Teaching Summer to BreatheSummer will always remind me of hot, sweltering nights spent drinking sangria, through the dripping fairy lights of your bedroom window. A sticky, starry sky looked back at us, the glow of the moon almost golden in the heat. Fourteen meant we weren't growing up fast enough and a liquor cabinet key seemed to hold the answer to that problem.Teaching Summer to Breathe2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
You taught me how to drink that night.
(You also showed me how beautiful it was to just hold your breath till your head spins and reality seems like it is going to fade further and further away.)
Six summers ago I met a boy who liked to tell me how much like summer I was. He was big boned and thin skinned and the first time I told him he wasn't mine to keep, he left handprints on my skin that reminded you of a canvas covered in autumn leaves that you saw in New York. Then you proceeded to break every single window in his house (Yes, even the one in the attic he loved so much.)
You taught me how to smile through heartbreak that night.
Another Language called EnglishI took your adjectives for granted. There was something about the way you skipped over your 's'es and gleaned over your 'i's and 'e's, that never really made me want to kiss you. You'd sit there with your languid fingers clutching a book that was half finished, and read me words that were completely mispronounced. It would prickle me under my skin and I would grit my teeth, wondering when you would stop. I would never understand the english language you thought you spoke, and your confidence in your own words annoyed me.Another Language called English1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It was comical when you spoke in front of our friends. Your mistaken pronunciation of the word 'pronunciation' in particular made them giggle. I would stand in a corner, clutching a glass of rum and coke and cringe, flushing in second hand embarrassment. You would smile at me from across the room, and continue with your tangled tongue as though nothing was wrong.
I felt sorry for you. But not sorry enough when you took your favourite writing pen from my d
Skinny Wordslook:Skinny Words3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
he was winterish blue eyes and an autumn scarf dressed in an stupid pink summer sweater that made no sense on a spring day. His shoes were converse, the kind of the skinny intellectual who had just enough money to buy one pair of decent shoes. she never really liked skinny intellectuals, yet did find herself considering them sometimes, in the way she considered coffee that was tongue scalding (horribly and without excuse).
it is odd then, that she still doesn't regret his monsoon flavoured kiss, the kind that made your tongue bleed with its passion, its heat.
he drew in uneasy catches of breath as he snored in the heat of the summer night, nights when she would stay up and listen to cars that passed by, pretending they were a waterfall instead of the cold harsh truth of metal against concrete, just so she could sleep as soundly as him.
she took his breathing for granted.
he spent hours lost in the dry unending silence of his typewriter, of h
Nothing Lives Foreveri.Nothing Lives Forever1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometimes causing arguments, fistfights and could manipulate his classmates into doing anything.
We don't think this is the school for him. He needs to be challenged appropriately.
You fell in love at seventeen and she was lovely. Kind, caring and beautiful, I couldn't ask for a better girl for you. She was our neighbour
This is Not a Story about SuicideI am not here. These are not hospital walls. This is not a nurse who is speaking to me. That is not John unconscious, lying in a bed that faces due North, and that is not his mother trying to explain why his bed should always face North because he hates sleeping facing South.This is Not a Story about Suicide1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
This is not happening.
I am not taking a deep breath. I am not walking down the sickly white corridors with their bleach scent. I am not buying this cup of coffee from a cafeteria lady who is working at an hour that is reserved only for intensive care patients. This is not the way back to what is not John’s room.
That is not his heart rate dropping, and I am not running out of the room, screaming for help. We are not being pushed out, that door does not have a red light that claims intensive care, it has not been all night.
That is not John’s doctor explaining how they were not able to pump his stomach completely and it is not John who flat lined. That is not an empty hospital bed. That is not his moth
Hemingway Would Hate ThisThe trouble with the Boy was that he didn't have the heart of Shakespeare, the voice of Poe, nor the soul of Wordsworth, nor the knowledge of Rembrandt in his darkest days. He didn't have a trace of Michaelangelo's spirit nor the angst of Carvaggio and this on its own was enough to dissuade him from understanding that technique was far better than solidarity and possession far more ageless than youth.Hemingway Would Hate This3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He didn't have any of this knowledge because his father hadn't had the courage to tell him that he needed all the qualities of these great men, to win over the heart of a woman who had the dreams of Austen, the ideas of Da Vinci and the scent of a high priestess of Venetian origin.
The Girl was all those things and more, and her value, her estimate in the market of souls was higher than most. She was an angel amongst Gods, and He should never have let her go into the world thinking that it was Keats hearted. Because like all women who live their lives story shaped, she was soon broken by
The Rules of FlyingThe Rules of Flying:The Rules of Flying1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
No#1: Don’t Fly Too High:
If you allow yourself to achieve a great height, there will only be enough air left for you to fall. Stay at a constant pace, don’t allow your head to float above the clouds.
Another juxtaposing comment upon rule 1 of flying, do not fly too close to the ground, to let creatures pull you down.
No#2: Avoid Trees:
While flying to your destination, many obstacles may get in your way, clipping a few branches may be fine for you depending on your strength. But always avoid the trunks of these obstacles, they will end your flight abruptly and you may not reach your destination in one piece.
This also applies to aeroplanes and other birds.
No#3: Don’t Flap Your Wings Too Much:
Although flapping your wings is necessary to achieve the height you require to succeed and complete your flight. Flapping unnecessarily only leaves you too tired to complete your journey.
Remember to flap your wings only when needed. Do not let another bird
March 1: Self-Injury AwarenessMarch 1: Self-Injury Awareness9 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
[We all live in the dark, blind to what's real. Come with me; feel the razor's kiss. Let me show you that you can still feel...]
Have you ever felt so bad about something that you wanted to die? But didn't go through with it? . . . Or couldn't? So, I guess it doesn't sound count as a suicide failed, but just as an on going attempt without much effort. Taking your chances every time not caring wether you lived or died? Like . . . Russian Roulette. But with a razorblade. Figured out what I'm talking about? Something that will touch almost everyone's life in some way, just like birth, disease and death? That's right. Cutting.
And no. I'm not hear to tell you "don't do it." 'Cause it honestly didn't help me, not in the least. I'd just like to share my story with someone. I hope its ok with you, and you don't get grossed out like almost anyone else has. So could you please try to open your mind to my past?
A Little Bit of WonderlandHer name was Alyssa, and when she was nine, her mother built her Wonderland. After being raised on a healthy diet of Charles Dickens, Enid Blyton and J.M. Barrie, it seemed like the natural course of action. She created it out of paper, each scene indispensably, indisputably perfect in its imperfection.A Little Bit of Wonderland1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
And she did it because Alyssa was terrified of the idea of falling through a rabbit hole, into a place that allows magic only when you are confused. Mothers do the most impractical, exhausting things to show how much they love their children. It seemed a pity that it was this very effort that kept Alyssa up all night, staring at the paper people like they were coming to get her.
(If Alyssa’s mother knew, she would have spent all her time trying to explain to the little girl that it wasn’t just paper people she should be afraid of.)
God appeared to have a sense of humour when little Alice became Alyssa’s best friend. She lives across the street, her hair always
Dear Poetry,You will find out that I am not a strong person. Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses. I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips. I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body. I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles. But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.Dear Poetry,1 year ago in Letters More Like This
Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, slowly and then…all at once.
Seventeen (In Phases)1.Seventeen (In Phases)2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
It was because her parents had named her for the grandmother who had broken her mother’s heart. The grandmother whose heart was supposed to have melted from her birth and hadn’t.
That was why her mother barely looked at her. That was why she called her ‘girl’.
That was why she liked to pretend she was the quiet woman in the background of an old black and white movie. Because everything here was like an old black and white movie.
[And if she really looked back, her mother had never appreciated the elegance of the 1950s enough.]
It was because she hated surprises. The surprise she got on her sixth birthday when her father left taught her just how a single person had the ability of taking your soul, splitting it in two and wearing it on their breast pocket like a white carnation waiting to die.
That was why when she lifted a book, she looked at the last page first.
That was why her namelessness had become a comfort to her.
That was why sh
Confessions Of A Jeff The Killer Fangirl Part 4"You're what?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows.Confessions Of A Jeff The Killer Fangirl Part 42 years ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
Jeff sighed. "I'm in love with you..."
Jeff The Killer... was in love with me?
I gulped and my cheeks grew hot. "Why?"
Jeff mumbled something under his breath and looked to the floor.
He didn't speak at first, but then he placed a hand on the side of my head gently.
"I said... You don't remember me?"
At that moment I slipped into a world I had tried so hard to let go of.
I was young, probably only twelve years old.
And I was walking with an old friend.
"Haha! Quit it Jeffy! Don't tug on my hair!" I squeaked, trying to release a section of my hair from his grasp.
"But I always wondered why it smells so nice all the time." He inquired, sniffing it.
"Shampoo? Duh. Besides Your hair is pretty cool too." I added, taking hold of one of his honey brown locks and tugging on it playfully.
His blue eyes suddenly grew sad. "It's a shame though."
"That I'm moving so far away... I might not ever see you again." He frowned, rele
Bones"There are good days and there are bad days," you would say to me as you would try and explain away why the whiskey bottle was empty again this morning, why you smelled like her and why you thought it was best to let me know what you had done. At least that way, you were absolved of the gift of lying; the one your bones were too light to lift and just couldn't take, by bestowing me with betrayal.Bones2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My mother would bring me an encouraging cup of tea in a giant pink mug instead of a cup and explain, "There are good days and there are bad days." Her eyes were always full of positive energy and strength and good will. I look back to those days and try and gain the strength she had in her bones from her words. I always fail.
They told me I had a disease within my bones. It started from the bottom of my knee and was moving upwards. Because that is what bones did. They broke from the inside out. "There will be good days and bad days," they warned me. I knew at that very point that it was going
CHAINSMAN'S HELLOWEENCHAINSMAN'S HELLOWEEN1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
The noon shift had ended at the Chainman’s Institute. It was the last day of the month and a very special day for Erica and Melanie. At Tasha’s lab, the pair rushed in with a gym bag. As Melanie closed the door, Erica jumped excited.
“Nya! We going to trick or treat for the first time in 3 years!” Erica exclaimed grasping her paws.
“Those two days of double shifts are worth it.” Melanie proclaimed. “Now, the costumes and we can go.”
Melanie pulled out her costume out of the bag. She extended it and it was a Harley Quinn zentai costume. Melanie then raised an eyebrow and then grabbed the hood where the painted smile goes.
“You ripped it?” Melanie exclaimed while her hand went halfway in.
“I just fix it. There was no hole for the mouth so I made one.” Erica replied closing her eyes while talking.
“It’s a zentai costume! That’s the way it should be. My whole fist can go through
NPR three minute story submissionShe closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. That low rumble had been Tom's temperamental engine; she was sure of it. The sound had tattooed itself on the inside of Anna's ears ages ago. Maybe he was sitting in the front seat of his car, trying to work up the courage to knock. Maybe his brows would knit together and his mouth would quirk and he would say, "I missed you, Sunshine," though he had never once called her by that nickname. Maybe she could apologize, and he would kiss the insides of her wrists, the back of her neck, her eyelids.NPR three minute story submission3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Yes, she could hear a car door opening. If she listened hard she thought she could even make out the rustle of his corduroy jacket.
Go outside, said her heart.
Wait, said her brain.
She began to count aloud. "One, two, three, four"
Anna was eight when her baby brother was born. He was little more than a fragile bag of bones and organs, an accident waiting to break her heart. Every night she'd snea
Fayne and the Spider-Wolves, Part 2It was impossible for Fayne to tell how much time had elapsed since she had lost consciousness. The area she was in felt no different from where she had been before. She could tell though that she had been moved, due to the glowstones naturally embedded in the rock walls around her, their luminescence softened by the layers of silk stretched over the walls. Her fingers wiggled as much as they were permitted, verifying that she was still wrapped in the silky cocoon, her lips stuck just as much in place as the rest of her body. There was some kind of warmth, along with a bit of weight, against her backside. Tiling her head as much as possible, Fayne could just make out the furry form of one of the wolves curled up against her. Her body stiffened even more so (if such a thing is indeed possible) at noticing the wolf, carefully easing her head back around as so not to disturb him.Fayne and the Spider-Wolves, Part 21 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her head turned the other ways, a startled look in her eyes as she came face-to-fa
Price of Love- Slave!GreecexRoman!Reader part 11Price of Love- Slave!GreecexRoman!Reader part 111 year ago in Introductions & Chapters More Like This
It was raining in Rome. Or at least you assumed it was. You could hear the pounding of the drops as they hit the streets. Water dripped through the cracks which now seemed almost bigger than they used to be. When the rain had started you were sure you had been pretty delusional. Three days and your brain had already started to shut down. But once the first drop of water hit your cheek you felt revived, and searched for a puddle to suck up. Usually you'd never consider drinking water out of a puddle, but a person dying from thirst really isn't picky.
You felt almost completely revived after you drank several puddles of water. The problem now was that you were feeling your hunger. Really feeling it. Before you had been too out of it and thirsty to truly notice how hungry and tired you felt.
Back when you were small you remembered some of the physicians telling your father you would be prone to sickness. Apparently they weren't wrong. You were pretty sure you had developed a fever. Not a
SOS in Space - Log 01SOS in Space - Log 012 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Captain's Log 804
I can safely report that today has been just as boring as every other day of this past week! I know that as defenders of justice, we should be happy about any moment of sustained peace, but…it's just too dull! I'm going stir-crazy without any action to give us purpose. All there is to do around here lately is teasing Mikuru and changing my hairstyles around, which have both gotten dull with our limited outfit supplies! At this point, I really wish some evildoer out there would get around to…doing evil! Pirate raids! Dastardly alien fleets! Anything to get us some excitement around here!
Haruhi finished typing her rant, dismissing the holoscreen before her. Stern eyes swept across the room she was in as she took stock in her crew.
The rest of Team Haruhi of the Galactic Regional Observation Conclave's Patrol Force seemed to be enjoying the peaceful days, each person sitting relaxedly within the CIC room aboard the Schismatrix space vessel.
Just a Fashion?Emo. We've heard this term for years. I don't exactly remember when it actually started, but I didn't personally hear of it until my sophomore year. All we had was punk and gothic, but now gothic and emo are completely confused with each other. And now I'm ashamed whenever people accuse ME of being emo because they don't know the difference. Not even Southpark knows the difference.Just a Fashion?2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The problem is, emo is associated with "emotion," but a depressed emotion at that. When people think of emo, they think swoopy haircut colored black, black clothing with occasional stripes, plaid, checkers, etc., hate for the sunlight, hating EVERYTHING, and writing depressing poems... oh, and cutting yourself! This is the problem...
There are people who do all these things that are not emo. I knew a very popular girl in 8th grade, Courtnie (yes, with an i), and she confided in me that she cut herself too, showing me her marks. Mind you, this was your stereotypical preppy ditz that was pretty much better tha
How to Survive a CreepypastaStep one: Never ignore your instincts.How to Survive a Creepypasta1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Was that movement at the corner of your eye? Maybe you heard something out your window? Someone behind you sounds like they're walking a little too quickly for your comfort...
When something inside you is telling you something is wrong, chances are, something is. Lets call this our survival instinct. Animals have them, and they don't ignore them. They act. The difference with us humans is that we doubt ourselves. We tell ourselves we're being paranoid, that it was nothing. “It was just the wind”, “It was probably an animal”, or, everyone's favorite: “It was just my imagination.”
Eventually, it comes to a point you're in denial. You think that if you ignore it and pretend it's not there, then it'll go away. You've given your enemy the upper hand.
Step two: Don't give in to paranoia.
With step one in mind, it's important not to become constantly afraid. That fear and paranoia only feeds what it is yo
The Legend of ForeverAloneMan"They say that he's a legend, an incredible person far greater than any other!" said the Mage, bubbling with excitement as he described his hero to the Knight. "Would you believe he conquered seven dungeons all on his own?"The Legend of ForeverAloneMan1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The Knight scoffed at his remark, "Ser Mage, I believe you have been lied to. There is no possible way for a man to face even a single dungeon on his own. Hundreds of monsters wait inside, each eager to tear the unwelcome adventurer limb from limb. I have no choice but to believe this tale a far-fetched fantasy. Perhaps one that sprung from your many nights of alcohol abuse."
"M-my drinking habits have nothing to do with this, I'm telling you, he exists! The legendary swordsman who faces dungeons on his own!" The Mage huffed angrily, as he turned away from his companion. He intended to come back with a stronger insult, but his thoughts were interrupted by a brilliant spark of light. And from this spark, like a white rose blooming in a gar
wade liberation warwade liberation war1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
Boy was about nineteen. A young man really, but his face made him look younger. Girl was younger, maybe fifteen, sixteen. Peter Bowen thought as he kept his distance considering the situation, studying the several people involved.
City of wade was under Arenian occupation for over three centuries now, and Arenian trackers seeking out mages to be drafted to their military force was hardly an unusual event. Most people who were learned in spellcasting kept their skills hidden, and their weapons were creatively concealed.
Still give it enough time and any trickery will stand revealed. Trackers were by now very skilled in noticing anything with engraved spellcasting spiral. A ring, a stick, the smallest of things. They knew what they were looking for.
This was what baffled peter as he studied the unfolding situation. Boy was blatantly wearing two short swords with the casting spiral boldly and prominently visible on their handles. Either he was a fool, of a foreigner who decide