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The DoctorWhen I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions.The Doctor1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one."
I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek.
"Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye."
The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad."
"Sad?" My mother asked inquis
ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.Impressionable1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.
Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.
She never felt quite at home. She worried about
I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.I'm Just Waiting for the Rain1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leave
The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.The Man in the Coffee Shop2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.
Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.
Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hai
FFM XXVIIIf she screams the loudest that means she cares the most. Beneath her weak chest, her heart palpitates and her lungs expand to the point of near eruption. She waves her hands and stomps her feet just like everyone around her, shaking the floor with the weight of a thousand booming steps.FFM XXVII10 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Now, if only he would look at her.
Ghost Fingerssongs drift slowlyGhost Fingers1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
from rooms filled with peeling wallpaper
sometimes i feel you wrapped around my heart
touching places you could never reach before
we have a story
worthy of a best-selling paperback
the kind of story
that's only sad when it belongs to you
i try to intertwine my fingers with yours
but it's not really the same
unless you're there too
Grandfather's BirdGrandfather had a pet bird. Just a small, yellow and white parakeet; he named it Georgie, after Grandmother. Every morning, he would wake up at 6 o'clock, make a pot of coffee, grab the newspaper, and feed the small bird a small pile of birdseed. And he would gently carry the birdcage, and place it on the table and talk to her as he drank his coffee and read the newspaper.Grandfather's Bird2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
"Gas prices are up again Georgie, geez, remember when we could pay 20¢ to fill up our car?"
And sometimes the bird almost chirped in response. Years and years went by, and Grandfather grew older, and he could no longer carry the bird off the shelf, but he would still
UnattainableThose who are lucky enough to have friends are lucky indeed. For not everyone is so lucky.Unattainable1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
It must be nice to have someone's shoulder to cry on. Someone you can bitch to; someone who'll hold you when you're hurt. Not everyone has someone like that.
Some of us just have friends, only a few, whom we call best friends, but they don't say such things in return do they? No, because we aren't their best friend, we're just a friend. Or worse that weird person they hang out with.
You see they have someone else that they uncover their heart and soul too. Someone they've known since they were children; or someone they met several years ago and becam
Drowning in Reverse x. I still have your phone.Drowning in Reverse1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ix. The boardwalk carnival was shut down a few months later, roped off and boarded up like a condemnation of joy. The ferris wheel still rose high above the skyline, towering in silent reminder.
viii. The funeral was on a beautiful, balmy, sunny day and somehow that made it all the worse. The wind would pick up a little and ruffle your goldspun hair and I could hope, just for a moment, that you were still here.
vii. It was a cold, white room. I don't know why hospitals are so cold. Or maybe it was just me - maybe it was just me trying to siphon out all of my warmth and channel it into you.
vi. I didn't see the
Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.Teacup Friends7 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Insid
Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.Please Don't Leave Me1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Please don't leave me.
She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the
I'm coming out: I'm straight “Mom? Mum? Can I talk to you?”I'm coming out: I'm straight5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My voice quivered. Both of them looked up at me. Mom’s head was in Mum’s lap. Mum was slowly stroking her forehead, leaning down to kiss her forehead while still staring at me intently. A satanic bible was placed in Mum’s lap, the thin, withered pages torn in a few places from continued reading. “You know you can talk to us about anything,” Mom said, smiling, sitting up a bit straighter. She leaned over to kiss Mum, who kissed her back. I took a seat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin, staring down at my cuticles. Even for a guy, they were pretty nasty.
I took
velvetgirldear velvetgirl--velvetgirl1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i find i barely know you these days.
lucifier hovers behind your eyelashes;
and i cry out because you're losing it
you're not that little sunshine-glitter
girl i remember, no stars in your soul.
you're cracked and you don't notice;
you're cracked and you won't care;
you're cracked and there are schisms
running through your skin, baby run
run away before there's nothing left
of that innocent child i called to
across the street, so very long ago.
i don't know if we'll survive us,
but darling, always remember this;
i will always adore you for staying
when no-one else had the courage to.
let's end this the way we began it
FFM XVIIt's only me left. I wish it could have been something cool, like from a sci-fi novel. In the end I would be saved by some kind-hearted scientist who manages to make fast-growing saplings from my seeds and then repopulate the entire grove. But this is not a sci-fi novel, and there will not be a happy ending.FFM XVI10 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Half of this grove was gone with the sound of heavy machinery and a deafening crack of dry wood. No one put up a fight or showed any resistance to them. Trees don't cry. Not even when someone says something mean to them. Not even when they are lonely. Not even when a bulldozer runs them over.
I hope that when they do come for me, they w
FFM XXHe arrives here at the same time that I do. He waits outside the building for the doors to open, raising his sun-weathered hands towards the sky in some sort of meditation ritual he himself made up. Once the library unlocks its doors, he says hello to the staff and takes a seat by the window. His seat. He opens up his bag of things; a jar of water, his reading glasses, a notebook, and a pen. He goes to the stacks and pulls out a children's dictionary and whatever book he plans on reading that day. Today, it happens to be about Marine Biology. He sets up the scene, notebook in one hand, pen in the other.FFM XX10 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
His sanity must have gone years ago. I
FFM VI (The Astronaut)I've always liked astronauts. There is a strange romanticism attached to someone who finds the entire world so mundane that they feel compelled to leave it behind. (I hear that the word mundane means "earthly." Figures.) They need more. They need the universe. They need everything that ever was and ever will be.FFM VI (The Astronaut)11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My husband is an astronaut, and as a child, I wanted to become one too. I could leave my little world behind. But as I grew, my little world also grew, and I realized that there was more than enough to explore and discover on this planet. I had my love, the astronaut and we lived in a tiny, little house where I played wife and he pla
FFM II"Dreams are the best liars, they always know exactly what you want."FFM II11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What makes you say that?" he asks, not looking up from the glow of his phone.
"Last night, I had a dream, and it was raining, storming, with lightning flashing through the sky and thunder booming so hard it shook the floor. I was in a store, one kind of like Walmart, and there were no windows or doors. And if I had thought about it, I would have realized that it was a dream."
"What do you mean?" he says, with the click of his iPhone.
"Well, if there were no windows, I wouldn't have seen the lightning, right?"
"I suppose not," he said.
"But then, I remember I was goin
FFM XVOf course it was wet, it was the 1800's!FFM XV10 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
No one could remember when the rain started, and no one could see it stopping any time soon. Rain collected in buckets, gutters, potholes in the street. We learned to live with it as everyone else had done for years. It did wonders for the city's rat population (which I hear took a sharp downfall when the rain first started), and if it weren't for the mud, it might almost be bearable.
I, however, had grown sick of it. There were only stories of sunshine now. Stories told late at night by my grandmother, or re-told with glorious anecdotes by my brother.
There was really nothing that I wanted more tha
FFM IVThey were not programmed to love. They were not programmed to feel.FFM IV11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
But they were programmed to learn.
It had been seventy-four years since their integration with the humans. Seventy-four years since a single war had broken out. The humans seemed to be fine with them and they seemed to ignore the humans.
On this particular day, a human girl named June was waiting for her friend to meet her at the bar. The lights were dim, and the air was heavy with smoke and filled with a gross but typical scent of oil and alcohol.
So June was waiting for her friend and one of them approached her to take her order.
"Would you like anything to drink?" it
FFM IIIShe's always thought parallel lines to be a metaphor for her love life. Always going the same way, but never meeting.FFM III11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Most days, she goes to one of her favorite places; the places that manic-pixie-dream-boys meet their manic-pixie-dream-girls in the movies. Places like bookshops and coffee shops and used DVD stores and hidden parks. She does her hair and makeup and brings one of the classic books from her bookshelf. Something that she's never read before, but knows enough of the plot that she could hold an intelligent conversation should the moment strike.
She sees the same people there every day, or at least the same type. The tall skinny
Feeding The PigeonsThe new pills were in my pocket, probably getting all linty. Or should I say the new-new-new pills: after all, this was the third try at finding a medication I'm not allergic to. After throwing my guts up on two different meds, I'm not about to swallow another one, only to find it's coming back up too.Feeding The Pigeons2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Why do I even have medication? It's not like I'm in horrible pain when I don't take it.
My arms are stuck straight out, and they waver as I try to balance on one metal track. If my foot touches the ground, it's "burned" by lava. Lava is pretty good incentive not to touch the middle of the train tracks: even if in real life, its not lava. It
May the lion lay down beside the lamb.Like the lamb hiding from the lion, I speak carefully not to disturb you. Tip toe around the gates of your feelings, I want you to understand the nature of my words. Like the lion to the lamb, you're so quick to lash out. Much too concerned with your own perseverance and needs to consider mine. This love took me through the clouds of depression and left me sitting among the stars, reveling in the view of the beauty you brought into my life. How is it that the thread I was hanging by so tightly could have snapped so suddenly? No sign of fibers splitting, no sign of our love receding. A lamb as frail as I couldn't dream of rebuilding a bond soMay the lion lay down beside the lamb.1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
FFM IShe balances her laptop on her knees and drums her fingers along the keys.FFM I11 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It's four in the morning, ninety-six degrees in this room, her shirt is sticking to her back, and she feels cold.
The night air is dense, the humidity is oppressive, her computer base burning into her legs and the screen is burning into her eyes.
In the top right-hand corner of the screen, she has typed in the name, all fifteen letters. The links provided by the search engine are all purple.
Except one.
She taps her fingers along the keyboard and hovers her mouse over the remaining blue link.
A Fire Consumes a Local Restaurant Leaving Two Injured and One Dead.
S
The Dream-Makers The clouds are beautiful today.The Dream-Makers5 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
I watch them from behind someone’s eyelids as she sleeps beneath a tree with a book in her lap. For a while I imagine the way the trees must feel as the breeze sways them; I have not felt a true breeze in so long. And then I turn back to the depths of the girl’s mind and carry on with my work. After all, dreams do not create themselves.
I don my black shawl and turn to the little dream form of the girl. Falling into my character, I cluck my tongue and point at the forest that materializes in her subconscious. “Beware the monsters that live within the woods, my dear.”
“But
Sta.sh
