The Storyteller.Words burst from my fingertips likeThe Storyteller.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Licks of fire, burning paper
Where they etch and score their
Meanings with absolute passion.
The faint, illusory scent of make-believe
Smoke surrounds me like a shroud:
An ensorcelled cloak, its hem stitched with a
Magical thread that imbues me with the
Power of words, its fabric dyed
Dark, shimmering with shades of ambition.
Creatures of all forms and ages begin to
Flit across my page with alarming clarity.
Voices - strident and shy, tenacious and meek -
All attempt to make their stories heard:
There are adventures to be spun in
Stimulating hues of royal blue and jade;
Romances to be told in the
Swelling notes of a sweet serenade;
Downfalls to be declared by the knell of
Death as he leads a doleful black parade.
Day after day, my Muse leads me from
Forest to meadow to coast to city, opening
Portals through which I can glimpse
Alternate realities and different lands altogether,
That I may understand the
Wonders of wor
Free! OC Bio: Masami AomoriFree! OC Bio: Masami Aomori2 years ago in Profiles More Like This
Name: Masami Aomori
Nicknames: Potato, Shorty, Cutiepie, Shrimp
Meaning of name: From Japanese, (masa) "become" and (mi) "beautiful".
Height: 5’0 “Shortest in her class”
Weight: 95 lbs.
Occupation: High School Student, Iwatobi High School
Marital status: Single
Love interest: Makoto-Tachibana
Relatives: Itsuki Aomori (Mom), Mitsuo Aomori (Dad), Kade Aomori (Older Brother)
Relations: *will be edited over time*
Best Friends: Akane Hashimoto (deceased), Misaki Kitazono, Seiji Kentaro, Teppei Kenichi, Makoto Tachibana, Nagisa Hazuki
Friends: Tomomi Hayasaka, Hasegawa Tatsumi, Rei Ryugazaki, Rin Matsuoka, Haruka Nanase, Yuuta Yamamoto
Likes: Desserts, maid outfits, clothes, make-up, dancing, receiving compliments, lace/sparkly/shiny things, frilly skirts, lace, dying her hair, stuffed animals, jewelry, over-sized sweaters, anything pink, eating, getting hyper, and her friends.
Dislikes: acne, spicy foods, jump scares, fake frien
Low Self-EsteemYou are beautiful...Low Self-Esteem4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Never forget that.
undone. bird-bone wrists perched on window sills,undone.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you watch train tracks fall into the mist.
your breath is softly fogging the veiw,
but i don't say a word.
some silences can break like china if you breathe too hard.
the trees are angry strangers that make your hands shake when you think i'm not looking.
(i try to tell you the worst things are after you close your eyes,
but neither of us believe me.
when she says she's not afraid to step off this train,
we both know what she really means.
(she's scared to live.
because you're the kind of girl who hides sleeping pills in the corners of her smiles.
who overdoses on life but forgets to purge her insecurities.
who carries a knife in both pockets and laughs like br
In the Shallows. I bent over to touch my toesIn the Shallows.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the ground tore open like a backbone.
I tried to feed myself the sky;
to splice my tearducts into the universe
so that, when the pavement cried, it would mean something to me.
My fingernails punctured that slimy membrane
congealed with stars,
and I brought a slice of it to my lips,
hot and slippery like a jellyfish.
Peach juice, chalky-sweet, flowed,
fleshy particles snagged in my teeth,
and the colors erupted within my mouth.
Synthesia took over my lungs.
The hollows between my knuckles flooded with synovia
and all the ectoplasm threatened to separate from my cells
with a sound like thunder.
Diphthong tasted rusty like leukoplakia as it tiptoed across my tongue.
Tomorrow rose like the skeletons of trees,
groping for a feeling similar to catharsis
[catharsis tender as the broken wings of do
Maurice Eugene DobsonMaurice Eugene Dobson, aged forty-three years and two months, is standing in the middle of a car of the A train, on his way home. He is not holding onto the pole: he stands off to its side, swaying slightly with the movements of the train, but balanced perfectly and seemingly without effort. He never holds onto the poles. He takes pride in being able to maintain his balance like this, although he knows its not the sort of quality anyone else will appreciate, and its not really something you can put on your résumé. Too bad.Maurice Eugene Dobson7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He is a small man, though he prefers the word diminutive. He is five feet, four and a half inches tall in his stocking feet, and slightly built: his clothes hang on him as though bewildered to have such an insufficient resident. He wears pressed khaki pants, their sharp creases billowing several inches forward of his knees; he wears a stiff checkered shirt and a navy blue suit jacket with a single gold button that is somehow incongruous.
flutter.i. there are swallows gathered in yourflutter.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
chest, tense and cramped amongst your
heart and your deep lungs.
they are safe, but they are unhappy.
they long to break free.
ii. your ribs are each
carefully strung together with
tattered, bloody ribbons.
you want to keep the swallows in.
iii. they are your only comfort, the
only fragment of normality
you continue struggling to
hold on to.
letting them go means
letting go of everything you know,
and everything you have ever been.
iv. the swallows cannot sleep;
your frantic heart echoes far too
loudly within the caverns they nest in.
they are exhausted, but they find it quite
What I wish I had knownWhatWhat I wish I had known1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
tell you on
when you go
to your friend's birthday
of the dishes
at your willpower.
What they don't tell you
when your teacher
for your class
ironboned and magic
And what you
have to learn
like in the
from your face
your little sister
on the scales
on the scales
all the puke
mapping the ache.She learned anatomy when he broke her heart. She liked how she could track the stinging, burning pain as it delved deeper into her. Starting in her throat, a heavy lump that wouldn't move anymore than a cm a day. it would travel through her veins, like back lanes, leaving behind big clouds of exhaust fumes that make her skin tarnish, and her blood thicken. the pain, gets a little stronger. moves a little further. with her bones structure mapped and blown up on the wall across from her bed, she woke up each morning, and closed her eyes. she sat quiet and still with breath held, trying to pinpoint the pain. she'd trace the wall and place a small gold star where is had reached that day. it was quite beautiful really. this skeletal system, scattered with little stars. her own constellation.mapping the ache.3 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
it was a realisation that everything can be traced back to her heart. it beats and bleeds and aches and yearns and everything it feels is shot through your synapses and
find me in the hidden life.i have this feeling in my bones that some call weakness and other call fire.find me in the hidden life.4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
it's a driving need and a crippling desire, and it wakes me in the middle of the night with cramping calves and feet running among cotton though they reach nothing but the great beyond of the side of the bed. it's a burning that pushes me into the middle of rainstorms to dance among the cracking weather kissing the earth, and it's a spark lit under the gasoline pooled under my heart. some call me crazy and others call me sane, but if you look for me in the heart of winter, you will often find me curled under the dead oak touching the bark because i like the way life looks when it's hidden.
you'll often find me like this, looking for hidden life and concealed light. sometimes, i will search for under the frozen wrinkles and concrete-frowns of the lonely, and other times i will seek it in the ocean before the storm. i will hunt under the foliage like a hungry wolf, and i will howl at the canopy as i track it dow
what if this was the song of myself?1. god laced your eyes with opiumwhat if this was the song of myself?3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stitched them shut with cotton fog. wake, love cough
like a gunshot, breathe
like the blood eagle
has been carved into you. time didn't mean
to blind the moon's great eye, to
collapse it into the static horizon.
my lips can no longer pronounce the word mercy. wake,
2. the days crack like porcelain dolls
under my father's boots. there are skulls
hidden in the cabinets, & shadows too, hung in the closet
like thin-pressed coats.
3. razor, rohypnol, rope. bathroom,
basement. if i touch all three
before i leave
i won't pick one up when i
4. there is newsprint
my skin; the serif fonts
lock & jumble
like nephilim stretching
like barbed wire babies
crawling through my veins. this is
the same disease
you died of. without you here,
5. razor, rohypnol, rope.
razor, rohypnol, rope.
your picture smiles,
showing skin. that summer
we were always young.
I'm at a pay phone,looking for you in the paper-thin pages,I'm at a pay phone,3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it's so ironic.
I spent my last four quarters on narcotics
that I'm too afraid to take,
and I could really use some gum right now
to wedge my jaw open for a while.
The doctors are braiding your biggest bones
and I'm in the backseat of a stranger's car
trying to weave loops of rainbow-soaked cotton together,
hoping to keep my brain from going
numb like fingers in winter-pelted pools.
Something tells me
if I caught a scent of you,
I would never let go.
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,an apology letter to my body.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.
most days i can't look at you in mirrors,
when i should be writing you love letters .
i have deprived you,
i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.
i have let your sacred places be defiled.
you are a country i have never learned to call home,
a language no one has ever spoken.
i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,
planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.
for the days my stomach became a ghost town,
my mouth a forgotten portal.
for the days spent with two fingers down my throat
like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.
i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleep
and the days ballet became punishment.
for the days every muscle felt a
The power of wordsIt is fascinatingThe power of words2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how such little words,
how such meaningless sounds
could break your mind.
It is disturbing
to see people utter them,
loudly and without thinking,
not even regretting the harm they bring.
It is suffocating
when those words have to but can't be held,
or when those thoughts can't be expressed,
frustration building up inside.
It is heartwrenching
how a few words,
can break a fragile heart.
It is as surprising
as how a few sweet words,
pronounced with love,
can make forget and even heal wounds.
you are only as good as your best distractionthe streets are coarse,you are only as good as your best distraction3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
littered with short-haired women in creamy coats,
skin like jellyfish.
their eyes are the worst,
rimmed with the same rusted colour
as the spit that comes from their mouths
as they cast their iron hooks:
quiet smiles, snake words.
there is no one safe, least of all me.
my bones show, and the moon smiles down on me
as i press my knuckles into my shoulder blades,
pull fingers through my hair.
i totter into a quiet bar,
a strange alien bunch of silk and foamy pearls.
the room is profoundly comforting,
smoke rising in the dim light,
the ceaseless moans of a cello in the corner.
i make pitiful French-sounding cooing noises at the bartender
as i point to a bottle of port that i want.
he pours wordlessly, and i gaze into the amazingly dark wine,
so thick it leaves a red film in the glass
after i have let it burn a gracious path down my similarly coloured throat.
a few hours later, i fin
5874265Winter has taken hold of my heart.58742653 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the dark of night she slunk in, leaving frosty-footprints on the glass,
and sang me to sleep with lips as soundless as an owl's wing-feather,
dusting my eyes with powder to help them seal shut.
With snowy fingers she incised my breastbone
and plucked my ribs like the petals of the last flower:
one for me, one for her, one for me they cascade to the floor, white and crumbling.
She raised herself up, back arching, and drove her feelers
- silvery tentacles, glistening like dew -
through my system, latching herself onto me,
drilling nails into the soft-spots on my bones.
She hooked my veins together like a bundle of cords and seeped down into them like battery-acid:
eating away at my nerves until only the tips of my fingers
remembered how to feel.
She stroked my heart, cooing softly,
thumb and forefinger reaching down with elegance and demonic-grace
to take that tiny thrumming machine into her hand,
FuelHorace Windsor stood bundled and shivering against the passenger door of his sleek black Rolls Royce. A cigarette was clenched between his bluish fingers. He exhaled, a shaky stream of frozen breath and toxic smoke hissing from his teeth. Christ, it was cold.Fuel6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Come on, come on," he chattered as the ancient gas pump chugged at a painstakingly slow pace. The numbers on the meter showed little progress. If not for his damned wife, he could have just stayed in the car. Four days of tedious corporate meetings and he was expected to make the three hour journey home without a single cigarette? "It will ruin the interior, Horace," she had scolded, "We only just bought the car last month." On any other day, he would have rebelled, but he didn't feel like putting up with her nagging after returning home from such a long week. He just wanted to get home and sleep in his own bed. The hotel had had an
Midnight: A RensakuI'll hold you, fold youMidnight: A Rensaku2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
tuck you safe in my rib-cage
-like first love's letters
I'll seek heaven in your gaze,
constellations on your lips
Catch the butterflies
fluttering in my rib-cage
-they know me so well
Write on cerulean skies,
breathe under turquoise waters
You pick at my scabs
kiss me deep in my rib-cage
-while I ache from bliss
I'm but a half-baked body,
your warmth will surely rot me
The Ghosts of WordsWords are for menThe Ghosts of Words4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and women's minds will twist them.
They may speak, permission granted,
but the pen in all its might
is for men alone.
She knew better. All around
were women writing letters, books, lives.
Her brothers learned, and she listened.
One or two took pity, taught a, b, c
and she remembered.
And she read in cramped dusty rooms
where father never went.
Writing was next, with some practice.
Page after page of letters until her marks
looked like theirs. Until she truly wrote.
From then on it was all hers,
friends and family, towns and journeys,
words and worlds.
Love and denial and despair mixed in
carefully cramped pages
as she treasured each sheet of clean paper.
She started with herself but why stop?
All around were stories, and she made her own.
Women met their fates, raised their daughters
sighed their last and reached for lovers.
She kept it all to her heart,
all the forbidden signs on pages,
locked in old trunks in old places
But he found them in the end.
CodaSpattered in moonlight, I can taste sunbeams on my tongue: warm, thick, creamy like caramel in coffee.Coda3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Beneath me, the seasons are changing. That little fragile thing within is stirring; she is yawning, stretching, raising herself up like a tattered marionette, all her joints popping and vertebrae realigning. As she dawns, the dust billows and flames reignite; her strings are growing back together, spidering upward with thin, famished fingers. When she dances, the world rewinds to those beautiful moments.
The ghost of a palm burns through to the small of my back, nerve-endings clambering: dripping across my spine like the cold touch of water and ice. His lips graze that hollow place below my ear, sending a shock wave through my system, filling me up with secrets and sparks, gorging me with promises.
I breathe in his vindictive charm, all those capital letters spoken with question marks, the lies twisting to truths. Dreaming nightmares as sweet as sugar-cane, I take his abuse like a sho
FramesMy bike is a vintage 1973 Raleigh handed down to me by my father. The steel frame I use to bike those forty miles to and from class every day is the same one he used on his campus, way back in the Bronze Age. Sure, I've replaced the brakes, the shifters, the chain, the pedals, the wheels, and about half the rider, but the core of the thing is unchanged.Frames7 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
It's only natural, then, that I was replacing the brake cable when I discovered them. I'd been inserting a Dremel bit to cut some sheathe when I thought to wear eye protection, and what should I find when rifling through the mess called my father's garage but a pair of glasses that could have been older than the bike I was repairing. Safety wear, to be sure; the glasses were un-lensed, but the thick black frames were standard eye-wear right about the time NASA was sending Armstrong to the moon. Instantly recognizable. I used them to finish cutting the sheathe and pocketed
The Job Interview "I'm sorry Mr. Kumin, but I simply can't hire you," the doctor said.The Job Interview4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I was a little ticked off at this. I knew he needed an assistant and I was more than qualified. "Thank you for your time," I said, holding out my hand. He looked at it like he was discussed at the thought of touching me. I took the hint, nodded curtly and walked out the door. Well, that's another one to scratch off my list.
I walked down to the front desk, leaned on the counter and sighed. "You didn't get it," the receptionist said. Savannah Backer was a tall, African American woman who proudly displayed her black heritage all over her desk. "I'm sorry you didn't, your the most qualified person who's applied, most education, most skill, I'm just wondering why you don't have your own practice by now."
"It's just that I'm a little