That Christmas EveThere was snow blanketing every inch before us, white and soft while it crunched softly beneath our boots. We sniffled while our noses turned red from the chill, and suddenly everyone could sympathize with Rudolph. Rosy-cheeked children slid past on anything from brand new sledges to garbage can lids, laughing while they spun in the cleanest mess of ice, dodging trees and rocks and patches of dead weeds. It was not a pretty place, and yet it was beautiful, for the evening was beautiful, and the faces were beautiful, and the laughter was Christmas itself.
Father Christmas watched closely by, and a million tongues uttered his name while the sun touched the horizon, and its all-encompassing rays were blotted out by treetops and sticky snowflakes.
You may have caught the sound of bells, had you been standing where I stood on that Christmas Eve. You may have seen a flourish of red in the sky, carried by winter winds and reindeer of fantastic majesty. And you may have, for a moment, believed
My Tin SoldiersIt was a raindrop symphonyMy Tin Soldiers3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Performed on roof shingles,
Accompanied by thunder
And sweet wind chime jingles.
Plagued by monsters behind
Tip-tapping tree fingers,
I fled from my nightmares
Where the real beast lingers.
I ran to my toy chest that
Lay off in the distance
And sought the tin soldiers'
Defense and assistance.
With their tin hands and rifles
They fought off the noises;
The tip-tapping and splish-splashing
And whispering voices.
Battling on the windowsill,
I bundled up with a sigh,
So glad my tin soldiers
Are much braver than I.
House of Myth - a Fan StoryBased on "The House of Myth", a song by the band Creature Feature.House of Myth - a Fan Story4 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
(Direct quotes from the song were used if you've heard the song, you'll know which ones. I also paraphrased on the quotes so that they wouldn't sound awkward, because well, it'd be real odd for the characters to rhyme in real life speech. Hehe.)
(Also, please read the artist's comments! )
Dirty roads stretched around me beneath the gray clouds, and small winds lifted the dust and filth from the ground. As the debris swirled around me, I pulled my coat a little closer around my shoulders, trying to ward off the incessant chilliness of my quiet town. I wasn't entirely sure where I was going; just for a walk, I suppose, wandering about the neighborhood. All seemed pleasant enough, despite the undesirable weather.
I could sense the rain's impending arrival. There was no sun in the sky, just one illuminated blanket of gray, entirely lining
Careless Optimism"You know, there's a special circle in hell for people like you."Careless Optimism4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Good. Maybe I'll find friends there."
MissingThey say time heals all wounds.Missing5 years ago in Emotional More Like This
They have never been stabbed through the heart, had their life turned upside-down, had their innocence ripped out.
Time does not heal all wounds.
It just gives you more agonizing hours to look at the gash. The stitches where people have tried to fix you. The scars that flaw once beautifully naive skin.
But no amount of stitches will ever make you one piece again.
Because part of me is missing. I can't find it, I can never retrieve it because he has it. Not that he wants it.
Innocent happiness, contentedness with a decent life - all of me. Replaced with hurt and anguish. A dry throat and wet eyes. Tainted vision and soul.
Why does nothing make sense anymore?
Why can't I close my eyes without seeing him?
I feel a familiar sting at the back of my throat, the back of my eyes.
Suppressing it makes it worse, stronger. It fights
The Traveler and the PoetThere was a poet on the train that evening. At that hour, he was the only one in this car. Only one train ran this late into the night.The Traveler and the Poet3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
(On occasion, it would thunderstorm, and the raindrops pelted the train like a drum. Drrrum, drrrrrrrrum. Accented by the thunder, it was practically a symphony. The poet did like those nights.)
There was a time when the poet could sit alone, gaze out the window, contemplate the darkness. He could dream. He could nightmare.
(His eyes never stopped wandering. In the daytime, they ran to the horizon and back; they skipped among flowers, climbed trees, met new people, greeted old friends, and then returned to their owner on the train. At night, they plunged fearlessly into the abyss, not really looking for anything. And the poet saw everything.)
His alone days came to an end when the words began to overflow. They practically oozed from his pores. They ran from his lips every time he spoke. They graced his ears when he listened. They lived in secret places