The Musings of a Writer The pen hovered over a simple sheet of paper, the only marks on it being red and blue lines meant to keep foreign markings from shifting off their destined course. Yet the lines felt as if they had no purpose on this night because there were no dark markings to guide towards a path that would lead to so many possibilities. The truth, however, was more cruel than what an innocent bystander would have thought if they were passing by the coverless windows and, by chance, looked into the darkened room with only a single candle burning, giving little light for the person hidden in shadow that appeared to be leaning over a simple desk covered by pages of unused paper, a single pen with ink like the night sky in their hand. The very page set before the shadowed figure was the very same page that was void of any sign of use for several months. This simple yet terrible fact was the silver pendulum swinging over the writer’s head like th
The cloudmakerIt was on a particularly cloudy day that I created another life. You sprung from my hands, eager, like a lamb frolicking through a grassy meadow. An accident. I had been trying to create a tornado, but my hand must've twitched. The gray of my walls only accentuated your glowing golden form further; vaguely shaped like a human child, but not quite. A highly misleading appearance. I remember my first thought: Not another one. I'd made your kind before. It never ended well.The cloudmaker1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
“Nice to meet you,” you said, sticking out your hand. “It's awfully gloomy outside.”
I shook it. “The earth looked a little dry today.”
You stood in front of my only window, a hand sliding down one of the bars. Your other went outside and caught a raindrop in your grasp. “So this is rain. Did you make it?”
“It's all I do. I've been here ever since I can remember.”
“And how long is that?”
“Longer than the amount of raindrops
Changing TunesStick hissed in agony as he played the piano’s tune. Rotting fingers of a woman he used to know petted his hair. A little girl with empty eye sockets and a perpetual grin nodded to the lively music, adding a layer of creaks. With another in the rocking chair behind him, there were three corpses enjoying the music made by his emaciated fingers. Those fingers were in agony because Stick was alive.Changing Tunes1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Outside the old cabin, a pigeon landed on the lowest branch of a tree. The first drizzle of rain tapped the window.
The sheet of music turned and Stick transitioned to the piano’s rain tune: a popular choice, though it made the dead weep. The little girl sat below the window and covered her empty sockets with her hands.
It’s alright, little one, Stick wanted to say. This song will end.
“Eeaah,” Stick said. Unlike the others, he still had lips and tongue, but words were hard.
The Woman (Stick used to know her name. He used to know his.) put her arms ar
SignsThe pens, neglected on the floor,Signs1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
The empty art book, hidden away,
The camera, stashed in the corner...
The broken watch on the table,
The stacks of unfinished projects,
The soft, squishy teddy bear
and the playlists, forever on repeat,
All saying the things she dare not tell.
Burrow BlessednessComing home from a tough day at work (which also included accidentally burning his favorite shirt's cuff with his own cigarette before his last puff), all Ali wanted to do was to take a quick shower and fall into a deep slumber. He opens the door, softly speaking the words, "habeebti, I'm home" only to find no answer.Burrow Blessedness2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Ali knows well enough that if Sahara was not yet home then she'd most probably been held back at work. Still, he couldn't help but feel an ounce of disappointment not being able to see his wife's serene smile waiting to greet him with, "thank God you've arrived safely home". After all, at 4 months of married life, Ali was still living in adjustment; each and every move Sahara would take he could not help but crave for more- unlike anything of this mundane world.
Entering the bedroom, Ali, while sitting on the side of the bed, takes off his shoes and socks, then proceeds to hang his jacket and unbuckle his pants. Ali heads toward the bathroom door and, just as he pl
MuseIMuse2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My blood houses the melody,
My skin the harmony,
My being the complete symphony
I am the creator and the created,
The art and the artist
Sounds creating a vast canvas in my mind
It’s painterly waves submit imprints
Increasing tenfold in sharp echoes
While floating and drifting through tandem thoughts
Stringed voices dance through my striatum
Overwhelming and audible, all I can do is
Compositions of no other kind inhabit and entwine
Makeshift life folds into misty transparencies
I’m never by myself
When I have myself with me
Finding a friend I need,
Who understands how I feel
Expresses what my words cannot,
Makes my unseen feelings real
Fills my soul with such richness,
Reaches in the very depth of me
Suddenly bringing me out of this melancholy,
Or giving it peacefully back to me
Walking through city streets,
This feels like home
Through these alleys I wander and roam
Painting on concrete walls,
Expressing the bitter and sweet
I know w
Proposition"Hey." Shit.Proposition2 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
A familiar face sat down next to me as the train set in motion again. She would've been prettier if I could see past her surface, but she knew better than that. She was opaque now. It never used to be like this, so distant. The wall between us thickened as she lifted her hand to my face, a gentle touch that brought her eyes too close to mine and tugged at emotions pushed down only too recently. A dozen images flashed before me, memories of long ago and yesterday, memories with and without her. Those were nothing but imprints of the past, though, because my hope for a future where the two of us actually coexist is long dead. We tried to pick up the pieces even after admitting we were the definition of volatility, a volcano concealing a ticking time bomb. I shook my head of her delicate grip, despite the way my heart tore when she let go. Why did she let go? The debris still floated through my mind from the aftermath of the eruption, clo
Are There No WordsSpirits flagging--Are There No Words4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
What speech to
wake and stir that which is now
muddled and benumbed.
Flailing about, the tongue leaves sensibilities stranded
there are no words.
What paints the state of draggled souls;
hard beset by vile grief
eclipsing former sorrows.
Who can scribe the tale of writhing lusts;
from cringing lips – base cravings
rightly deemed hateful, yet
blasting ever against the battlements
of wilting will and conscience?
Are there no words?
to cleanse the dregs of mournful humors;
to span the ragged gaps of jaded comprehension?
In these cruel and bitter throes,
let voices of compassion flow.
Diary Entries of a Dead Girl"Wanted: One heart. It must be scarred along the edges, cracked...but only a little." She sets the pen down next to her, ink balled upon the tip in black, and glances at the diary. Torn and tear-stained pages clutter the space between the covers like tissues in a box, the clasp hanging off-kilter. Broken. A steak-knife and hammer lie near the tips of her left fingers. She picks up the pen.Diary Entries of a Dead Girl5 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"It must not age, but stay naive forever. It must be fitting for a girl of sixteen to still be able to dream with. It cannot shatter." The down-slanted scroll, learned over eleven years and many alterations, blares the thoughts of a young girl's life. Twelve pages from the end, the script begins to change, to mutate. The last entry is a mess of jumbled words and half-hearted pencil strokes. Despair.
"Wanted: One heart in mint-condition. I
Jukebox Cafe A string of bells jingled obnoxiously against glass as Hugh entered the Jukebox Café. The first thing he noticed was the pepless fan rotating just enough to move hot air and the smell of grease from one side of the restaurant to the other. No one came for the food, or at least that’s what he assumed upon sight of the sticky red tablecloths and French fries that speckled the checkered floor. That and the fact that he was the only soul in sight.Jukebox Cafe2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He walked up to the bar and squinted at a sign asking customers to “Please seat yourself or ring for service.” What kind of café required its customers to ring a bell for service? Not sure if there was an employee in the place, he rang it despite the sheen applied by dirty hands, and the shrill sound barely cut through an old tune produced by the jukebox in the corner.
walk on your own, into the sunDear sad people,walk on your own, into the sun1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I was raised to believe that the sun turns purple when humanity learns to glow
but lately, the warm wooden library I sat in turned cold.
In the summer I'd pick up the heaviest explanation of evolution and smile at it like a proud amphibian,
in the winter I'd write thickly about praying to a stagnant universe.
In the winter, I'd forget I'd evolved.
I once dreamed that Jesus gave me a tour of the Old Testament heaven.
The ocean water slapped itself onto the course sand,
which rose into brown dripping bones that stood tall like the rod that cracked open a footpath.
"It's up to you," he shrugged with sluggish eyes.
I wondered if I belonged in your world.
Why do you write so many letters
to your pills and lovers and priests and ghosts?
In one deep sleep, sloppy Jesus gave me a choice,
and I chose to write my own letter to a raised razor nightmare, running and raw
that peeled down a woman's cheek as sh
My Rosie 'You got wires, going in,My Rosie1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
you got wires, coming out of your skin'
'If you should die before I leave, what on earth becomes of me?'
- Robbie Williams.
I approach the doorway with a bouquet of white tulips and look over at Rose. She looks so serene. So content. Her eyelids closed, her dark hair brushed and parted just the way she likes it, her hands clasped gently on the duvet over her stomach. She looks beautiful. At peace. I almost don’t want to disturb her but I need to be by her side. I need to be with her. I only left her side for ten minutes, but that’s ten minutes more than I would like.
Her hospital room is spacious, making her look even
I want nothing but deathAfter the three hundred and sixty fifth setting sun since everything became undone, maybe now I have gathered enough pieces of my ether and stationary paper to write you a true goodbye letter.I want nothing but death1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I would write you starting with the weather today, where the skies are caliginous and the clouds are heavy basins ready to tip over in tears, much like my eyelids. I dig my toes deeply in the damp terra firma as I remember you.
I would write you in snapshot sentences. I would go about how you've converted my vision into a chiaroscuro religion; shifting all light and attention around me to focus in on only you.
I would write you in portrait paragraphs that resemble childhood finger paintings. These portraits pour recollections of the times my fingers traced the light on your face and memorized its every curve and angle, all the while wishing upon your locked, heart-shaped lips for the keys.
Your cupid's bow flung a flaming arrow
past my bone,
snagging at my marrow,
Brilliant WordsIf I could writeBrilliant Words2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Beautiful words, I’d be
The fairest of them all.
If I could write
Strengthening words, I’d be
Stronger than any other.
If I could write
Encouraging words, I might
Never be sad again.
If I could write
Empowering words, not another
Could do me harm.
If I could write
The most brilliant words,
I might not have any other reason
If I could write
But one piece or line or word,
I would want it to be one
I could call my own-
One I could claim for myself.
If I could write any words,
I would want them to be
My words, words no other
Could write without thinking
Of me, one who only wishes
Kiss Me ‘Together we were made’Kiss Me1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
- The Feeling.
‘I know the only thing I've ever found
that’s greater than it always sounds is love’
- White Lies.
Michael gently covers my eyes with his left hand and carefully directs me forwards by holding onto my side with his right. What is he up to this time? All I know is he instructed me to put on my best dress and meet him at the bottom of the stairs. I opted for my bright red knee-length dress that he bought for me last Christmas. I even curled the ends of my dark brown hair and touched up my make-up as he seemed to be planning something special. I can’t help but giggle as he gui
KaliThe three crows cawedKali3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
with ruffled feathers
and bodies decayed - black hearts beating
beneath a cage of bones.
In a world of men and monsters
I was lost looking for you;
a forgotten bride in virginal black
caught between amnesia and love.
Wildflowers grew in the ashes of your absence.
I store myself beneath its roots -
and ready for you to remember me again.
first relationship finale i sit my head into my pillow stackfirst relationship finale2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i breathe in
s i g h
c r y
not because you were ever in my bed
-i have yet to become a carnivore
too young to taste the indulgence of flesh
but because i have yet to feel the weight of
your thoughts at unholy hours
that have made you the broken being that
b r e a k i n g
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanShy Truths1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and opened my hands
hoping to catch the truth.
and a palm-full
of worn pebbles
were all I caught.
I Call Him CompulsionThree. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. SixI Call Him Compulsion4 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
Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen A priori:Ruminations on a Fallen Star, Not Yet Fallen2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Though I am not in love yet, I will be.
I remember how our eyes will meet;
you will see the green stars in my eyes for what they are.
I am afraid.
1. I am star-crossed, tattooed and traversed;
my clumsy limbs build a bridge of my belly
for the constellations to write their paths onto my pounding heart.
Some days these star charts are a chain link fence across my body
and on others—I can trace your name in the lines between my stars,
not the name you bear now but the true one I have always known,
the one that is for me.
2. Nostalgia is always poetic, but the blood memories
are harder to pinpoint; they do not catch like butterflies.
We cannot feel their feathered scales, their veined wings
just their violence against the insides of our veins,
the strength they give us, the gods they hope to make of us—
cruor vult, and I may only hope to survive their frantic seas.
3. I have never been so aware of all the muscles in my neck,
of the way my
caged.A light rests on the lake,caged.1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Illuminating the ache
I harbor deep inside me;
All I long for is to be free.
I look at the shackles
Keeping captive my ankles,
Leading back to the sea.
All I long for is to be free.
The wind rustles through my hair,
But All I can do is stare
At the figure keeping me from fleeing.
All I long for is to be free.
The CriticMy ears perked up at the creaking of the desk chair in the living room. A sigh, a crack, and the metallic strings of a short melody announcing that Daphne’s laptop had been turned on. That could only mean one thing.The Critic1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Oh, great, I thought. She’s writing again.
Blinking sleepily, I hopped out of the sock drawer in which I had been napping. (Well, it was her fault for leaving it open all the time. She didn’t have to complain so much about all the cat hair, either.) I stretched out my paws in front of me, then arched my back. Tipping to the side, I momentarily lost my balance, but quickly regained my composure (very gracefully, I might add). When it falls, a cat always lands on its feet; but cats very rarely fall in the first place.
I trotted into the living room.
The repeating cracking sound made my ears quiver. I shuddered. “Get your fingers out of your mouth,” I snapped.
“Sorry,” she said, not even turning to look at me. I bet she h
cracking.Entranced and encumbered, we waltz;cracking.1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
locked in a lucid dream, daring to fly.
A pale pearl orb floats, frigid,
soaking up the stars. The misplaced moon
begs to be returned -- raw,
impassive. I whisper whimsy,
treading thoughts, cracked glass, carefully.