Lasael the DemonPART I: The WinterLasael the Demon3 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Once upon a time in the year 1316, two childhood friends were walking across the frozen waters of Stråken, Sweden. Winter was but a whisper away and the boys were responsible for delivering lamp oil to their homes in Mullsjö. Filip was 17 years old, whilst Isak had just turned 15. As they strolled over the icy lake, the muffled cries of a man filled the air. In the distance, a figure could be seen struggling helplessly in the water.
"Hold on Mister!", Cried Filip. "We are coming for you, please hold!". Without a moment's hesitation, and with no regard for their own safety, Filip and Isak sprinted towards the man in distress. As they pulled the mysterious figure to safety, however, it was clear that he was no man at all. His skin was pale and soft, gleaming as brightly as the blinding sun. His hair was dark like the midnight sky on winter's solstice, and his eyes burned like a pair of newborn stars.
catharsis IIhave you ever climbed a mountain? in the summer where the trees keep you a little cooler, but you're still sweating and you're out of shape and you stop at every bench for a cigarette break. you look so thin, he says. and your hair is so long. you think you're never going to find the top and you packed sandwiches for the two of you. honey and peanut butter on white bread with water and granola bars. then you turn the corner and there it is! you can see for so many miles and you're not really sure where the sky starts and the gentle green ocean stops. he turns on music and you close your eyes and he grabs your hand. that is all you need in the whole world, to be at the top of it holding another person's hand.catharsis II4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
have you ever told a lie? dived into bed with a failure while making another one of your own. you hear your phone ringing, that familiar ringtone, all those nights with that song swirling around your head and infinite synapses stinging you into a contented sleep... but you ignore i
dear alaina.dear alaina,dear alaina.3 years ago in Letters More Like This
i am not being passive-aggressive. i am not avoiding confrontation or arguments or sensitive subjects so that i won't get upset: i'm writing a letter that i can't imagine you'll see, explaining to you everything that i need you to know.
i'm sorry i'm not better. i'm sorry that i'm not trying. i'm sorry, but i can't, not now. i wish you could understand, without any fear or worry, that i need to destroy myself before i can get better. it's like i'm a phoenix, needing to catch fire and turn to ash before i can be reborn. i need to be the biggest source of pain and misery in my life; i can't let anyone else have the power to hurt me more than i have hurt myself already.
it's not enough to tear myself apart, in every sense that i can. it's not enough to pull strings of skin from the teeth of my razor and clutch toilet paper from the public bathroom to my arm like if i don't, i might die - in all hones
mascarai don't know why i wear mascara when it always ends up on my cheeks by night.mascara2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the moon is full but i am not. i'm hungry but it's mostly my eyes. i want to eat the city and the lights, swallow stars and coins in the fountains.
instead i'm alone in my apartment, with no glass but small windows facing the brick walls of my neighbours. i am empty except for the bricks which weigh heavily and hollowly at once. i swallow nothing but city air and exhaust, fumigating my lungs in hopes of eradicating the lacke thereof.
i am full of tears that were locked up since i was sixteen, pressurised in the marrow of my bones to the point of begrudging congestion. bitterness is what makes eyelashes grow-- there should be no surprise that i can't see.
Rap vs. poetryMost writings about the difference between rapping and poetry are merely an artificial opportunity to note the difference between Snoop Dogg and Edgar Allen Poe or some such mismatching. Of course, we should look at the two art forms with a fair, levelled comparison, or at least objectively.Rap vs. poetry6 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Just as raps have a stereotypical subject matter, poetry could be thought of as being solely about crying, love and over-dramatic metaphor. Let's pluck a poem from the depths of deviantart.com:
"And the sun peeps over the horizon
where the sky meets earth
her rays stretch out and
caress Your face
i look down and marvel at Your
Of course, having been written by an unskilled poet with sub-standard grammar (that is, there is no significance of the grammar used in the poem), it's not really better than Snoop Dogg. If we compare it to a rap by a skilful rapper:
"Right before he pulled the trigger and ended her life,
He thought about the cocaine with the platinum and ice
And he felt st
22 aprili was told that when she woke up, we were thisclose to each other and our faces nearly touched.22 april3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
did i ever tell you how i don't mean to push my spine to the surface and you away from me, when it's time to sleep, how i only do it because if i don't, i'll find myself falling into the way your hands move and how little you are as you sink into sheets and how wide your eyes become, green and bright like a forest, and i have to turn so that when i close my eyes, i know your lips aren't about to find mine?
i wish i didn't feel that way a lot of times, but that closeness lights my skin on fire and it's all i can do to keep my hands immobile and the minute space between us alive, because it's impossible to see you, supine and near and soft on my pillow, and not find myself pulling the threads tighter to sew makeshift stitches between our hips and fill the gaps between our lips.
i thrive on intimacy -- sex, tangling bodies as though they were singular secrets, knowing another as wel
the things i want most always disappear twelvei was the ocean in you.the things i want most always disappear twelve3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
For MadisonStreams of summer air carried well-wishings and sleepy symphonies of crickets' nighttime magic, but nothing compared during sunlit hours to the music made by his own two hands.For Madison4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
They would never touch a piano again, never breathe notes in patterns full enough of beauty that they would make Debussy bleed with envy, never resurface from the cold glass of the lake's mirror. He was a sorcerer of sound, a soul on fire with compassion and artistry -- he was dead. Caught in the undertow. Forever frozen in insufficient rescue of a boy smaller than himself. His heart had gone still, but was bigger than any beating above ground.
I heard him breathing Clair de Lune every afternoon as I walked home. He was invisible, as though he was hidden behind thick veils of water, quashing his reflection, but never his sound. I could hear how beautiful his fingers were as they pressed gently over ivory and ebony, solid bricks and thin like enamel, striking chord after chord of pure moonlight. As the leaves and
incendiaryit was the city -- you know, a self-contained organism, a microcosm of reality in which we all take part. it's like a play, with our very orchestrated roles rehearsed perfectly until we can pull them off as smooth as ice.incendiary4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
it doesn't matter which city, because really, they're all the same -- paris, milan, barcelona...lawrence, pittsburgh, atlanta.
what matters is only that we were in the city. i was myself, playing the role of a love-struck jeweler, praying i could find just the right gem to put on my lover's finger someday, and she was herself, playing the role of sara.
sara, my love; sara, my heart; sara, the snow beneath my feet, the ice begging for me to slip
but still, we were here. glimpses of this city swallow my hunger -- i might never eat again if this were my home, the way it filled me up. but the moment i broke eye contact with this entity, this city with its glittering skyline, i felt the hollows in me ache again.
it felt rig
FallotI love you.Fallot4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
No, don’t look away. How dare you ? I said, I love you. Aren’t you going to answer? Answer me.
I said – I love you.
Don’t look at your feet. Don’t look at your hands. They’re mine now anyway. The whole of you is mine, you know it. You’ve proved it to me more than once. No, don’t try to deny it. You can’t hide and you can’t make me forget your expression during those moments. What are the words in those smut novels? Pure, undiluted pleasure? Yes.
Don’t mutter. Scream it. I know you can scream my name. It doesn’t matter if I’m much younger and that we’re not supposed to – I know you wanted to. I only made your dreams come alive. Young boy, older boy, what does it matter? You’re mine. I can still feel your skin under my palms. It’s dry, almost grey.
You’re not answering. Do you really love me? Do you really? No. You don’t. You lied, you cheated and now you’re
enduranceAnd they give me all these pills to treat depression, pills for emptiness and loneliness and inappropriate guilt, for debilitating misery. But it is only superficial because there are no pills for apathy.endurance4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
When there's this black hole in the middle of you, when all that gravity is stealing you from yourself, when there is so much emptiness and nothing you do can fill it, can make it any smaller, can keep it from getting any bigger The only thing you can do to save yourself is stop trying; the energy it takes to fuel your own disappearance is enormous. So you just have to let it happen to you, you just have to live with that feeling. It's like getting caught in a white out; you're wrapped up in cold and silence and gray, in muffled sound and reflected light. People can't even touch you anymore, not for real, anyway, because you're not really there; you're hiding, tangled in a dark twist where veins meet arteries, crouched between the hemispheres of your brain, straight as a sti
Rebellion is Sweet and LightShe inhales, sharply, and the gas enters her lungs. This isn't the kind of thing she usually does, or at least that's what she tells herself, as she leans against the wall of the Starbucks bathroom and sounds are louder and more intense than they were before. Her head feels disconnected from her body, the room tilts as if she is watching herself from above. She looks in the mirror and her eyes glint, she sees a mischevous smile dance across her face as her pupils dilate, she smiles back. This isn't the kind of thing she usually does, she's not the girl to get high off of aerosol whipped cream cans in a Starbucks bathroom, but at this moment, she doesn't care. Somebody knocks on the door shooting panic through her limbs. She flushes the toilet, even though she hasn't used it, puts the can to her lips, sucks in until she tastes whipped cream. The second hit is better than the first. She leaves the bathroom and doesn't hold it open for the woman who had knocked, the woman opens it herselfRebellion is Sweet and Light4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
a letter of hatred, to myselfdear child,a letter of hatred, to myself3 years ago in Letters More Like This
dear little girl,
dear sweet, innocent, beautiful melissa,
there is none of this that you would choose for yourself; there is none of this that you would see coming. a beautiful infant, born bright yellow like your favourite dress when you were three, you were perfect. you wore jaundice like a mink stole, blocked tear ducts like cat-eyed glasses. you cried because you were unafraid to show others how you felt: you were not scared to let them care.
strangers paused your parents on the street to peer inside of your stroller, marvelling at the porcelain doll within; the big blue eyes, reflecting the sky in grandeur and wonder; the rosy cheeks that meant you were healthy. you were beautiful, and as awareness became more than an abstraction, you knew it.
hours were spent in the mirror and every reflective surface that came across your path. dearest melissa, you were a brilliant star to behold.
the fall of winterthere is a full moon, haunted, hanging just above the clouds. kind of the like the pictures we used to draw when we were young; back when we all thought we were artists. at this time of night, i can't help but wonder if its the same face of the moon that watched you left.the fall of winter3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
but fuck, we're not artists any more are we?
and this full moon - it hangs over us.
it watches with wise eyes the fragility of your heart in my cupped hands, and it waits. and with weak shoulders, i watch too. time and time again in the dead of the night i watch the crashing of the white-tipped ocean over our naked bodies, clasped tightly together, and every night i wait.
but i know we do not resurface.
and, oh the moon. it waits, waits, waits.
while deep on the ocean's floor, light filtering through the near-black water down onto our faces, i watch you and you watch me. and we know that we failed.
but my dreams are not meaningful things to you, because my words have never moved you like music; never awed you like p
you were my storywrite him a storyyou were my story6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
write him a story
write him a story about how you used to ride bareback with your hair down,
about how you used to comb your hair on tuesdays, thursdays and sundays,
about how you used to smile.
the words are lost somewhere in the conundrum which is my eyes- filled filled filled to the brim with worthless droplets of you.
here's your story:
i used to ride bareback with bare feet and comb my hair not-everyday. i used to smile when i was happy. i used to write him songs on the backs of my hands just in case he ever wanted to look at them, and tell me they were beautiful. that i was beautiful, like plastic bags and lemon tea and sundays.
i used to hum happiness into your eardums- i guess one day i forgot the tune.
addressed to: someone who's not you.
you're a story lost in your own plot, your villains are out- numbering your fairies and soon you'll be covered in warts.
for you there is no yellow brick road.
for you there is no sunshine.
case eleven'can i come in? oh, please Johnny. for chrissakes, Johnny. just open the goddamn door already. i'm running out of cigarettes and i have places to be.'case eleven3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
it's funny that she says this because she has absolutely no place in the world to be. not a heart, a pair of ears, or a broken box spring is waiting for her. she could go home and open the windows and talk to herself out loud and curse a lot. she always talks, always curses. she had an unreasonably average childhood. her father and mother worked in the same building, even. they had dinner and argued over which program to watch. christmases were even worse. Aunt Tilly from 'goddamn New Jersey' always came down and she had this 'stupid, arrogant mole' on her face. it was like she was almost a beauty but her eyes were too small and her mouth was too big. she was just really mixed up, is what she was. anyway, so the lady outside Johnny's door had a horribly middle class, Americanized childhood. she often chased the ice cream truck and she fo
HellI could tell you a lot of things about hell. I see you everywhere. Sitting on the downtown local train. I will not take that train. You are in the other cars.You are in no car but mine. You are sitting on the other side watching the windows. You exist in my periphery.You are the dream I am trying to remember. You are a nightmare now, you are a nightmare now.Hell2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
I hear you laughing when other boys are laughing. Easy, easy, easy, you are saying, and I am beginning to envy black holes because at least in all that gravity there’s a direction. You are the old man playing flute in Central Park. You are five years old holding your mother’s arm. I am certain that it is you, those are your hands clutching at a jacket sleeve, the same hands that crawled beneath my skin and wrapped around my veins making me poison. You think I wouldn’t notice that you gave that boy your hands? You think I wouldn’t know?
In dreams the trains are all different. There are thirty-five more avenue
The Way We Built Bridges"You waste too much time on your words." You once told me.The Way We Built Bridges4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
"No," I replied "you don't waste enough time on words. Words are a tool to you, not a treat. A pragmatic means of communicating, bargaining, exchanging vital snippets of information. Calm down. Stop speaking so fast. We're not fighting a war (not us, not here). You don't prune and select your language. You've forgotten how to roll it around on your tongue, or try it on for size. Revel in rolling Rs, or the sweetness of a string of vowels and consonants, arranged in such a way to create more beauty than you ever thought possible.
Language can be a delicacy to contrast your paltry recital of data. You should try it."
on mish mash/bacardi smashedi couldn't really appreciate how sober you were at the time, because i mean i was far beyond fucking sober, and the only thing i wanted in the whole world at that instant, i swear the only thing, was a drink in your hand. like everything i had ever hoped or worked for? fuck it. i just wanted you drunk. i wanted you warm and slow and slurry, tall and strong and blurry. i can't really recall the progression of things, i mean like the in-between things, the times when we were still and quiet. maybe because there weren't any. i remember wolfing down my cigarette, and pacing the concrete floor of the back porch, and it was so nice, it was so fucking nice, really. because here were two people who i admire the fuck out of, and they're sitting next to each other on the floor of a screened-in porch. and it was even raining a little. i hear it was cold but, warm or cold, i didn't really notice it. and here were two people that i love the fuck out of, and one is sober and one is not so sober andon mish mash/bacardi smashed3 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
.i have a feeling she would have loved to have seen these days..3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the whole world has begun to unfurl itself in front of our nonchalant eyes, opening like the flowers in fast forward on movies; slowly at first, but then quickly, until its all there, waiting. she would have liked to have watched us take our first breaths of that new air, i think.
but then again, i don't know what she would have liked. maybe she didn't like anything.
and maybe that's why she's not here to open her eyes to a new world with us.
there was a picture of her on my wall all along, and i never even realised.
it's all green, and her face is covered, but it's her.
and really, that's all i have left.
there is a strange darkness that consumes these days too though. perhaps she saw it all coming, behind the thin layer of blonde hair that covered her when she was at her most beautiful.
it's a strange and scary thing, to see your friends die.
the story of a girl i lovefive years ago, i met a girl.the story of a girl i love3 years ago in Letters More Like This
i met a girl who, in those five years, has changed my life. i met a girl who has held my hand, held my heart, held my attention. i met a girl who inspired me, whose thirst for the world is still unmatched to this day. i met a girl who, then, behind all the head-down studying and the dark eyeliner, loved herself. and god, she was loved.
this is the story she needs to hear, and she needs to tell herself every day for the rest of her life.
i still remember her smile when she first tipped over a table in maths, first wrote profanities in her textbook. i still remember her standing there, in the middle of the grey classroom with the windows behind her skinny frame, laughing like her world had just opened up. i remember the first time she dyed her hair, and then below her sharp jawline was rainbow of colour that suited her a little bit too well. i remember her wearing her skirt a bit too high, tucking in her shirt and wearing long white socks and telling me that
keep me aliveswallowed in icy wind, you hide underneath a layer of milk skin dressed in goosebumps and your father's old jacket. you loved this place, once. now, listening through the wool of your jumper to the earth cry, it seems haunted, seems fleeting. it seems like something you should try to forget.keep me alive3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
no, it is stitched with rusty needle and fraying thread to the linings of your heart. it is the warmth and the bad smell on your breath. it is the bleeding skin around your fingernails, it is the white blood cells that put it back together. this is the piece of your paper thin life that won't tear, won't yellow with age. this is the last drops of water held between cupped hands that cling to the grooves into your rough skin.
the grass sways with the trees and the white lines of rain in the sky, like a wheat field or a girl too drunk to dance, and against your ankles it feels like the eyelashes of those you've long forgotten and the way they used to trace your cheeks. yes, it is night and it is dark