When Growing Up Becomes Growing OldShe thinks it hits at 35. She watches her husband blow out the candles on his birthday cake, the smoke tendrils hovering in the air before they are swallowed up by the fan in the window of their new home.
By 35 you have settled down and started your family, and if you haven't, it's the year your mother begins to tell you that it's "now or never" and that if you chose the latter, you're going to regret it.
Their friends all sing an off-key version of Happy Birthday, holding long-stemmed glasses of red wine, except for Marie, since she's six months pregnant. She cuts her husband's cake into sizable pieces only to have three of the women decline as they are "watching their weight."
She looks down at the cake on her plate and thinks of the blank application for a gym membership on top of the refrigerator as her friends swap workout stories. She nods her head, gasping every so often and finishes it off with a lot of sympathetic grunting. The men have begun swapping work stories n
HundeminenI don't know words very well, but I think they call the thing "Tank." It is a big fat thing with a long nose and it smells of metal and diesel. Though I don't know words very well, I have come to understand that I must go to Tank and bite the cord on my chest. I must worry it until heavy thing that is mine falls beneath me because this makes Man-With-Hat happy and when Man-With-Hat is happy he feeds me. This is good because I am hungry all the time. If I do not worry the cord and instead come back with the thing that is mine then Man-With-Hat is not happy and he strikes me instead of feeds. This is how I learn to worry the cord and drop the thing that is mine even though I don't know words.Hundeminen2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I learn slowly without knowing words, but this is not bad because eventually there is a time when I can find Tank every time. I can worry the cord every time and let thing that is mine fall every time and this makes Man-With-Hat very happy. But then there is a time when I go to Tank and it is making
The Crazy Kind"How much is that dragon in the window?"The Crazy Kind3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"What, Balthazar? Keep dreaming kid it takes a special kind to care for a dragon."
"The crazy kind."
"You take care of him."
"Aye, that I do."
"Yeah, yeah, don't go pointing out the obvious. What do you want a dragon for?"
" How much you got in your pocket kid?"
Synesthesia Water falls drip by drop from the tin roof and Tim gets a sense that time is slowing to a stop. Each speck takes its ten foot dive to earth so slowly that Tim finds it serene to watch, as though nature was jumping to her death. When a drop finally crashes against the concrete the sound explodes in a vivid blue in front of his eyes.Synesthesia3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
His heart rams against his ribcage repeatedly, trying to break free. It is almost painful, but not quite, to feel it hammer away at his chest. With each barrage his heart makes his body shakes and he hears a rumble within himself. The growl is fierce and shoots wisps of red into his vision. The beating of his heart begins to dance in step with the water; the blues and reds collide before his eyes forming the beginnings of an image, though Tim could not make out what it was.
He knows he can't put it off any longer; he turns to face his assailant. The man is taller than h
The World is Round"Tell me a story, Daddy," the little girl said. She sat, hair frizzed from a pillow fight in her green cotton pyjamas that were missing a button. Eyes wide and cross-legged she sat there, the covers clutched in her hands. Daddy sat next to her on the bed his large hands folded onto his lap, a criss-cross of scars. He took a deep breath that sounded like the fireplace bellows might if they didn't squeak, as he settled and thought. She could always see him thinking. It was his eyes, darting like little lizards to pull the answer from the air in the corners of the room.The World is Round3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Once upon a time," he began, "the world was round."
"Is it still round, Daddy?" she asked.
Daddy smiled and said, "As round as an orange or a marble."
She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, hands holding onto her ankles so she didn't tip all the way back. She thought about oranges and marbles and if holding one in her hand meant holding the world in her hand and if the world was a marble where their other marbles and
Art History Literature: Weeks 2 and 3 Roundup!Hey all!Art History Literature: Weeks 2 and 3 Roundup!3 years ago in Literature Features More Like This
Firstly I apologise for now writing a week 2 roundup- I had a few personal goings on including a dying laptop and then before I knew it we were halfway through the week so it made sense to just wrap weeks 2 and 3 together!
There has been a wonderful amount of articles produced, including some very interesting artist interviews also! For more info, check out below:
Week 2 Roundup
Week 3 Roundup
A Romantic Takeover by GrimFace242 :thumb328408904: An Interview with CrumpetsHarvey by GrimFace242
If you missed week 1, please check this out:
Art History: Week 1 Roundup by BeccaJS
Thank you all, your support on these articles and the efforts the authors who wrote them has been remarkable, lets keep things going!
Quake the EarthYou wereQuake the Earth2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from the rust-rim
in quick sips and swallowed stars,
like those remembered
at the bottom of the glass.
from the orogeny
of your subduction,
of your skin sliding to a fit
and the tremors we could make.
Bastard Sons of GodThe bar is small with a huge mirror behind the front counter that reflects the sunlight pouring in through the windows. Cameron and Mikey sit next to each other on bar stools at the front counter, drinking Adios Motherfuckers. For a long moment no words are passed between them, but then Mikey breaks the silence. “Don’t worry, man,” he says, clapping Cameron on the back. “You’ll find someone else.”Bastard Sons of God2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“I don’t want to,” Cameron replies.
“That’s what everyone says, and then it happens—you meet someone, you hit it off, the feelings come back, and then bam, you’re back to square one. Relationship status: taken. And everything’s cool.”
Cameron looks down into his half-gone Adios Motherfucker. “She was different.”
“They’re all different. Listen, when I lost Kim, I lost my goddamn mind. She was my whole world, man. I thought she was my soul mate. I didn’t know how the he
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.Stories of feelings with no names - Revision2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
Yet Another Christmas CarolIt was Christmas, celebrated all around Earth - and in Heaven, of course. As for elsewhere...Yet Another Christmas Carol4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
If you believe for a single second that the devils don't celebrate Christmas, you are, well, right, actually. They keep very quiet about it. Not even a mouse would dare speak about it to the Almighty Fiend, Lucifer. The sole exception to this unspoken rule had happened a few years back on the occasion of a Satanically spiked MTV "Merry Christmas" video which had seemed like a good idea for a few hours. Until it became obvious that it had been a pointless endeavor those who watched MTV regularly had been mostly unaffected, those who didn't had had their opinions on the low quality of the station confirmed and, generally, it had been a fruitless fiasco.
You didn't talk to Lucifer on Christmas. It was the same as going to him on Easter, patting him on the back and saying "There, there, mate. Anybody would have thought that killing Jesus was a good idea. I mean,
The SketchHe loses his first kiss in autumn. He's twelve, she's just turned thirteen, and at the time he isn't sure what all the fuss is about but knows how special it is anyway.The Sketch3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She's gorgeous, pale-skin, brown hair, dark eyes always filled with happiness and joy the way he wishes he could be. She doesn't want to be there any more than he does, and they grouse to each other about how they don't need a 'special school.' It's the first time he's worked up the courage to say it.
She carries a book too, just like his sketchbook, but she says it's a diary. It's hung with a little lock on the front and he jokes about it being the key to her heart, a little boy's poor attempt at flirting but she laughs anyway. He wants to hear that laugh again, and he does, when he shyly asks if he can draw her.
It's half-way through his sketch that she leans in and presses her soft lips to his. It's a little clumsy and awkward, given how she's standing up and he's cross-legged on the ground, and nowhere as romantic l
Five Sentence StoryWe crawled out of bed Monday morning (or was it Tuesday?) around noon, as usual. Silk webs devoid of spiders or flies lined the inside of our cabinets; it was determined I would have to go out, and my husband tucked a handful of coins in to my folded hands. I spent fifteen minutes in the store deciding how to spend two Euros and fifteen cents. My husband greeted me with eager eyes when I returned; for two hours we savored the dark, creamy candy in silence, smiling. The chocolate tasted more sweet than bitter.Five Sentence Story2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
lit to parking metersteaching literature to parking meterslit to parking meters2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a selfless art.
for parking meters merely take,
and are silent.
Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of ChristmasNietzsche eyed the gaudy Christmas decorations. The pressure of providing all the people he knew with gifts weighed heavily and he once more wondered what the point of it all was.Nietzsche Contemplates the Meaning of Christmas1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Around him were people like him, shopping for Christmas gifts to show the people they knew they cared about them. But unlike him, they were constantly in motion, shoving against each other, searching and purchasing. The shopping mall was filled and Nietzsche felt he was the only one not caught in the fervor of Christmas.
He stepped outside to the parking lot to properly monologue.
"What is the point?" Nietzsche wondered to himself out loud. "What is the meaning of all this? Surely, Christmas is more than about its presents?"
"You're right," a voice behind Nietzsche said.
Nietzsche whirled around in surprise. "Jesus Christ!"
"That's right," Jesus Christ said, wearing a resplendent white robe. "Christmas is more than presents. Look at the word 'Christmas'. It has 'Christ' in it. Christmas is about me."
So Few LeftSo few survivors are left from the sudden slaughter, the ones with the most fatal wounds may not make it through the night or even the next hour. Those with the light injuries are terrified, which is understandable considering the sheer magnitude of the slaughter and how quickly it had come around.So Few Left3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
There was no defence against it, no chance of escape. So many were killed outright before they even knew what was happening, many others were taken and are likely already dead.
It was truly a dark day and coming night for the survivors, no one knew who would be next and when the next attack would come. Panic was spreading like wildfire, there were prayers and pleading of whatever higher power there may be to spare them.
Of course such prayers and pleading words tend to fall on deaf ears.
There was no hope and no chance of survival, the sun was setting fast and it was going to be our last.
There was no chance of reinforcements from anyone, they too had suffere
TapsThirty-two days to go.Taps3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It wasn't life this time. He should have gotten life in the clink, but somehow, he'd talked his way through another maelstrom of half-truths and accusations. Getting off the hook was simple. With another trial behind him, he wonders why and how jails still remain full.
It's too damn easy, he thinks with a smirk. A raindrop falls across his head. Its partners splatter across the grime of the floor- a testament to his three months of misery.
The rain dripping across his face and down his greasy ponytail is the remnants from last night's storm. The leaks often trickled down from the flat rooftop of the pen and down through to the sixth floor cells- the minimum security ones.
Concrete chips and broken glass filtered down through the cracks as well. They ran within the pools of browned water through the bars of his cell on the worst nights.
Handcuffs and manacles click outside the
The Last Letter | Message in a BottleBooooooooooom.The Last Letter | Message in a Bottle3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
This is going to be a bad one, I mused to myself.
I gazed out at the gray expanse before me. The sky was dark with storm clouds ready to release their deluge. The ocean waves 25 feet below me were already beginning to look choppy, even though the storm was still many miles away from the coast. The wind was picking up already too, threatening to blow my skinny 13-year-old body backwards against the rocks. But I planted my feet and held my ground against the onslaught.
"Wouldn't want to be sailing in this," Andrew voiced aloud. Although he was the same age as me, he was already stockier, and had no trouble standing, as if it were only a gentle sea breeze buffeting him.
"You aren't kidding," I said. There was a flash of lightning in the distance, followed by a long pause and another low rumbling of thunder. Definitely a bad one.
I gazed at the choppy waters, mesmerized by their ebb and flow. Suddenly, a glint caught my eye, lit by another flash in the d
General Purpose Love LetterDear: _______________________General Purpose Love Letter6 years ago in Humor More Like This
My love! For too long I have kept my feelings secret. It's time I told you how I really feel, because:
[ ] It's making me crazy.
[ ] It's making my spouse crazy.
[ ] My therapist won't shut up about it.
[ ] The cops will be here any moment and there's no time.
Quite honestly, I'm a little obsessed. How can I make you understand? Let me try:
[ ] I tattooed your name on my body.
[ ] I tattooed your name on my spouse's body.
[ ] I changed all my pet's names to honor you.
[ ] Even the voices in my head are a little afraid of me now.
Whenever I think of you, I:
[ ] Dream of us together, forever.
[ ] Imagine what it would be like to hold you for a time.
[ ] Spasm, pass out, and wake up in a puddle of... um...
[ ] Push harder on the accelerator.
Your voice makes me:
[ ] Sigh contentedly.
[ ] Tremble like a leaf.
[ ] Tremble like a leaf-blower.
[ ] Imagine a choir of angels with loofahs.
I made a gift for you.
Words are easier to loveI found little notesWords are easier to love4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
hidden between the
pages of novels
I only bothered
to read once.
and secret crushes
filled the slightly
paper of a lonely girl
with veins that
pumped a writers
a cage around
her own ink stained
[ h e a r t. ]
WordlessThere is a world I know, where everything is blank.Wordless2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
For there is nothing to describe, the beauty deep within.
Where meaning has no meaning, for its definition does not exist.
Where the past is in the Past, for no one remembers what has been done,
for nothing has been said.
Inspiration is a withering rose, ideas are a shooting star, passions are a dying flame,
Because there is nothing that can spread or fuel its vitality.
There is a world I know, where emotions are all dead,
for no one knows how to say the words,
'I. Love. You.'
nyctophobia.i.nyctophobia.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
i'd wake up to the darkness that surrounds me
and reach around myself, gripping for a pillow or something to hold me
and then i'd hear you say
'shh, it's okay'
in a voice too deep for drowsiness
and i'd fall back into my nightmare.
i'd wake up to the darkness that surrounds me
and meet your powder blue gaze and you'd say
'don't worry, it'll feel better tomorrow'
and i wouldn't know what you meant until three hours later
when i caressed my new stitched heart and felt the wound on my rocketing lungs
and i'd fall back into my nightmare.
i'd wake up to the darkness that surrounds me
and the rain would be pouring outside the window with five-second lightning streaks
and the thunder would smack the ground and resonate my thoughts and you'd say
'you must've felt it when the lightning struck your happiness'
and i wouldn't tell you i only felt the lightning through your fingers
or the thunder through your undeserving tongue
and i'd fall back into my nightmare.
i'd wake up to the
Skinny Jeans JackSkinny Jeans Jack's father is a cynical asshole who likes vegan cupcakes. He says he eats that fake food vegan crap out of concern for the animals and shit, and that he don't want to hurt Gaia, but Skinny Jeans Jack stole his medical records when he was working as secretary for the doc and found that the lying turd just can't eat gluten and dairy makes him gassy.Skinny Jeans Jack3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Can't trust my father," Skinny Jeans Jack tells me, taking a drag of his cigarette. His real name is Jasmine his dad was drunk enough to make cows fly and high enough that the lights on the ceilings of the hospital were able to whisper the ghost stories of everyone who had kicked the bucket under those sterile fluorescents when the poor bastard was born, and the papa had been watching some Disney the night before. Skinny Jeans Jack don't like much his first name, so he uses his dad's. "Can't be no worse than he is," he reasons, and he adjusts his bright blue skinny jeans so they sit higher on his hips. He's always got
Midnight Story LullabyTell me your starry wishes so I can misplace them on butterfly wings,Midnight Story Lullaby3 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
& the nightmares you breathe will be the voices that always remind you:
(sing me a lullaby)
because your childhood
stories are haunting my
The monsters in your
closet are those
you abandoned in
so you could catch
reality on time.
But I'll be your infectious memory
that you'll never want to get rid of.
A Writer's Commandments1. Thou shalt remember thy purpose of writing. Never forget why thou wanted to beest a writer.A Writer's Commandments2 years ago in Letters More Like This
2. Thou shalt not plagiarize another writer's work. It's disgusting.
3. Thou shalt remember thou art human. Humans maketh mistakes.
4. When thou shalt face rejection or failure, ALWAYS rise up again. Persistence is the force that helps us climbeth the pillars to success.
5. Thou shalt devoteth thyself to thou's craft wholeheartedly. How serious art thou about thy writing, HMMM???
6. Respect thy fellow writers, for their acknowledgement is thy true validation.
7. Thou shalt not deny one's creativity or be ashamed of thy quirkiness. Thou may seem insane, but all geniuses seem so.
8. Thou shalt strive to BLOW MINDS and KICK ASS!
9. When thou hath reached thy definition of success, (I.e become published, acknowledged by all) thou shalt dance like a spaz and feel like a rock star.
10. CHANGE THE WORLD THINE OWN WAY.
Letter to a Friend Far AwayWhat do you write to a soul mate you've never actually met? Whose hair texture you can imagine, scent you can almost detect? Whose laugh rings still - garbled by continents, oceans, timezones, and the fallible nature of technology - to echo contentedly in your memory as pen crosses page? Dear friend, this letter is late and I apologize. But please understand.Letter to a Friend Far Away4 years ago in Letters More Like This
The words are too many and oh so few. How do I explain the clustered silence that your chatter (beloved as it is and will be) ought to fill? How do I narrate the beauty of the skyline where Highway 101 meets Interstate 5 if you are not here to watch my hands tell the story for me? The more intimate details of human interaction depend on physical presence, don't they? Or do they?
I question this because were I blind, or deaf, I think you and I might still find our way to friendship. Dear friend, this is how I see a soul mate - not as the mythical bond between man and woman that so limits our ability to define love - but as the ines