PERSONAL CATASTROPHE AND PROBABLE SOLUTIONSYour life is headed for a disastrous end.
Everyone will die.
That is a fact.
You will die.
Your friends will die.
Everyone you know will die.
These are indisputable facts.
Your body will break down and crash in one way or another.
Your heart will stop.
Your brain synapses will cease firing.
100% guaranteed termination.
You and everyone you know has less than 122 years left.
The oldest person alive was 122.
Oldest person alive now is 115.
Death should be your number one enemy.
Do not accept it.
Do not welcome it.
The question is - are you willing to extend, improve your life and the lives of those you love?
Why haven't you done it yet? Do you think it's impossible?
Flying for us was impossible until airplanes were built.
Now, the question is- how do we stop the personal catastrophe of death?
The logical answer is - science!
We can slow death down using modern medicine, and we can stop and reverse some accidental causes of death.
Aging is one cause that we cannot currentl
What Am I? Lingering in that photo...What Am I?1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
In that simple shot
I look, and I see a woman.
I am not a woman.
I have never worked for a lifestyle,
given birth for an allowance
I have never truly loved a man.
I am not a woman.
I do not have the means to
to wake, feel the calling..(oh, it calls, but I do not answer)
and move, move, move
until I reach a place of
I am not a woman.
Sometimes, I still take the
of my childhood and
place it on shoulders of
Sometimes, I remember the way
lifting builds me up.
But I am not a woman.
Lingering in that photo...
A wisdom of some sort
has trickled into my features
I see glimpses of it now.
In that momentary shot,
I look, and see memories there
In the darkness of my eyes.
In the taming of my smile.
In the strain stretched over my brow.
I am not a child.
And I am not a woman.
Do you know the taste of the universe?One day, when you’re five years old and made out of fractured sunlight and mirror shards, you sit down on the bench of the MAX train. You’re dressed in your winter coat and boots that are too big and one of your parents has pulled your hat too close over your ears.Do you know the taste of the universe?10 months ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
You’re sitting next to your mother, and on the other side is a man that smells like loneliness, something that you’ll later know as cigarettes and alcohol and homelessness. He’s crying quietly into the top of his jacket and you’re scared to look because you’ve never seen an adult cry.
The train ride goes on for five minutes, which is a long time to you, and eventually you sneak a look at the crying man who smells like Portland and loneliness, and he sees you. He leans down until you can see the red lines in his eyes and he whispers to you.
“Do you know the taste of the universe?”
And you look up at him with your little-girl eyes and shake your head because you can’t
for all intensive purposesi am accused of beingfor all intensive purposes9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a category five--
but i will not excuse the way my skin aches.
i want storms.
i remember the way Katrina screamed &
if you press your ear to my chest you will hear the same.
the moan turning into a pitch, the pitch
screaming until the throat is too raw to be
more than a whimper.
the way it stops
silently racked until it bursts forth once more.
i will not apologize for being demolition.
scars exist on every woman
too powerful to contain herself.
l'appel du videlet me intensify the outside for youl'appel du vide9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
to nullify the agony in your head
drink up, shoot up, snort it all
and i'll watch eagerly as your
pupils contract, veins constrict
as it sets in, and then
the concentration, oversaturation
of color and sensation, the distortion
of time and of your entire reality-
isn't this better than dreaming?
on stimulants, everything is wonderful
the bricks are beautiful until you hit them
the bruises are gorgeous until you remember the pain
and even then,
they're just colors blooming upon your skin
pause for a moment of clarity
retreat from waking reverie and rediscover
the mess you're in- an instant
almost-sober and everything rushes
back like a bullet train and
you just want to take that last-
don't think like that
ignore the impulse
enjoy this while it lasts
squeeze every drop of euphoria from this
you'll be back down soon enough
you don't need to jump
sniffle a little now
didn't realize your nose was leaking
substance trying to escape
your voracious ap
The Soul Broker I am the buyer and seller of souls. I’ve bought them all and I sold you yours. For the world must run like the gears of a clock, and sometimes you tick or sometimes you tock, but everything given will be taken away and for every silence kept, a word must be said.The Soul Broker2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Naturally, you must assume there is cost. For everything gained, a penny is lost; of course this life can be no different--when the check arrives, you must pay the difference. But not all who ride on the sunday train pay the same price to get out of the rain: a king’s ransom might obtain far, far less than the pauper’s cheap pain.
Your father paid the price of sweat, a back bent under the yoke of the world; accrued worldly financial debt but was recompensed with the jokes of a girl. And he would say he walked away wealthy, with his empty bank account, for his daughter lives today quite healthy and loves him in equally large amounts.
Character - Fortune AdjusterCome in, boy, come in. No, I will call you boy. The carnival manager is Boy to me too, do not think yourself so high and mighty. Come in, you want your fortune told by the old circus hag, yes? Come in, sit here, let me peer at you in the shade. You want your future told? A simple task, for I have already seen it in my inner eye. But more than simply tell, I will change. In truth I am not a teller of fortunes, but an adjuster.Character - Fortune Adjuster3 years ago in Sketches More Like This
The youth of today, worried about the future, ha! The future happens over and over, will happen just as it has happened. All I need are your anchors, the things deciding your future. For example, that pretty little thing you left outside, she is no anchor. She will change you, yes, she will eat up your pocketbook! I saw her, I saw her jewelry and fake breasts. No, look at me, not at her. You did not bring her into the tent, you do not see her as part of your future, yes? She is a fun little fling, am I right? Oh, you think it shameful for me to speak of such thing
you loved someone.i.you loved someone.6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Chloe is nineteen when she dies.
She ends it with a shotgun
the night her brother gets out
They say he molested her
he raped nine women
ten eleven twelve women
they say no
it was nine little girls
ten eleven twelve
little girls, kids, the bastard.
he was a bad man
“No wonder she did it.
If he was my blood
I’d’ve done it, too.”
You go to the funeral
because that’s what good people
because your mother asks you
“You want to go to Heaven,
without looking up from her knitting
and you would laugh in her face,
but she’s your mother
and you love her
so you go.
A man you know stops you –
a friend of John’s –
John, who is not yours anymore
(even now, even in death,
you know he’ll keep her
longer than he kept you)
on your way to the bathroom.
“John really loved her, y’know,” the man says
as if you wouldn
PilkunnussijaHere's what I think:Pilkunnussija1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel li
I Call Him CompulsionThree. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. SixI Call Him Compulsion2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.
"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factorit's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.
I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.
He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon sneaks into my mind again. This time I see fire. It sparks from the dryer, blisters the walls, and rushes tsunami-like towards my son's room. It licks at my daughter's curtains.
I see them lying in their beds, unaware of the destruction. I see walls of flame keeping me from them.
"I have to go to the bathroom," I say. Sam pauses the show. The beast in
Open SeaIOpen Sea9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
fawn caught in
boulder on the
shoreline - a ghost in my dreams that's still breathing
I a &
The Stick PeopleIn a town called Rushing Water, there lived a woodcarver with no face.The Stick People1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
When we were small, my brothers and I, Daddy would sometimes take us to visit her. We would sit there at her kitchen table, amazed, as this woman with no eyes – and indeed no nose or mouth – would pour out our tea without spilling a drop.
I was frightened of her because she looked so strange, so grotesque. All the other days of my life, I encountered people with faces – square faces, oval faces, faces round and smiling like the moon with slanted eyes or big dark ones or little beady bird eyes. Snub noses, Romans or long, thin, birdlike ones like mine. Yet here was a woman with none of that or any of the faculties that come with those organs.
As a little girl, I dreaded our visits to the faceless woodcarver. But now that I've grown up I miss most all the memories of my childhood, even the somewhat unpleasant ones, so I sometimes let them wander through my mind even when they aren't invited. So I remember the woodcarv
to the girl under the covers at nooni wish i loved to starve myself bestto the girl under the covers at noon6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
of all the punishments. but that isn't my
preferred method and for good reason,
the empty stomach sneering (unlike the
the shuddering emptying stomach) and
leaning as insubstantial as my attempts
at sleep up against the wall between me
and better days. maybe there are times
when i am orpheus descending into hades
for the treacherous chance of returning,
ring on my finger arms brimming with
woman (one woman, the woman), but don't
forget that means i look back, too, that i
cram the nostalgia of one lost woman in
my mouth until i give her back to the
shadows i swept her from so easily; to know
the exquisite sonatavoid of bargaining
for the prize and then throwing it back in
the faces of those gloating higher powers
(but they have no heads, only mirrors atop
bloody necks that speak a reflection
like an apology. a condemnation).
what if i took you aside and was as warm
and shining as a jaguar or a sunspot or a dream
you had of someone who could accept an
NaPoWriMo: Day 2sometimes,NaPoWriMo: Day 29 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have this
sudden urge to cut
most of the time,
i just wish I were anything
other than me.
a rocket ship, a bird-
the sweet flavored smoke
I promised my girlfriend
these briar patch lungs
would not in.hale.
i have fallen in love
with the strangest of things-
eyes that intimidate
the way my scars
play hide and seek
with her hands. -
the love letters
that start and end
pressed against limbs.
i make promises
i know i can not keep.
but if i were a liar
i would say i was tired
of writing to the stars.
IndependenceOnce the wind caught on the seaIndependence6 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
And its dress snagged upon the crests
Like a girl who couldn't help falling
For a boy with too many cracks
Then the wind tumbled between the waves
Crashing with the water when it couldn't find the sky.
I always wanted to live in the sky,
Wrap clouds around me--dip myself into the sea--
And wander into roaring waves
Of emptiness; Rush as the sun crests
Rush like wind and water into the cracks
Of myself, so that maybe I'll stop falling
For people who can't keep themselves from falling
Down, and who won't quit looking at the sky
So they can avoid all the cracks
In the sidewalk as they weave through a people-sea.
Well, I'm not used to riding the crests
Of others' success; I'll make my own waves.
So though my hair falls down in amber waves
I fear the strands will keep on falling
And my white-wash hands in lunar crests
Won't show you a spacious sky
Unless you want to see
Through star-spangled cracks.
Eyes and eggshells shattered, tiny cracks
And the tears stre
Across the Sea and Around the KotatsuSpringAcross the Sea and Around the Kotatsu1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Mom starts with rice. Japanese rice, one, two, three Japanese cup-fulls of rice grains into the cooker, because Sis eats a lot of this stuff. It's one of her favorite dishes, taco rice, and Mom's always happy to make it for her because it's the only way Sis will eat her tomatoes. But back to the rice. "You want to rinse at least three or four times, until the water's kind of clear," Mom says as she cups her hand under the cooker pot, letting the cloudy water wash over her hand.
Rice cooking's easy though – just fill enough water to the point the rice's covered, punch in a time (or set it to "Quick Cook," which with our creaking rice cooker still takes about an hour) and let the cooker do its thing.
Ground meat goes into a well-greased and heated frying pan. Break up the block so that it crumbles into fine little pieces, and do this with wild abandon, because this is taco meat. Mom uses any taco seasoning that happens to be cheap; most seasonings rack up t
Murder in the First, Second, and ThirdThe first time it happened, she was drunk.Murder in the First, Second, and Third7 months ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
Kissing in his bed, hands locked on his face, how difficult would it be? Phone on the bedside, the password his year of birth and high school jersey number and all she’d have to say was that he was going to spend a few days at her place. His roommates would be disappointed but not surprised. Break your heart, break your heart, that girl’ll break your heart. But none of them would count on this, no one would notice until he didn’t call his father or the unfamiliar smell of human death crept into every reach of the apartment. Keys in his pocket, cutting into her thigh, she could take them and head for the coast. Head for the border, even, and slip away. If she got caught, she’d claim she had no idea what was happening when it happened. If she got caught, she’d smoke cigarettes in prison and cut her hair short. If she got away, she’d never think of him again.
She bit until she tasted blood, and then rolled out
The First KissIt wasn't even past eight when she ran into her room. She didn't bother and change her clothes as she simply slid under the covers. She cocooned herself in her bed hurriedly, unable to hold back the smile that crept up her face. She knew that she had acquired a new set of dreams this evening. Dreams that will be haunting her for a very long time.The First Kiss6 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She'd banished every other memory on her way home. This one dream was so majestic it seemed unfit to share anything with it. She feared a picture of her precious moment would seep through the smile she couldn't hide and someone would catch it and drag her back into the dull silent world.
It was a kiss that lasted seconds, but in her head it was a cinematic that went on for hours. Her heart pounded so viciously to the point she thought the sound alone could fill the entire world around her. She recalled her kiss, a blush creeping on her cheeks.
She closed her eyes tightly as she stirred in bed. Maybe her dream will go on
He WavesHe waves. It's a friendly little gesture, almost a two finger salute to an old friend. He's watching you through your window.He Waves2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The Boy has fine, burnt umber hair that shines like silk in the midmorning sun. It's almost a shame to see it in the unisex, unflattering buzz cut of the OldGens. He is obviously one of them; the OldGens. No self-respecting NewGen would be caught dead in this kind of state muddy face, torn knees, his empty collection sack over his shoulder. It is the NewGens who are expected to keep themselves neat and orderly. They are the only ones for whom it is worthwhile doing so.
As a NewGen child, you have been raised to behave exactly as your parents tell you. And your parents behave the way the GenWatch tells them. But in all your years, the one thing they have not been able to straighten out of you is your curiosity. So you stand up. You leave your desk exactly the way it's not meant to be covered with unfinished homework and you
Love and Eighth Grade ScienceMy loveLove and Eighth Grade Science8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Is like white light,
Comprised of the entire color spectrum,
But for now it has been diffused into its original components
By the prism you have set forth.
The colors are brilliant but aimless,
Mere echoes between empty walls.
Is like potential energy, waiting
To be converted to kinetic energy,
At top speed and with incredible momentum.
But first, you have to push.
Why I Laughed at His FuneralWas dull, as funeralsWhy I Laughed at His Funeral9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was nothing I could help, the sound of it
left me. And in the moving crowd of black
around collars and scarves and
the formless grays of our town
, bowel movement of black,
broken by a laugh, then two, then
a whole cascade. Who is to say
I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth
or wanting to, not knowing enough?
Bobby Sweethouse died
throwing himself off the school roof.
His mother was the first to collect his remains,
ashamed almost to see
all the mess her boy had made.
Many of my friends had said,
he deserved this for being a queer,
or something along those lines, I’m sure
they could pull whatever they wanted
from a long checklist of things to say,
or spit, or hurl. Words, after all, like these
are pre-prepared, ahead of time.
It wasn’t his fault for being outted.
Or born here, where the cruel earth fought
to make flowers shoot from the ground
only to be crushed by the lightning of words,
sneers, and stares.
I’d like to think he wasn
THE CHURCH OF GOOGLISMSTEP 1: The problem.THE CHURCH OF GOOGLISM9 months ago in Personal More Like This
You have a problem.
Don't tell me you don't have problems.
Everyone has problems.
Determine what your biggest problem is.
Don't have a big problem? Too scared to admit it?
You can start smaller- How about a small problem?
How about something that concerns/bothers/confuses you today/this week/recently?
Come up with a bunch of keywords that describe your problem.
STEP 2: Ask google for solution to your problem.
Google your question using ALL the possible keyword combinations that your problem relates to or has in it.
See if anyone already has a similar problem or has already resolved it.
Take 3 hours if you must.
Finding correct information can get tough, especially if it is obscure, hidden, answered incorrectly or has conflicting answers.
Answers without proper sources or evidence are generally incorrect and should be disregarded.
If there are too many conflicting solutions and opposing answers and you're not sure which is correct,
Use the principle of
i) Wanderlusti),i) Wanderlust1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
The first time I met the girl who started a revolution the sky was throwing down so much rain it felt like we were underwater. It was hard to breathe; and maybe that was because of all the rain, but probably it was because I looked at her face, under this dark red hood, and inside I was a story with all these feelings I could never say. I guess those feelings could only ever become words on paper - words in ink - not the kind I could ever speak aloud to anybody, if only because I couldn't bear for a person to see the look on my face while I remembered. Despite how good it felt - so hopeful, so desperately happy for what it was and could become - at the same time it was drowning in this sea, like the sky that day, for the way that everything else wasn't. And I said, what's your name?
At first we called her August when I brought her back to Jack's flat, which his parents paid for mostly, and which we used for getting high, mostly. She curled up in the armchair and rarely left it from
Day of SilenceIn unbiased, unspecific terms, the Day of Silence is an opportunity to maintain a vigil that simultaneously reflects on lives cut tragically short and to serve as a reminder of the end result of hatred, prejudice, and indifference. If you are a progressive proponent, it is a day in honor of and reserved for the suffering of the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender communities of America a chance to proclaim a social and political message that the worth of a person is not determined by his or her sexual orientation, and that discrimination on such a merit is no better than racism or sexism. If your views are more orthodox, it is paradoxically an unacceptable acceptance of a deviant lifestyle, the promotion of an agenda that leads to the desecration of traditional family and community values.Day of Silence6 years ago in Editorial More Like This
It would be a lie to say that my own view of the Day of Silence is itself unbiased. I am a quietly proud Christian and a proponent of the value of the family, but my experiences and times w