I could make a list,but I merely bit my lip when she asked me,I could make a list,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"What is it you're thankful for?"
How could I tell her
I was thankful for this heart
that beats a thousand times over
when I hear her speak?
WhitewashWhen you're five years old you set a promise in the dark, your sister's ice-queen eyes witness. Millie is sitting straight-backed against the headboard, face wide and earnest, and it seems as if the world has heaped itself on her shoulders, or maybe it's the strangeness of midnight.Whitewash5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"We can't make our wills or anything like that until we're eighteen," she says fiercely. "But I might forget this by then."
In later years you will find time to reflect that you're not as whimsical as Millie; young, you only think then that you could never forget something this important. But you can't argue with the three-years-older she holds above your head (the wisest bestest elder sister in the world.)
Your love for her borders on hero-worship, and looking back, you sometimes wonder if that's healthy.
The door bangs shut. "Jodie!"
How strange, the way it works: your hand is frozen to the table in the way it should have been on the phone, but that was minutes ago and maybe it was delayed-reaction, becau
The Slaughtered Children.Why? Why? They were children! Children! How could someone strip a child, multiple children, of their innocence! How could someone strip them of life?The Slaughtered Children.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Children are one of the few good things in life. Always learning, not dispicable liars or haters or cheaters like the majority of adults, not able to commit horrendous crimes, not aware of the greater scheme of life going on around them. Believer's they are. In a child's mind, the characters of stories such as Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny are alive. Magic is real and all around us, commanded and cast by the fairies who were blessed by the mighty kings and queens from far far away. In a childs dream, there is no deception, no hatred, no confusion. There is only light and happiness and love, and their imagination is never as strong as it if in childhood.
It is for those reasons, and many more, why I believe children should be treasured. For their beautifully bliss minds and perfectly balanced ignorance. For their imagination, raw and i
SwallowI swallowed stones for a girl once,Swallow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tethered a daughter to my arm,
raised her with my own hands,
and pulsed so much blood
through the wire
it became a vein.
Eventually I fell,
slammed to the floor,
like a marionette savagely thrown
against a wall.
My guts were full,
of sediment and
my stomach swelled too much.
I breathed dust and ants,
swallowed as much as I was able,
and tried to get up
with my daughter in tow.
Clumsily falling back over,
with bruised hands and
forced, rough, breathing,
I felt tension
from the other side.
The line pulled taut and hard
and dragged me from its end
across so many splintering boards
I bled from my fingers trying
to fight it.
it frayed and snapped.
Admittedly, I cried for it
and I shoveled debris and carted blood
swearing the whole time
I'd never swallow stones for a girl
Then I met you.
Twilight : Rewritten"You aren't still mad at me, are you?" Charlie asked.Twilight : Rewritten5 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
I could not look at him. Instead, I pressed my nose against the truck window and watched the trees rush by. I wished that I could roll down the window so I wouldn't have to look at his reflection in it.
"I did it in your best interests, you know," he said, turning back to the road. "Your mom wasn't doing well."
"That doesn't give you any right to take me away from her," I said, fiddling with the lock on the door.
"It was for your well-being, Bella," he said. "I know you love her, and your devotion is commendable. But you can't keep putting your schooling aside for her interests. She's better off where she is. Full-time care, nurses at her every beck and call "
I couldn't speak. The lump in my throat was too heavy.
"Besides, it'll be nice to have a change of scenery," he said in a faux jovial tone, that tone that parents use when they're trying to fool you into thinking everything is fine. You know, that tone you stopped b
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.Yellow5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that
To Write of HorrorTo paint a scene of mythic horrorsTo Write of Horror2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Take dim lit room and darkest corners
Find a child huddled there, cradled tight in his despair
Silent here for not his murmurs,
murmuring out a prayer
He asks the keeper keep to keeping
While all his guardians tucked in sleeping
Ignorant of the shadows creeping
Slow across the hallway floor, standing now outside his door
Somewhere near the sound of breathing,
breaths too heavy to ignore
Then just outside there raised a howl
A distant boom and monstrous growl
Envisions he a ghostly cowl
Afloat across the yard in prowl
Come to steal his soul away, curtains hold the fiend at bay
With scrapes across the window scowls,
scowling out in its dismay
The shutters joined the fray with flapping
Hard against the walls their rapping
While all around began a tapping
With no relent unceasing clapping
the pitter-patter's endless lapping
Solace to the boy then came, raptured from this fearful bane
Slowly drifts his mind towards napping,
napping through a night of rain
This is My VoiceThis is my voiceThis is My Voice2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
It wasn't my choice
I never learned to... be quiet.
Graves are only boxes
I'm not dead yet, but who's counting?
The clock is
Time doesn't exist-
I don't cut my wrist
I'm not pissed
But I'm sad.
I want to be a writer
But instead, I'm bitter
Down comes the rain,
pitter patter pitter
Against the window pane
I don't really know how to rhyme
But if I had a dime
For every time
I crumpled up a piece of paper,
I'd be rich.
But I'd have to give it all back for wasting trees.
You can't win against society
They don't get that people come in variety
Causing people anxiety over their body
And the way they look.
They bring out the book
I say, "What book?"
They say, "The bible."
Is it really that reliable?
Christians are undeniable
The Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)He brushed his wavy hair from his pale faceThe Defense of Gawain (Fragment 1)3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Just like his horse was shaking off the flies
While following behind. Their limping pace
Was slow, although the city rang with cries
Surprised from friends who thought that he was dead--
But still his head slumped down, and still his eyes
And clammy cheeks were flushed with streaking red,
Though they were running, dashing to his side.
And then his young brother, half-laughing, said,
"Oh god, I thought--you know we thought you died?
That awful task--you left, you rode away--
And then did not come back. Oh, how I cried!
I thought you died. On last year's new-year's day
A year since you had left, they all agreed
You must have failed your quest, but I said nay--
I knew my brother Gawain would succeed
Although it seemed to all impossible.
But you did not come back, and I concede
I thought you died." And then his voice sunk low
From where it had been shouting in delight,
And then he said: "But brother, may I know--
Your hair is snarled, unkempt--yo
Bitlets 215What can I build thatBitlets 2154 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
won't stand in the way?
The Softer side of Loki contest Part 1This is based on the What If story where Jane Foster accidentally received Thor's powers instead of Don Blake. At the end of the story Odin grants Jane immortality, and proposes to her without a first date or anything! (yeah he is the universal pimp!) Thor meanwhile had hooked up with Sif, so Jane turns to Odin as he is something like Thor was anyways... yeah, creepy.The Softer side of Loki contest Part 13 years ago in Drama More Like This
Chapter 1. Breaking the ice. (or ass)
Jane Foster gazed out at the breath-taking view before her. The impossibly vibrant lands rolling out greenly under a blindingly blue sky. The pristine towers across from the one she currently stood. The solid stone of the fortress that spoke of eternity. As the wind blew across her, lifting her long dark hair and billowing her rich green dress Jane wondered again at how she had become a part of all of this. Sometimes it all seemed so surreal. The archaic place, people, and culture constantly reminded her that this was not where she was from despite how comfortable she had become here.
Hearing Half of a Conversation Forgive me for helping you understandHearing Half of a Conversation1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
you’re not made of words alone.
—Roque Dalton; Clandestine Poems
I first learned how to build a house of playing cards in an adolescent psychiatric unit in suburban Chicago. A roommate taught me a trick, a mindset really, to have while placing the cards themselves— that a house of cards is always stacked against itself to stand. My trial-and-error attempts led to a lengthy row of playing cards
John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,John at 3:163 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about JohnJohn who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you believe in Jesus?"
"Of course," I said. "Don't you?"
He didn't answer. But it was Communion that day and he ate your body and drank your blood just like everyone else, and I thought he had to believe in you because you were inside of him.
I asked him once, Jesus Christ, I asked him if he believed in you and he said, "I want to. But everyone says I have
This Sums It UpHere is aThis Sums It Up5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about broken hearts
Some imagery (let's use rain and moonbeams and
the smell of baking cookies)
an extra paragraph break and
A thoughtful simile
Two spaces (I wrote on the third)
a super serious poem
about some relationship
that didn't work
I should receive
fumesthe talkfumes2 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
only loveAn image flashes and shows meonly love6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
waiting for the signal
to continue on my way
but I never make it.
a vehicle fast approaching
unseen and unheard
until it's upon me
and ends my journey,
all of my journeys
in the blink of an eye
a dazzling hail of glass
in colors of the street lights,
a violent whiplash of my hair
flowing through water
a wide-angle view one second,
a pane of white mesh the next
wrapped around my body
and every poem,
every love letter,
get-well card and shopping list
I would ever write
spills out of me
till it's all floating
in the oil-slick puddles
on the road and the pavement
my mind already sluggish
as I sat, placidly content
after a large dinner
an hour before
giving my car the reins
knowing the way home
and so happy that moment,
I didn't realize how much
now that night had come,
surrounded by a galaxy of
city lights like so many stars.
And all I remember feeling
was the love-
OsteoperosisWords and bonesOsteoperosis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are sticks and stones
and they will surely kill me
I Am SchizophreniaShh.I Am Schizophrenia2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
"Are you okay?"
Turn off the light.
"What are you doing?"
You can't fight the shadows.
They'll kill you if you tell.
Rip your hair out.
Cover your eyes.
Cover them again.
Lock the door.
Now you're trapped.
Lock it again.
Don't take the medication.
Don't drink the water.
Don't eat your dinner.
"I don't know you anymore. Who have you become?"
I am a nobody.
I am Schizophrenia.
I am death
"... I don't know."
RatsWhen I was a little girl, I went to church. Our church was an illegal one: the building was unregistered.Rats2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We would sit on the benches made from stolen floorboards and listen to a man dressed in black as he read us tales of angels coming to save righteous men from evil, their swords clean and their trumpets blaring.
The man dressed in black was old. He was sick. His Bible was missing pages.
One day in March, my mother turned to me and said clearly, "Masha, I want you to remember something for when you grow up." Maybe she knew she was dying. "God loves murderers."
I just looked up at her, thumb in my mouth. My mother was still a beautiful woman. She was young when a man at an after-riot party had given her a child inside of her, a bruise on her face, and a few kopeks for her trouble before running away forever.
So I watched the dirty gray sunlight washing through her sickly blonde hair, watched it illuminate the dark hollows of her eyes, watched her face, and asked, "Why, mama?"
runoffchemicals course through myrunoff3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
slowly, from underneath my fingernails
from my eyes
from out of my
Six Word Storymy mother kept smiles in bottlesSix Word Story3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
ash wounds like airi have done it yet again.ash wounds like air3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
these dark eye pits -
why won't they speak and be free?
once in every fifteen empty dawns
do my hands cease to claw at each other:
a glimmering hiatus;
a half breath.
i have fire hair and
i have eaten a beautiful man's jasper love.
silence never settles;
round and round goes the chained-up mind
as i grow into fear forever.
the nights smell of dying poppies. think
of such a poppy field - the beauty of
lying and effortlessly
the only living one.
eyes are no windows. they are your reflection.
do not walk, do not walk;
see your own flesh in there? yes, stay still.
remove my clothes.
what are you afraid of?
i am mouldering in the sweltering being of
digits and hands and
glistening eyelets in stainless steel;
i am harmless.
the first time was tentative:
if i ignore my heart, will i be safe?
two. i needed to
see life run.
now three, four, fivesixseveneighthundreds; they are all accidents:
i awake and i itch; i am afraid
i have sinned again.
try to save me a
PilotI woke in a nest of wires, my arms pulled off to either side, my head back and my eyes fixed at the ceiling. There was a man standing above me, straddling my form, perched precariously at the mouth of the recess I was tucked away in, one hand gripping the frame, the other feeling around the back of my neck. He moved by touch alone, certain in his movements, and his fingers closed over the knot of the wires that resided at the base of my skull and pulled, steadily, drawing it out of the socket and I inhaled sharply at the sensation. Like something had been taken from me, or that I'd lost sight of something important. A piece of me gone. It was a keen sense of loss and my eyes went wet with moisture even as he dropped his hand lower along my neck, almost to the shoulders, and pulled out another plug. The wires by my eyes were thinner, and when he pulled these out my vision went black for a moment and when it returned I felt the world was less clear, like a gray haze had been pulledPilot2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This