You call it Judgement, We call it SinEmily needs the words to understand that she isn't being unreasonable. She just wants them to mean something and not be a string of words which flows into itself over and over again.You call it Judgement, We call it Sin2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She doesn't like her name either. Not because Emily isn't a pretty name but because she would rather be called something she feels like. (She has never quite forgiven her parents for choosing her name for her.) If she could, she would call herself Glass, because that is what she wakes up feeling like every morning. As if crystallised pieces of glass are edible and her insides tingle as she swallows them whole.
Emily lets the words call her names sometimes. She writes them on her knees so that she can remember them. Sometimes the words call her a whore, and sometimes stupid, and sometimes a loser and sometimes a tramp (She has never learnt that loving too much is a crime and boys with pretty eyes sometimes lie.). She sits in the bathroom with a pen the colour of blood and writes them carefully
About Honour"Ever worried about what the world thought of you?"About Honour3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Nope. I only worry about what I think of me."
"What do you think about you?"
"That I am a broken-eyed, converse-reject-wearing wise ass."
"Really? And what do you call yourself?"
"I call me proud."
"What do you call yourself?"
"I am the grade school version of the heartbroken girl, who can't play the guitar so she strums a ukulele instead, who can't paint so she draws terrible pictures in graphite that keeps giving way."
"I see you doing it again. Put the fucking pen down right now and stop it."
"What? I was just writin-"
"You're cutting yourself to pieces with shark-toothed words again. Just because a sword is a beautiful, glittering object of honour doesn't mean it always has an honorable purpose."
"Do you really think I am a sword?"
"Nope. I think you're beautiful, glittering object of honour. And the thing with honour is, it makes the world turn to stare in awe."
UndeservedI don't deserve to be an artist.Undeserved2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I don't know how to hold deep meaningful conversations with strangers.
I don't lament at night about a lover I have lost.
I don't watch the white smoke ebb into darkness.
I don't spend lonely nights admiring the true beauty of the world.
I don't sleep restlessly from the truth of suffering within this world.
I don't lie through my smiles or struggle to create them.
But I do think I am a writer.
I am completely, irreparably damaged.
I cry all night over old words and emotional baggage.
I weep over my lost innocence.
I spend nights wishing for skin against my own
I long for insomnia to inspire me.
I beg for worlds to collide so I can breathe.
So am I writer really?
Or just another misguided artist?
Never AgainThe rain boy had sworn that he would never again smile. His eyes always soaked the oceans with tears from his past and his heart was always dark and locked to anyone who could try and help him. His world had become so bleak and dark, that he stood in rooms of people that were a blur past him and a guitar that just no longer played.Never Again3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
So when the sunshine girl met the rain boy, for a second, the world stood still. In that tiny little balcony, where there was only space for two, the sunshine girl asked the rain boy, "When was the last time you smiled?"
The rain boy was startled for a second at someone talking to him, but he answered anyway, "I think it was ten years ago."
"Is that because someone broke your heart?"
"It is because more than one person broke my heart."
"Oh." She paused for a moment, but looked up again, her eyes dancing like star like diamonds "Well, just because someone broke your heart, it doesn't mean that they should become the hero of your story."
My InspirationYou once asked me what inspired me, sweet love;My Inspiration3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And I shall tell what you want to hear...
It is a girl who isn't clever, but clever in what she knows
and a lost boy who knows exactly where he is going to go.
It is the scent of cologne and smoke and lovemaking
and a man who wears his heart on his sleeve
It is a woman who has always believed in her lover
and he will let her down no more
It is a sick man who is whole again
and the wife who stayed by his side
It is a writer who has found a brand new muse
and the paint of the artist who draws her lover
It is the words of a poet whose trust is renewed
and the warmth in the words of the person who finds love anew
It is the broken hearted girl who is loved and doesn't know
and the tears that are caught in the hands of the unknown lover below
It is the boy with the tuneless guitar who plays it anyway
and the door opening just as you're walking away.
It is the chords of a song which is yet to be sung...
and of course, the sound of a rainstorm wh
Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.Bones2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.
They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going
A Snowfall CandlelitMy version of winter has always been flawed. It is controlled by the fall of snow and the exact amount of the ground it covers. It never ever covers the tiny little patch in the garden, right near the broken tin roofed shed. I suppose that is why I just like the idea of snow. But I do not love it.A Snowfall Candlelit2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(Realisation: I suppose that little corner represents the only part of me that even I cannot love.)
I met a man with candle lit wolf eyes and a strong, warm lion heart, who tells me Sea God stories before disappearing into a cold, cold winter's morning, fog cloaking his very essence.
(Addendum: Sometimes I think of five a.m. coffee, and wonder if your smile didn't hold all of winter's warmth in it, whether I would still be liking the idea of it.)
He lights candles and turns my room into a place of sanctity and prayer often. It makes the love making ironic in a way, I suppose. But nothing he ever does fails to intrigue the very fabric that my cotton soul is made of.
A History of ImaginariumWhen we were young, we believed. In myths, in legends, in stories beyond the wildest imagination of the best story teller in the world. Tomorrow always held surprises, new stories, and new worlds for our imaginations to explore. Everything began with 'Once upon a time' and ended with 'Happily ever after.' We lived in a land where we all owned pet tyrannosaurus rexes, maybe a few dragons, a sword that rivaled Excalibur and faeries and pixies, who just happened to make great playmates. Fae food for some reason always seemed to be so much better than your average meal, and who needs an adult to talk sense to, when you could have a talking lion?A History of Imaginarium3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
But time passed us by. And things changed. We grew up, much to Peter Pan's dismay. And things became what they would never become if we believed. Things became boring.
Reading became insipidly real, about average people with average lives. And what was worse, we enjoyed that much more that the fantastical tales that our imagination wa
City of LightYou are my city.City of Light2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Your eyes are the gates,
Your soul is my transport
Your veins the roads I must travel.
You should never ever be afraid
of my knowing you too well.
Or of my being too close to you.
Can you ever,
Even after living your whole life in it,
Know a city too well?
Skinny Wordslook:Skinny Words3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
he was winterish blue eyes and an autumn scarf dressed in an stupid pink summer sweater that made no sense on a spring day. His shoes were converse, the kind of the skinny intellectual who had just enough money to buy one pair of decent shoes. she never really liked skinny intellectuals, yet did find herself considering them sometimes, in the way she considered coffee that was tongue scalding (horribly and without excuse).
it is odd then, that she still doesn't regret his monsoon flavoured kiss, the kind that made your tongue bleed with its passion, its heat.
he drew in uneasy catches of breath as he snored in the heat of the summer night, nights when she would stay up and listen to cars that passed by, pretending they were a waterfall instead of the cold harsh truth of metal against concrete, just so she could sleep as soundly as him.
she took his breathing for granted.
he spent hours lost in the dry unending silence of his typewriter, of h
In ThreesI was armed with half a deck of emotions, two thirds of a heart and eyes of a broken mirror that offered no protection to my soul. I wanted to talk about it often and whenever I needed to, the words would tangle in my mouth, come out as a compliment of a shirt, an idea that had no relevance, a conversation about the weather. I was eighteen. I wanted to be stronger, brilliant, bright like a comet in the sky. Instead, I learnt about how beds could be the most loathed places in the world, bathrooms were meant to be soaked in blood...and men with eyes like knives sometimes used them against people they loved.In Threes3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I was armed with shards of strength, a misplaced sense of determination and the kind of bravery that only the damned can have. Words haunt, especially when all you have to your name is a broken little mind, a need for validation and an honest fear of losing someone you love. I was twenty. I wanted to make sure that the world around me realised I existed, I wanted to shine for my sake,
Gateway"Do you know what victory is?" asked a soft voice behind her.Gateway4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The girl with the broken eyes didn't look up. She couldn't. She didn't want to. Her whole body was tattooed with the rain that had started hours before, her hair dripping with the sky's tears. She hadn't wanted to dry the sorrow of the weather from her skin; for fear that someone would see her own.
"I asked, do you know what victory is?" The voice was soft, but strong. And there was something about it that reminded her that she needed to pay attention.
She still didn't speak and a disappointed sigh came from the voice. It was as if the rain had stolen her voice.
"Victory is, when you lay awake at night and pray for the sanity of others rather than yourself. It's when that broken heart which has tormented you, heals you instead. It's when you learn to forgive yourself for your past and look forward to the future."
The tears hadn't stopped yet. They made their way down her face like lifeless little
Seventeen (In Phases)1.Seventeen (In Phases)2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
It was because her parents had named her for the grandmother who had broken her mother’s heart. The grandmother whose heart was supposed to have melted from her birth and hadn’t.
That was why her mother barely looked at her. That was why she called her ‘girl’.
That was why she liked to pretend she was the quiet woman in the background of an old black and white movie. Because everything here was like an old black and white movie.
[And if she really looked back, her mother had never appreciated the elegance of the 1950s enough.]
It was because she hated surprises. The surprise she got on her sixth birthday when her father left taught her just how a single person had the ability of taking your soul, splitting it in two and wearing it on their breast pocket like a white carnation waiting to die.
That was why when she lifted a book, she looked at the last page first.
That was why her namelessness had become a comfort to her.
That was why sh