Radical Part IVCinder and Yura were standing at the center of Cosm's ring of law offices. Not the geographical center, as they were standing on the ring itself, but the metaphorical one for certain.
Yura's father was the chief of police, after all, and this was his HQ. Cinder, ever fascinated with history, had a healthy appreciation for how terribly a bad force could tip the scales and how what a good force did shouldn't be impressive or awe-inspiring so much as keeping everything smooth enough that day-to-day life could press on.
Cinder loved the station, but Yura and she knew better than to wander any farther than the commons, and there they planted themselves in a corner so as not to be trampled by the men and women hustling through. The round badge of a safety meter under the officials' garments glowed orange and not green, a warning of their status even when they weren't in uniform. Those uniforms were dull dark green and in a more contemporary (twentieth-century military) style than civi
An Aged LoveWhy do others compare their love to fireAn Aged Love2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When mine like dwindling embers glows--
Only rarely tasting of their God, desire--
And in tenderest mercy only shows.
For them a fluttering lash would suffice
And sweet longing for kisses and tributes of flesh,
Yet for us a wry smile, forgiving our vice,
And a burden twice shouldered our passions addressed.
So forgive me darling if I sing not of praise
For your childish whims and ignorance,
Because the rose tinted glasses I set all ablaze;
Your confessions, alas, were sweeter incense.
Let us hope that the ring we've held onto so long
Will, as youth's fervent dreams, prove just as strong.
Your NameNameless man is there a title for theeYour Name1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Locked away in the boughs of my heart?
When first you came twas as a friend, you see.
You, too, had a soul set apart.
But your passage was brief through my life, my annals.
So you become as a dream and a light.
By your echoing words were my stains all absolved
To lay tracks for my path's lonely nights.
It's with you my that my soul has now tangled;
I don't recall what's yours, nor what's mine.
But it's for you I cry when my spirits mangle--
You, my stolid, sturdy ghost so divine.
Yea, though we aren't bound by breath nor blood,
Father seems a name for the one whom I've loved.
Magnum OpusI wonder if there will come a time when man is surrounded solely by his own creations. Every year, every month, every day that passes man, in his insatiable curiosity, delves into the secrets of the universe. Learning is his opiate; it is his raison d'etre, to grow and change. But it was never enough to be schooled by the disciplines of science or philosophy. No, he must test his knowledge, he must be certain that the flower of the universe has opened its petals to him, has divulged every last, intimate drop of nectar from its tender blossoms. And what greater test, than to fashion the object of your studies by your own hand, what greater challenge of your understanding and wisdom than to improve upon the design? Yes, man has a lust for creation. He was indeed carved in the image of his God.Magnum Opus2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Still, God was wise enough to bless his creations with free will, that they might surprise and delight him, that he might grow to love them. Man, too, tried this-- albeit to a lesser extent. As
Aesop's Last FableTHE GIRL AND HER DEMON:Aesop's Last Fable2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The girl was pale-- so pale that her wan face reflected the jaundiced hue of the light over the dining room table, whose coverlet might once have been white like her skin, but had long since yellowed with age and filth. The girl was also very thin, almost bony. Beneath an untidy frizz of hair she had eyes swollen with fatigue, eyes that burned feverishly as they darted about in astute, fearful scrutiny, sinking ever deeper into their sockets like candles burning at the wick. Her hands were articulate, but curiously bruised over the knuckles. She had a nose and a mouth, as well. But these were small since the frail girl was often to sickly to smell, and her lips were small and clasped, only to be opened under the direst of circumstances. Overall, she was a spindly, awkward creature in black-- but one needn't recall any of that. The girl could have been just the opposite. She could have been a boy. It wouldn't have mattered to her, or the fates, a
The Virtue Of Deception Part I of IIITonight Elzio of the Quatronne family was stationed on Hickory Street. His short but muscled frame was terse beneath his trenchcoat as he melded with the city's grime. This was easier said than done in the southern half of Ghileswick where only the wealthiest Ashlanders dwelt, isolated from the extorted hell they'd furbished in the northern Shidaran half. Oh, the weightier crimes and high stakes criminals eventually trickled down to this, the seat of legislation, and they'd left their mark in the gritty residue that dampened the prosperous neighborhood's streets, fulgid and ghoulish in the lamplight. However, it couldn't compare to the hair-raising adventure that was a stroll through the northern docks.The Virtue Of Deception Part I of III1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Elzio had begun his career as a petty thief, though. He preferred the simpler, more prevalent filth of the Shidarans, where his family's drug and arms trade resided. Easier to blend with the shadows when the people themselves had arranged their tenements in a manner befitting
Radical Part IHindsight is undeservedly notorious. The historian is derided for it, and the simple minds that commit that slander would also have us believe that it brings only regret.Radical Part I1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
The truth, of course, is that hindsight is the most beatific of humor. It brings with it the kind of gut-wrenching laughter that makes tears of joy and pain glide in harmony down rose-pink cheeks.
This is true particularly with ideas. The speculation of one generation is the amusement of the next. Doomsday predictions aside, this isn't because the projections that men make are a far from the truth, from their destinies. Far from it, such predictions are usually chillingly accurate. It's the little ironies that get people.
It was the little ironies that got Cinder that day, trailing as she so often did behind the rustling fabric of her friend's canary coat and black hakama. Hakama, as in the ancient pleated trousers they wore in Japan. It was the year 3005, and men and women alike were back to the antiquated, if now sh
i hate clichesWhen something touches me,i hate cliches1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
it doesn't go straight to the heart.
It settles at the bottom of my ribcage,
just below my breast,
and it warms this body I call mine.
And I don't think there's a rock bottom,
a gutter, or scum.
The way I figure it we all waste, and rot,
and say things we'd rather not have said--
Curses or no.
Sins or no.
And I don't think you're born any way,
so don't be who you are.
My dear, we're much stronger than that.
Be what you want, reach for everything,
and don't let these words, or others,
don't face the facts; there's no such thing.
Don't "dare" to dream-- that's easy, and weak.
Just live, damn it, live.
Be bold or be meek.
It's yours to choose, no matter
whose wisdom you seek.
Sufficient Unto the DayA figure from the lost generation, but decades too late,Sufficient Unto the Day1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
winds up the street in tendered, forceful apathy.
It is hard to tell, whether this hollowed ghost walking
on hallowed ground is laughing or crying--
either way, it's been drowned by the screeching of the bellows
and the muting veils of cinders and ash.
Yet watch how our figure's eyes narrow lovingly at the flakes
of backbreaking sable snow, of embers shoveled,
of a father's sweating back, thin and scarred,
rippling in grotesque time to the spitting of those chimneys-- blackest chimneys!
Only the industrialist knows of prayer, of feeding the swine on the hill
in barest hopes they'll nuzzle a truffle or two down, that your
children can sit and imbibe the sweet Elysium, suckle on the milk
of Wisdom the squirming piglets know instead of breaking their stems
forcing their blossoms through the tarmac.
Our figure tears at this, its careening riance echoing through the city.
Oh dearest cynic, knowing not the irony of temperance and
Absolute  Something was wrong with him.Absolute 5 months ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Something was wrong, and he couldn’t fix it.
It had taken him a long time to recognize this, a long time before he paused in his battles with guilt and self-loathing for peace enough to realize that his dread impulses didn’t have their roots (or, not entirely) in his volition.
Man. A physical apparatus of chemicals and outside forces binding together memories—an apparatus over which the tenuous, twisted scrap of energy masquerading as a soul had only limited control. Impressive control, but limited nonetheless...
These were the thoughts that haunted the bedraggled man stumbling from a little-used tunnler station and into the glaring, alloyed reality of Ghileswhick. He emerged in a daze, although moments before, in the shade of the dilapidated tunnels, there had been a morbid, satisfied lustre to his sunken eyes, the queerest of skips to his step.
PartingsMy brave and noble friend,Partings1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I had not done you well.
I've learnt now not to play pretend,
Nor pretty lies to tell.
Compassion was all that I could spend.
Dear unlover, this truest knell--
No matter how I might twist, or bend.
--tell me it will undo the spell.
Tell me that your heart will mend.
blanki'm on the opposite couch and we're watching this movie and i can mimic every word she is saying, and every word he is saying, because they're everything we've already said, and i should not be watching this movie, at all, but especially not with you, and i'm trying to keep myself together, but as soon as it ends, and it's black in this apartment, i quietly stand up and walk into the kitchen, my safe haven, moreso than my bedroom or the living room or the balcony or the bathroom, it is here, always here, where i can release the pent up tears, and so i reach for a paper towel and tuck myself into the furthest corner, and i wipe away the tears, ready to enter the living room again but you approach me and you catch me up into your arms, and i want to push away from you, i want to scream at you YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME IF YOU DON'T LOVE ME and the sick part, the sickest fucking part of this entire thing is that i honestly still do not believe you when you say you don't love me, and you're hblank1 year ago in Emotional More Like This
From Man to Man Pt 3.From Man to Man Pt 3.1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
'Any coin's a coin.'
The pouch jingled as Draven shook it. It jingled with the voice of well-earned congratulations, but the voice was a whisper in a large hall. Draven shook the pouch again and this time its jingle sounded more like a rattle. Hollow, more so than an empty promise. He weighed the earnings in one hand. Too much pouch, not enough coin. The purse slumped in defeat.
'But is it enough coin?'
Fisting the pouch deep into his trews' pocket which hardly bulged Draven bowed from Splitter's Cross, slinking back to Hidann village in the evening haze. Hunched and weary, he rested on the axe-haft with each left step, leaning on it like an old man and his walking stick.
The other fellers sidled past without so much as a backwards glance. They counted their coins as if it were a king's ransom, boasting proudly
Beauty Has A Price.To say designer children are beautiful is an understatement. Their skin is the pale cream of an August sunset, dusted with a soft pink blush. Their hair falls in cascades of lustrous blonde curls, their bright blue eyes accented by a fringe of thick, dark lashes. Their noses are slender. Their lips are plump. Their bodies are curved to perfection. And as if to give the finger to us common folk, they are gifted with creativity and intelligence.Beauty Has A Price.1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
It is maddening, really.
I watch them as they huddle together with their white teeth smiles, their soprano laughter carrying on the air. The sound reminds me of shattering glass. Sweet, playful tinkles, like wind chimes smashed in a tempest. I’ve shattered a lot of glass.
From the cradle they are bonded, one to another, sharing a common point of genetic creation in the test tubes at DK Labs, incubated by a team of god-like engineers who prefer to call the process ‘prefection.’ It figures they're all close friends.
I like to ca
Econphilos Part IThere was a special kind of crime that you got in Econphilos, and it had an awful lot to do with how the city was built.Econphilos Part I1 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Its construction, development, and ultimately chancellorship had been under the direction of Japanese investors, and those men knew how to plan. Their native country might be a mere landform to Earth's collectivist conscience, Anthropeden, now, but back in the day their historical eras were named for the capitols that flourished with them.
Econphilos was, ostensibly, octagonal in shape, except that twelve districts cut that octagon into twelve nice, triangular slices whose borders made a diagram resembling a web. This was more than just a metaphor to criminals. Because in a city like Econphilos-- the bustling hub of Mars's commerce, where even Nosfiosan syndicates and New Jerusalem's men of honor might be seen ducking under a shady corner for business—in a city like that you couldn't afford accidents like index crimes.
Indeed, the city lay in wait. Oh,
ElThere were several things that one expected upon stepping onto a starship-- particularly one with such a prodigious reputation as Vinteuil's Phrase. Its archaic title, bold and euphonious, was perfectly suited to the most agile starship outside of the Martian Reserves. The giant loomed over the docks, which was a panorama of moving boxes, each equipped with a maintenance team and a beaming money-juggler primed to sell their wears. They hung off the dripping carbocomposite scaffolding and its sparking wires in white jumpsuits, the easiest to bleach, seeming pale spectres fleeing from the ship, which had presumably finished refueling. That ship, it was rusty copper and at least three decks high, designed such that the intricacy of its construction, those masterful inner workings, were apparent in the pipes and gears that crawled and gyrated over its surface-- some for show, some glittering with the autosensory software that characterized most new technological wonders.El7 months ago in Sketches More Like This
In any case
Writing FairytalesI told him, "I think I'll write a book."Writing Fairytales2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."
"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."
"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story," he continued, "And you'll smirk like you always do because you know the answer but no one else has a clue."
I laughed, "Everyone will cry when they read my book, because it's the saddest story that's ever been told. Everyone will cry but you and I won't."
"We can't cry. It's your book, and I can't cry for you. You can't cry for yourself either, it's ba
e.e.cummingsThe day you left, I skipped school to see you off.e.e.cummings2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I said, "There are more important things than school."
You said, "I never said there weren't."
Now, I mostly miss you, and usually on Sundays, I make my way to the place where we used to sit out Sunday School. There's still a Bible on the rock where I think you might have left it, and I pick it up and read it. I've never gotten past the gospel of Matthew, because every time I read it I see you staring at the sky and asking if Heaven's hypothetical.
There were stars in the sky that night, and you said you used to think they were god shining through a curtain.
Once we talked about Our Father who Art in Heaven and you told me that if you were a believer, you'd say both your fathers art in heaven, and hallowed be their names.
I remember the day I skipped fourth block, and we sat on the rocks and smoked. You told me it wasn't good to abandon my education, so you taught me e.e.cummings-
"I like my body when it is with your
I learned t
In Your ImageDearest parents why do you cryIn Your Image2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And forsake this broken child?
Who only ever hearkened
Unto your voice, so meek and mild?
You say his life is empty
That his soul can not be moved--
Yet mother, father dearest
Why, we thought that you'd approve!
Our souls were twisted from the start;
Our dreams they made you brood.
Didn't you tell us tenderly?
Indeed, you told us true!
This world will ne'er appreciate
A single thing we do.
The WritersPapyrusThe Writers2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Smell it upon thy nose
As lungs of graphite
Breathe in the body
Shapely and refined
Crisp and sharp
Verily it is so
Perchance we will meet
Our souls are black
Rotten to the core
Of our third eye
Dost thou see it!
The bright shining light that calls to us
Flow like water
What music doth flow
Muffled and silenced
By its cage of wood
We shall never break free
Smell our stench of determination
Hear our mutter ramblings
Taste our words as we force them into your mouths
Watch as we carve our creations
Chisel and hammer
Dance little puppet!
Dance for us!
Do our bidding
We are your Masters
We shall last forever.
We are the Writers.
Absolute  The following morning Virche woke on the floor, Mecham's hand dangling in his face from the tattered couch above. Light wafted through the sheer drapes of the parlor window in sheets, and particles of dust fell indolently from one, luminous ray to the next. All was not still, but it moved at such a pace as soothed the Illumni. His grey eyes, half lidded, flitted from the undusted corners of the room to the projector he and Mecham had watched once Artis was abed. He smiled the tiny, melancholy grin evoked by a sense of privilege, of allowance and blessings never earned, and he felt warmth pervade his soundless dawn. But no... the quiet was more a hush than a silence, between the low noise of Mecham's breath and his heart; it was just that the muted racket of city life was neighborhoods away from this, the contented workman's district.Absolute 4 months ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
At any rate, the air was heady with peace, with morning and the languid sensations belonging to its dreamers, and it was no gr