What They Don't Tell YouWhat they don't tell you about death is the phone call. They don't tell you that you can't tell the difference between a normal ring and one that brings bad news, that there's no warning and no time to get your bearings.What They Don't Tell You4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
It's a couple days after Christmas, and I'm on vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia with my family exploring the Jamestown settlement and the recreations of The Mayflower. My best friend hasn't returned my calls for the last two days, but finally the phone rings. So I pick it up, expecting a conversation about Christmas presents or schoolyard gossip. Instead, the voice on the other line asks to speak to one of my parents. I hand the phone to my mother and watch her facial expression change: her eyebrows come together, her forehead crinkles, the corners of her mouth turn down. Her voice becomes low, hushed, and urgent.
Finally, she hangs up and sits down next to me on the bed. Then she tells me, carefully, as if divulging a secret. My classmate of nine years died in a fre
Intoxicated.This is a day we will try hard to forget,Intoxicated.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the first time we gasped for air from the floor of your empty house,
or the first time I told my mother that I wanted to die.
Time will pass and we will misplace memories,
but we will remember the days we sat lost in your woods
watching the years scatter like ashes across fallen leaves.
I will not forget the scent of stale cigarettes,
the taste of wind in my hair and headlights through the trees,
or how the final whimper of the dying trees
matched the color of your eyes
when we set fire to our lungs and died along the roadside.
When I close my eyes, I will see the golden glow
of perfect sunlight on your hair as we decomposed,
rotting into the dark of dead earth.
We're losing years even now,
the scent of spice still clinging to our clothes
and the absent music of broken glass beneath our feet.
We're nothing but quiet sighs and closed eyes
buried beneath fallen trees when somewhere,
your mother opens the door to call out your name.
We can he
Lovesong for the Old Mill RoadIf you'd seen the serenityLovesong for the Old Mill Road4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the calloused, jaded whippoorwill
Or in the bits of moss
Embraced by the folds of the old oak's roots,
Or if we were folded together in our cavern
In a nebulous kinesis,
Like dream-walkers from the myths of old;
And if you'd heard the whisper songs
Of the owls
In the mists
The haunting notes of their ethereal crescendo;
You would know:
Love in the concrete automata
Is a fresh penumbral blank
First Person OmniscientFirst Person OmniscientFirst Person Omniscient4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's just so damn hard to focus- the couple breaking up in the diner across the street, that artist imprisoned in his own canvas, the drug addict on the bench, and something-dozen other people milling about in day-to-day drudgery. Never let anyone tell you that life in omniscience is easy; never let them tell you that reading minds all day every day twenty-four-seven is fun. In fact, if they do, give them a good slap in the face from me.
The overall hassle of being psychic is unbelievable; believe me, if I could trade with you, with your isolated little brain, I would. Any day.
Everyone gets so excited, thinking they'd just love to know what everyone else thinks. Trust me, you don't. For one thing, not everyone's opinion is very nice; in fact some private thoughts are downright disturbing. For another, how often do you stop thinking? Not very often. The human mind has a habit of never shutting up, not for two seconds, not for one. The brain is constantly
Aren Bestiary: Of The WargAren Bestiary: Of The Warg3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
"In the north there is a beast called the whyrg that feeds solely on human flesh. It is the size of a bear but shaped like a wolf with the chest of a lion and the maned neck of a horse. It is said to have a human voice, and often it imitates the cry of a child to lure the mother into the woods, where it will kill her. It is said that this beast is born of human parents but changes its shape from human to whyrg and devours its mother."
-- Deirhestres of Alzarath, The Nature of Beasts
Numerous sources dating back to the Second Dazmar Empire mention a great wolf-like predator living in the northern lands that is associated with humans either by being born in the shape of a human or being able to imitate the voice of a human. They were also known as man-eaters. While such creatures must have appeared mythical to Erdasian scholars, Ordosians and Noderlenners were more than familiar with the beasts. While sightings were sporadic, King Valdarik of Isernalt had a cloak made of the skin of a wa
Tea BreakThe kettle's boiled:Tea Break4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A whistle in the silent noise-
I'm falling, sliding.
Inside the hot sleet of my mind,
While the sugar sits,
Burning from its ashes to vapours.
So tonight I'll drown-
Drown awash in my teaspoon
Because I like it black.
No need to sweeten the sting.
dawn supposedsun drencheddawn supposed2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
light pressed us
it wasn't morning
when the crook of your arm
first took my hands
it wasn't morning
when i was freed
i simply never was
in the morning i lifted myself
from you and the creases
and your limbs were the rises in
the sheets while i lifted myself
with my hands
so soundly you curled and
i was not aware of your being
er feathered in
but i loved you
yet i lifted myself from you
with my hands
unsure of whether it was
cotton i was creasing or if
it was you
huethere were children painting in the snow todayhue2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and their mittens were covered in this beautiful bright red paint
"didn't you hear?"
i was sitting as the snow fell
decaffeinated but wide-eyed
and the women at the bar had their jaws oiled
with obituary gossip and hotel rumor
but like a missed spot on a chalkboard you can't help but see,
i couldn't help but hear them
damned newspaper ears
winter was the season for me
there's too much grey area in the summer
with too many shades and
too many sputters
i held my book an inch from my nose
so the ink would blot out the café colorings
but you can't hear books and the closest you can get to it is
when someone takes the time to spit them out at you
they were spitting snow at me so i ducked and glanced back;
they must have been using fruit juice
it was so red
they left lipstick on their glasses as
they rambled champagne bubbles:
"hugh's been missing his paper runs."
i'd noticed that;
i missed the monochrome squares the fingerprints, too
hugh was o
no words can follow the feelings i growno words can follow the feelings i growno words can follow the feelings i grow2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the insides of my ribcage
as little notes of contentment
turn whole in the measures
and i leave roots between 'em
from wear and efforts relinquished
from staining the piano violet
euphoric i think
it floods and
flutters and rushed
and rose throatward
its petals descending
controlled by palms pressing
against the front of my face
near the mouths of all elephants
their petals descending
quieted i am simply pleased
to have somehow coaxed the sun
from his caves in every iceberg
where frozen i clutched
an antagonized fistful
a cupboard of stale
it settles mist-like with
intentions of wilting
i wilted i
but here he speaks of artistry
with awe and cobwebs strung high and
frédéric sighing in his wrists
in mine we find
no waning inflorescence
now no hesitations weed themselves
between your words while
still i am unable to
speak any at all
permafrost patchesall i've got ispermafrost patches2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a blanket to keep the cold out
you would find it best
(blue fingers blue toes,
yet i'm the one who knows)
to curl up behind unless
the world's got some mindless bout
in controversies large and little
that sit on the sidewalk,
eyeing the legs around
that leave deep imprints in the ground
and leave the snow to talk
with crystals whining, brittle
with half bucket list success
i had married you blinded
by screaming snow and hail
when you clutched at my collar tie
through the rising questions of why
the cold causes light to fail
but by then i wouldn't have minded
since my ankles (in terms
of snow) were decently pleasant-
i saw neither yours
nor any incessant
crowding of the flakes: i learn
now they were fine
and finely pressed
page by page
on backs of doors
in this unsmartly dressed
because in the end,
all i've got is this cloth
on this bench outside of boston
and a few recollections that weigh most on
me; and up above i
casual unrequittanceyou told me a story oncecasual unrequittance2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about coarse and
you crawled desperately and clung and clawed
at the grains but they wanted nothing to do with your dreams
and sent you home
waves that threw their lives off of
crests onto shores uneven
and unattached and
and you take my hands other times and
put your desires flat in between my fingers
you knew i didn't know and
you knew i couldn't collect
any sort of familiarity between that
small space between my thumb and forefinger
because nothing lined us together and
casual hopeless things like ocean currents
keep going and going without
anything less than hope to go by
but it never chases fate away
by my ankles
were fated to crash eternally.
cedreki used to dance to the color bluecedrek3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my childhood days,
when footprints crawled across the yard
and noseprints stared out of the window
and fingerprints clung to everything
that wasn't my mother's hand.
i devoured my freedom from restraint,
let it in through my pores
and out through high screams and cries-
i'm sure you could hear down the street,
my Indian cry.
we smoked cigarettes together,
got high off the sugar
and rode off for hours
pedal round to pedal
metal magnetized when we didn't even know
what that meant
our faces met the pavement and we
couldn't smile anymore.
those blue days from osborne street
have long since found their ways
into those cracks in my neck and temple
and i'm sure they'll still clutch my bone
when i'm withering away and
dancing with my fingers to the color pale and
telling boys with brown eyes
about how that cowboy from washington
ran away with the girl with face paint
but never got far enough to leave
his mother's hand.
you love hospitals and3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how people gather in one place
to say things they normally
you love the smell of alcohol,
lazy along drag of heels and
fingertips on the stair railings
steel cold and clean.
but you hate waiting rooms
and hallways with chairs across
from rooms occupied and
signs that aren't promising a
teary welcome home.
right now there's a man and
his wife you can guess and
he's holding her hand and they're
both looking at the floor.
and across from them is a door.
you want to say "sorry" or
"i'll hold your hand"
but any sound will crack
the glassy tension budding from
the meters of the floor;
you've your own place.
so you carry on using your head
as a battering ram to
escape from the weight
but before you've gotten out of sight
there's the doctor with his
high head but weary face
and he walks right past you and
behind there are feet hitting the floor
to throw bodies upright
and that goddamn
even you stop with a
hand pinching you
In a Cold Room He didn't want to be here. It was cold, and he was freezing, clutching the sides of his sweater close in his fists. Warm hands, cold feet, and that ever present desire to just complain and vomit, or to tattle about those creeping voices that were lounging in the waiting room at the back of his head for the moment. Chair, you're not helping, he thought, completely aware of how cold it made him. He kicked its metal leg and slumped down closer to the floor.In a Cold Room3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The clock was a metronome that was tethered to the wall, carrying out a beat that strongly resembled that Gaga song he heard on the radio on his way to that cold room. Pictures that resembled nothing, or everything, hung on the snowy walls and a great mahogany or was it cherry? He couldn't tell desk sat amply in the middle of a sea of unattached rugs that were alleys and avenues and ways away from each other, too far to touch, and each a varying shade of green th
dear bookworm, with loveyou are quiet sometimes.dear bookworm, with love2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your nose disappears then
with your thumbs,
toes, and middle as
you curl on the leather
or whatever window seats are,
i am sure you know because
your pinky covers the title of it
time and time again.
and your attention disappears too often;
you see me sometimes
across the aisle and shelves but
i lose you more times than you me
and it feels almost
lousy to lose you to a collection
of inanimate things that
romance you between the covers
effortlessly and thoroughly
and i admit that
i become jealous sometimes
of those times spent not with me,
but they are much more interesting
than i could ever be
so indeed, always,
it is fitting
how each page has a nook
shaped perfectly to the shape of your nose,
and how you can become absorbed in
the seemingly unalive
while i from afar
become absorbed in you.
Wrought IronThat little corner was his second home. He knew the tiny space well: the wrought iron fence, intricately sculpted, the little coffee shop behind him, the yellowing grass between the sidewalk and the curb. The smells, he knew them as well: the coffee, freshly brewed, the hot scones and pastries. These made his stomach growl and grumble beneath the worn black and white striped shirt. The slightly chilly wind, a reminder of the coming winter months, cut through the warm air. And the sounds cars roaring past, people talking on their cell phones. He seemed to be one of the few that weren't adding to the noise. Mimes don't make sounds.Wrought Iron4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Ah, there she was again. The girl in the dark sunglasses, her hair smooth, her walk hesitant. What was she afraid of?
He tipped his hat to her as she walked past. No response. Again. But he knew she'd be back in a few minutes
still,"i want grandchildren."still,2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that car ride ruined some things
threw a wine bottle at the wall
15 years sitting
it was good enough or
it wasn't good enough
all the silence forced
my pride to jump out the window
if any rested in her
she showed it off like a speech bubble
tied it to her teeth
slammed it in the door
had it under her pillow for months
and years and years and years
there was no statement
there was no outstretched hand
just steering wheel clenching
knuckles white and jaw taut
(all because who i bed was not her mindful of
i still think i'm a tumor
she shows it off like a speeding ticket
i put a pin through it
i put it on her sweater
she never wears it
Colors of the LakeOften, words only needed to be written.Colors of the Lake3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sometimes, words are meant to entertain--
Collections of words
That want to be discovered.
But when you start to see them,
You don't see the letters;
You don't read the language anymore.
You fall gracefully,
And you are submerged
By liquid words
As they rush to slip over your eyes.
You breathe in,
And meaning fills you
Like air should.
When the bottom finds you,
It catapults you to the surface.
You cough and really breathe again,
Only to realize,
You never left the ground.
You know you were in the water,
At least in your dream.
And though that memory never leaves you,
The experience will leave you changed.
You see, you find the words have meaning,
Even if they weren't meant to.
Spoken words tend to puddle
From the ones that fall like rain,
But when sitting there too long,
They mostly vanish all away.
But others, written down,
Become a body very deep
That reflect some people looking
With the colors of the lake.
A Creepypasta for AmericansA Creepypasta for Americans2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was a normal November day when little Billy woke up bright and early. The crisp and colorful leaves were gently making their way to the ground beneath their respective trees. He had been slowly marking off the days on the calendar until Thanksgiving. On that wonderful Tuesday, the adults of his family will gather together; each with their own delicious dish. And the kids will get to spend the day pigging out on the fruits of their labor.
But that would all have to wait, because today he was heading off to school. School isn't all bad, though. Sure the work load can be sort of rough, but he would get to spend all day goofing around with his close friends.
However, when he arrived in his classroom, they weren't doing the usual math worksheets and spelling quizzes. They even skipped the Pledge of Allegiance. The teachers herded the kids into one room. Billy's friends gleefully speculated what was happening and even carried on telling immature little jokes, but Billy was over
Carving Skulls and StuffCarving Skulls and Stuff7 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
CARVING SKULLS & STUFF (11-FEB-08)
This is intended as a continuing project. I'll be adding to it, and editing it for greater clarity, in response to your comments and questions. So if something is left out, or not clear, please let me know. Eventually, this may turn into a proper tutorial, but I'm starting out small, so that people who are asking questions don't have to wait until that possibly distant time. And so people can tell me what they actually need to know.
Goggles -- I don't carve unless I'm wearing some sort of eye protection, usually magnifying goggles (because I'm getting old and can't focus up close anymore), but sometimes non-magnifying ones. Chunks of stuff can fly about, and you don't want them in your eyes.
Respirator or dust mask -- Dust is not good for your lungs, and power carving can produce lots of dust. The dust of bone, antler, and shell is very bad; it can _permanently_ clog parts of your lungs. Many stone and
Beautiful Love"Mmm... Yeah, I guess I can say I don't feel pretty... Most of the time."Beautiful Love3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He sat up once I said that, his gorgeous eyes staring at me like what I'm saying is insane. "Dude, really?"
"Yeah," I just shrug,"whenever I look into the mirror I just... shudder." I try and ignore his intense, boring-holes-into-me stare... Gah! Why does he have to be like that!
"Hmph." He slumped back into his desk chair, smoothing his soft, silky hair. Man, why do is it that my hot crush is my best friend! Why?! "I have to say you're wrong on that one, darling," he says cooly, calling me by my "pet" name he gave me.
I try and hide the blush by looking out the window,"boringly" resting my chin on my hand that was on his desk. "Oh? You said there were no wrong answers." My lips curl into a small smile as he gave me an annoyed glare.
"Yeah, well, of course I lied, darling. Anyways, I have to say you're wrong," he looked out the window,too.
catchthere they werecatch2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strings up on strings
and just a foot from the end of
lateral and perpendicular to her
endless lockless keyhole-less
but so whole already
you could hear it everywhere
you could feel it everywhere;
if you wanted to
you could pluck it from the hydrogens and
set it on your tongue
with the exhales of everyone getting caught
with the contrast and coaxing
of each high G sharp
brush your lips a grin
before you ever told yourself to
understand every answer you were lost to
without ever really finding it
kyoko said that the 'motion comes from the bend of your back
showed that it spirals out from the turns in your shoulders
grinned with the supposed seduction the piano tried to breathe
"you cannot seduce with a lifeless sound;
life is not a lifeless sound"
and I knew then that this seat is for me
that seat before her
leather by leather
back straight back curved
sometimes a high wrist
always an inhale
Prufrock Seduced My ExI dreamt you up a sonnetPrufrock Seduced My Ex2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about going back in Time
with you and offering my
virginity on Venice Beach
With a renewed freshness
I recited my recent hymn,
but a famished Hurricane
drank my rhyme schemes
of Petrarchan sandcastles
before the really sad part
was able to convince you
to run away with me, my
gargoyle heart sunburnt
(camouflaged to the hue
of your rouge cheeks, to
the dance of our bodies)
But the wisp of revisited Love
evaporates with the saltwater
of a utopian seashore. This is
no fountain of youth; no well
for quarter wishes; no spring
for fallen nymphs. Soaked in
Acheron's reincarnate, let me
kiss your coy hand. Crickets
echo the apocalyptic tides of
the raucous waves, the stars'
choreography. Read my lips:
kiss the fine print. Shoplift
my innocence; you have my
I awaken to the clamor of swan lullabies
& Michelangelo's mermaids making Love
to one another. How I envy them, those
hedonistic princesses. How I hate them,
reducing my soul to a puppet