Dear Adult MeDear Adult Me,
Yes I'm looking at you.
I know it's strange to see that weird girl with the black t-shirt and jeans, both too big for her, staring at you from across a crowded train station, her purple hair standing out miles away.
Think about it though. Don't you remember that tee? The one with the TARDIS and how you yelled in happiness when it came in the mail and jumped around the kitchen counter for a few minutes?
Do you remember me?
Do you remember that grin? The one that you spent a few hours in front of the mirror perfecting when you were 13? The one that you're positive still looks ugly? Does anyone like that grin now? Is there someone waiting for you at the end of the line?
You know there isn't someone waiting for me. Yet I'm still grinning. Try to remember where that girl came from. School?
Oh, yes! Drama.
Do you remember the nerds, the singing, the innuendo, the crashing of furniture in the back closet halfway through the play that night? How at first you were horrified, but
To My Future SelfTo my Future Self,To My Future Self3 years ago in Teen More Like This
Breathe. You must be thinking, seriously, my teen self is acting like an old fart of a teacher telling off overstressed kids, but seriously, breathe. Stop. Pause. Listen. It's your heart beating. It's telling you, I'm beating so damn hard, I might just kill you one day.
Okay, let's digest. There can only be two reasons for your heart to beat like that. One reason is because I wouldn't have changed- I would still be that overzealous, neurotic, depressed teenager with a penchant for word thieves, dream catchers and moment makers. The other reason would be just the opposite: it's beating with life, with purpose, with hope.
I hope you'll be that second person.
Because being that second person means being serenaded by Chopin in a boy's car, travelling down to Bondi Beach watching sculptures rear out of the sea and you're feeling like, maybe, love may finally find you at last. Being that second person means you just won't shut up talking to patrons
Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me)Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me) –Dear You (Or, Alternatively, Me)3 years ago in Teen More Like This
I worry about you sometimes.
I worry about how you are doing: who you are spending your time frolicking with, whether or not you have finally kissed someone, if you still get nervous easily. I worry about my friends in your time – are they still our friends? Or have you finally let them all go, or pushed them away, or left like we always dreamed of?
Sometimes I lay in bed in the late hours of the night, dreaming of your life. Do you remember? Do you remember staring at the dark ceiling so long it began turning red, tossing and turning, hoping and dreading what is to come? I wonder if the things I have done effect you as we have always worried they would; if they have broken you.
You see, the truth is – and I am certain you remember this about me – I fear you. I fear you like a lightning rod fears a thunderstorm. Do you remember why I fear you so? You do, don't you? Just as I shrink away from the possibility of becoming you, so you shrink
Dear Future Self,Dear Future Self,3 years ago in Teen More Like This
Dear Future Me,
I bet you weren't expecting a letter from your past self, were you?
Well, you probably were, considering we're the same person and
you'd have to know I was writing you a letter since you wrote it in the
past so I guess you know already what's in this letter, right? Do I even
need to write it? If I don't write it… will that set off a chain of events
that lead to the you who won't read this being someone completely different!?
I've watched 'Back to the Future' far too many times.
Well, I'm going to write it. I guess I can't offer you infinite insight
about your future since I'm writing forward as opposed to back, and I
don't know what the future is going to be like, but I want to reiterate
a couple of things for you that might be weathered by time.
Alrighty, for starters:
a) Zombies will always be awesome. Forever and always. Don't lose your love for the genre, buddy.
b) There's always time. When it comes to projects, the less of it you have, t
Breaking Them InSpasmodic heart,Breaking Them In3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tumbleweeds through my chest,
Bang bang bangs against my ribs;
it demolishes me.
Palms on plastic,
Losing control again, Tell myself I
can can can keep getting through this.
It won't devour me.
Tears from the bridge,
Overexposed my pneumonic heart to
hope hope hoping that I could.
So afraid that I'd fail.
I refused to settle in ash.
No no no, I wouldn't endure another
year lost in the dark.
I gathered my tail,
brushed off maggot-sodden feathers
So so so frightened to fall
I barked, I bucked - and I flew.
Lucky Number Which would she do? Eat more chocolates or buy a pack of cigarettes?Lucky Number3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Only the New Year would tell. And the New Year spoke. She'd do both. She never was one to stint on much.
"Well, Jiminy, why don't you face reality?" she asked her loving husband. How loving was he?
"I'm not going to sit here and watch you put trash in your mouth," Jim said.
His voice was too calm. That meant he was angry.
"I can't help it," she said, trying for a victim pose.
"You can do anything you put your mind to, and you know it," he said.
"What do you mean?" Alice whined. "I'm getting fat ever since I stopped smoking."
"Alice. You are not fat. You don't need candy and you don't need to smoke, and that's final."
Alice slumped a bit in her wheelchair. She hoped that would help.
"There's so much I can't do anymore," she said. "I can't walk, sometimes I can't even talk right, and dammit, I will do what's left for me to do. I want you to pick up some smokes for me. C
The War of End LaneJane wiped her palms on her apron, and reached over to shake the woman’s hand. The counter was between them, laden with meat pies, fish pies, vegetable pies and pies that might have contained anything.The War of End Lane2 years ago in Historical More Like This
‘This is Mademoiselle Yvette Le Tellier,’ said Charles. ‘His Lordship and I brought her back from Paris. Yvette, this is Jane Tyler, a very good friend of mine.’
Yvette was dressed like an aristocrat, and the lace flowing from her elbows brushed against the pie crusts. Her skirts took up the space of three people. Her face and hands were powdered white. Her wig was powdered too, and fell in stiff ringlets around her face.
‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle Tyler,’ said Yvette. ‘It is a very wonderful friend you have in Charles. Why, he all but whisked me from under the blade of la guillotine herself! Such a brave and clever man!’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said J
Naga RajaKing Cobra returned to the jungle bearing the scent of milk and sandalwood. He searched for his nearest subject, and found Spitting Cobra.Naga Raja2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“My festival has ended,” he said. “Gather my subjects.”
Spitting Cobra bowed his head. “Namaste, Raja” he said, and then set off on his duty.
King Cobra coiled before the entrance to his termite mound burrow and waited.
He felt the vibrations made by his subjects before he saw them. Snakes of every length and color poured out of the undergrowth to take their place before his throne. All were accounted for except that most arrogant of constrictors, Python, who never responded to the summons. King Cobra had publicly banished him for his disrespect years ago, but in secret he hoped the traitor would regain his senses and come crawling back someday.
King Cobra rose above the gathering and spread his hood. Fear and reverence flashed in unblinking eyes. “Another Nag Panchami gone,” he said.
Ixchelthe new year riots inIxchel3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on its horses,
all helmets and gunpowder,
reared on its haunches
like a conquistador army.
your invasion brings out the
Mayan in me,
the pre-Columbian refusal
to be subdued,
the impetus to reclaim my territory,
hissing like a serpent,
is scattered like stars
in centres of sacrilege, sacrifice;
my heart an ancient ceremonial
stone, a step pyramid raised to the heavens
like a rocky intake of
I, hellcat, spitfire,
tongue like an obsidian flint:
I rage like a goddess.
you, soldier to my warrioress,
discipline to my fury,
to my unabashed lust for destruction,
you glutton of an empire, you—
withstand my volcanic wrath
and you are welcome to all of the gold
buried in the belly of my desert.
he stole all my thyme awayNEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONShe stole all my thyme away3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
1. new year, new you.
a. be unrecognisable. when if he passes you in the street, he shouldn't know who you are.
b. learn to recognize your new self in the mirror.
2. be optimistic.
a. he might join the army.
b. he might get cancer.
c. he might be hit by a tru
3. stop wishing bad things on good people.
4. start wishing good things on bad people.
a. maybe he'll get a promotion and move far away.
b. maybe he'll get married and move far away.
c. maybe he'll
4. stop saying he's a bad person.
5. be good to yourself.
a. there are better men. find them.
b. there are better vices distractions ways to spend your time. find them.
c. start doing things just because you want to.
d. stop doing things because he would approve.
6. stop being so damn dependent on other's approval. new year, new you.
7. learn to recognize yourself in the mirror.
The Mucky AngelIt was a cold day in late November when the angel first perched atop the tree. It was not like the angels that had come before. Where once little bulbs had flickered, LEDs now beamed their glorious light out into the sky. Where once a ratty cotton garment had swung glumly in the breeze, elegant synthetic fabrics now fluttered joyfully, wreathing the plastic limbs with silken life. And where once flaking paint had stood for features—eyes and nose—a head of polyethylene looked down upon the crowd, outsmiling the children far below. The angel was a marvel, sparkling with fifty colours atop the tree, but most marvellous of all was the sign it held before it. In shining liquid crystal, the sign blazed out its message to the crowd: "SEASON'S GREETINGS." And the sign too blinked and flashed.The Mucky Angel3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Yes, the angel was a marvel. And the angel knew this. It knew it in the happy faces of the shoppers, and it knew it in its own light. For nothing else upon that tree could outdo the angel. No bauble held
RenovationsThey will come again, and when they do, the others will hide.Renovations2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Mr. Brown will curl up in his hole in the eaves. The Wife in the crawlspace, and I'll be here, clutching my dear ones close. I'm wrapping my legs around them, and I can hear them fidget against the soft sac, their little tremors not unlike the desperate throes of flies, but warm, beautiful. It won't be long now. Now is the tender time. Soon I'll wear them on my back, and we can leave this place. But not yet. Not yet. Now is the time when a swift strike would kill them, and me with them. I will not leave.
I can't leave. I've hidden as well as I can. A small shadow between the braces under the mantel, where their lights don't penetrate. At least not yet.
Too much light. Too many sounds. They come with their sounds, with their fangs at the ends of their legs, shooting explosions into the walls, toppling everything. They are giants. They grumble at each other, tear up the floors, rip down the lights. Destroy everything that has
shipsand soships3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the wind blows gently
taking this soul from here to there
fifty-two weeks fly loose from my hair
i grant my fears
to the air
those harbours from whom i drifted
may the waves sing songs to you
whichever grains your feet fall upon
may the skies above
i do not need those castles
made of clouds or built of sand
i shall mould a fortress
with the skills that i command
and should my efforts falter
it takes small faith to understand
that i will find your kindness
and your hand
to those whom i have met
you have my deepest thanks
you rocked me from my loneliness
kept my days from being blank
you are anchored to my wishes
you have acted as my buoys
i hope our coming days
are filled with joy
Princess Moxie and the UsurperIt was a typical day in the Kingdom of New Underbed. The lamp was shining and the roof was open to an angle that some might call obtuse (although they'd be wrong; it was still just about in the region of acute - in fact it only opened to ninety degrees). The princess herself was lounging back upon a bed of towels and scavenged clothing, keeping a close eye on her many subjects. Squeaky the pig stood guard by the entrance, his voicebox torn out as a warning to the world about traitors and what she would do to them. A noseless lion cub watched his back with one and a half eyes (all it had), while a tiger with half a tail and a chunk missing from its ear watched its back. Sammy Spider, the royal fly-catcher, cowered in one corner. He was understandably rather anxious about moving while under her gaze.Princess Moxie and the Usurper2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Princess Moxie liked to think of herself as a kind and just Queen (even though she was only a Princess), whom all her subjects loved and adored. Her subjects always backed her up on t
resolutethis year, my resolutions won't be stuffed into my bedside drawer. i'm not going to roll them up like a cigarette, small and deadly, and tuck them into my pocket. i won't let them rot there, and remember them only when they're small, pilly pieces on my favorite sweater when it comes out from the dryer, forgotten by the time i pull each piece off, letter by letter.resolute3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
because i've never realized until now, but my resolutions are the outline for a book that's always misplaced or miswritten, so coffee stained and battered that by the time the winds of december come to turn its pages, there isn't a single word to touch. because, instead of my novel or a chapter, i write myself an anthology. i title it regrets and feed it to the fire, burn away the past year and my chance at every single thing i could have learned.
but this year, before i sliced open the spine and tore out each and every syllable, i stopped. i read.
and, for once, these aren't regrets, but things i know i need to change
The Fall of Fondant ValeLong, long ago (in sweeter times), the Kingdom of Cake and the Principality of Pie were fast friends. For more than a hundred generations, the monarchs of both nations had let their spearmint swords gather icing sugar dust, this legacy of peace far greater than any tribute that bitter war could win. So long had these noble lineages lived without the threat of battle that they had no need of cavalry, and their caramel coursers went shoeless, spending their days munching on the delicious grass of the surrounding fields. Fondant Vale, that place was called—so soft and nummy were the delightful things that grew there—and it was known across the civilised world for its beauty and tranquillity. With no need to grow such things as wheat or oats, the valley between the palaces of these great nations was like a garden, planted with pleasing hedges and winding paths, and this happy place, lamentably, is where our sad tale must begin.The Fall of Fondant Vale2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“O ye gathered here,” began Prince Pec
The CriticMy ears perked up at the creaking of the desk chair in the living room. A sigh, a crack, and the metallic strings of a short melody announcing that Daphne’s laptop had been turned on. That could only mean one thing.The Critic2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Oh, great, I thought. She’s writing again.
Blinking sleepily, I hopped out of the sock drawer in which I had been napping. (Well, it was her fault for leaving it open all the time. She didn’t have to complain so much about all the cat hair, either.) I stretched out my paws in front of me, then arched my back. Tipping to the side, I momentarily lost my balance, but quickly regained my composure (very gracefully, I might add). When it falls, a cat always lands on its feet; but cats very rarely fall in the first place.
I trotted into the living room.
The repeating cracking sound made my ears quiver. I shuddered. “Get your fingers out of your mouth,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” she said, not even turning to look at me. I bet she h