pickup. Red paint's peeling off everywhere, but he barely cares. Bullet holes and scattershot clusters show every few feet, but he still loves his ride. Despite the shattered world and slightly shattered rear-view mirror, it still takes him places.
He's got a gruff voice; his baritone erupts from his throat like gunfire or gravel across a chipped highway. Torn rubber boots slosh in the highway's broken shoulder. A burning wind catches his hair, runs through his stubble and down his open shirt. Runoff from the road splashes his faded jeans.
His coat whips in the wind, green and patched more times than he can count on his fingers. At least he has all of them; staying intact is an odd bonus in his line of work. The tools of his trade click and shift in their holsters just above h
Train Under WaterBrother,Train Under Water6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write to you wherever I go. I won't leave a return address, please don't try to follow me. You can't, Michael, you're too smart. Your place is here among these people; and mine is out there. You're meant for your books; I'm meant for my trees. I want to roar from the woods with a pen mightier than He
Writers are all crazy, you know.Letters spill down from a canopy andWriters are all crazy, you know.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
down the vines,
scatter across the margins to make
a story so divine.
There's a picture show
behind those eyes,
where a lake leaks stories
into a boat full of mad
but for those who think it's crazy
it really is quite sad.
on a rope swing,
between horror and once upon a time.
She obsesses over meter,
and nothing will quite rhyme.
She stares off into the
d i s t a n c e
trying to make some sense
of every idea that flocks her boat
and never will relent.
Her brain is constantly on
resipiscenthe was one of those dick-faced kids in shades of bright polyester salmon who seemed to always be laughing or looking at me. an ambiguous-named, feminine-famed all-school american douchebag in those quality leather sandals in the wintertime and golf-green shorts.resipiscent3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
ta give you some background i'm about as far away on the social scale from him as one can get. you know how all the little groups overlap and flap together, pushed around in the wet sand like wave-rivulets blending little facets of stones together until it makes a dune? well our groups---they didn't even touch. i mean you could go from pop-jock to lacrosse to dipper to weed-dealer to hipster to artsy kid to photographer to theatre kid and MAYBE just MAYBE make a weak little chain like one o em shitty-ass jump rings that connect dollar-store lockets. but anyway the point i'm trying to make is we sit on opposite sides of the room and let sociology take its toll.
of course murphy's law works in that i never know anyone. is it that
An Oath to My FatherAn Oath to My Father3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
An Oath to My Father:
The chill of winter is nothing, when compared to the cold inside my heart.
A fire, once stoked by the warmth of family, has quietly died, five falls past.
I dream of my father, who watches from beyond the realms - and my ancestors
Who fought against an endless army of giants, to win the lands we have today.
Just as a devout man honours his God through worship, I honour them through my axe!
Each stroke of the whetstone, each screech of the metal, brings me closer to them -
Even as I draw closer to my doom. Oh how I can feel him, for the anger in my blood
Boils evermore as I sense him approaching my camp. He is hungry, he is eager;
Slacks of drool hang from his twin mouths, as a jarring roar shakes the mountain!
Though I shiver at the sight, it is not from fear - I shiver in anticipation
Of the battle that is to come. My steel may rend his flesh and break his bones;
Or perhaps I shall be sent to glory - but it is useless to think about such things,
of the ground-of the ground3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was Sunday night when Geo climbed into my room from the fire escape. I was painting my toenails and listening to the sounds of the city: police sirens, pulsating bass, the kids in my tenement running guitar riffs back and forth with the street musicians on the sidewalk. That was the year I turned sixteen and took a two-month vow of silence to honor the death of autumn. A premature snow had robbed the season of its delicate warmth and color, forcing the maples to weep their leaves into the gutters. All that rainwater, all that decay. How could anyone create when October was dying outside their windows? Pete and Jake practiced acoustic that entire month. The rest of us were too fragile to play in suicide weather, when the right chords might move us to open our veins.
Geo sat down next to me, examining my bottle of red lacquer. "'To Eros is Human,'" he read, and rolled his eyes. "I'll keep that in mind."
I offered him my shoebox of nail polish. He selected a purple the color of opium
9-1-1Nine-one-one, I need your help9-1-14 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
No, I'm not bleeding: on the outside I'm fine
But no one will look between the lines
There's not a knife in my heart
If you're looking for one that's real
There's one of emotion not one of steel.
I'm not drowning in water
But instead in mistakes.
That perfect girl they see? She's all fake.
I tell all my friends the "truth",
But I tell it like a joke or lie
So they have only themselves to blame when I die.
Maybe they'll all stand around
After my funeral, at my grave
Saying they never saw any hints that I gave.
So operator, remember this conversation.
I told someone these things I've been afraid to show.
It's ironic, really, that it's all to someone I don't even know.
leavemedon'tleaveme.you make me sick. you make my stomach fold in on itself and press out against the lining of my flesh. you put lumps in my throat and you tie strings to my tear glands and tug until the world is just a panoply of blurred lines, hazy colour and bokeh.leavemedon'tleaveme.7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
you made me do this. you put the knife in my fingers and you told me to tear, you said you would care if i hurt myself like this. you said youd care if i opened my flesh up for you like a gift of blood and flesh and tissue. but you never really did.
i like being small, i like being the blue eyed girl sitting amidst background noise, rubber band arms holding the necks of her legs together. i like being the blue eyed girl with hands holding her from spilling in a mess at everyones toes. i like it when theyre your hands.
i try to define you with mental disorders. i say you have schizophrenia and pretend its a valid excuse. im in love with one of your personalities, but the other doesnt even notice