Scales Of Life01010010 01001001 01010011 01000101 - We begin our quest on the scales of life
I- The newborn wolf cub: The first emotion reflected in his tired eyes is that of mystery; a
curious devotion to the enigma of the moonbeams that cut through the trees, reflecting in
his inexperienced gaze. He calls out to the blinding light, beckons for its shadowed silence,
and eventually finds comfort in the embrace of mother's love. In that moment, he hears no
cruel sound his purity can't contest. He shuts
out the light as he slowly drifts away to rest. // Perfection was a value whose worth /
//was queried due to Perfection's birth./
Think"So. You started exhibiting abilities…?"Think2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Um… three years ago? Yeah, three years, and it was May I think. Fourteenth or maybe sixteenth, I don't remember exactly – I just remember that it was my last semester. Yeah, three years ago, May."
"Fourteenth or sixteenth?"
"Yeah, one or the other. I remember that because I has these huge goddamn exams, you know, one was on fourteenth and other on sixteenth and it was during one of them I heard it for the first time. Can't remember which one though, just remember being a nervous wreck. I studied of course, I mean, hello, you know? But test's a test."
"Right. It started during an exam then? In a large crowd."
"Well, large enough. I didn't go to a big school – hell you should know, you probably have my files and everything. Don't you? I mean, don't people like you have files on everything, even someone like me? Or should that be especially someone like me…"
"How large was the crowd?"
"I don't know. Twenty f
Reflections on the MetroThe population of the Metro car is sparse at eleven in the morning; people talk. The mother with her baby and young son, talking to her friend or sister or cousin sitting down. The young man and woman speaking exuberant Chinese, a language like a song. The group of students in floral dresses and Converse that my mom says look European because of their scarves. They're rapidly spewing French in the way teenagers do, only I've only ever heard it in English. It's comfortable, each of us with our companions, more like a restaurant or a museum.Reflections on the Metro5 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
But at five thirty, at L'Enfant Plaza, when people are going home from work in their button-downs and suits and briefcases and iPods and tired eyes, it's different. Holding on to the silver bar above my head, I feel like I'm standing over the woman in scrubs holding her iPhone; I'm right by the doors they say not to lean on; it's crowded. And now everyone is silent, as if by proximity others can tell what they're thinking, and it's all they can do no
One of those NightsThe morning sunOne of those Nights2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
beams through the front windshield
like an intruder:
brash and unwelcome, forcing you to wake.
Whiskey eyed, smelling like an ashtray,
parked at the back end
of some ghetto ass neighborhood
wondering what the hell you did the night before.
It's like trying to remember words
you haven’t written yet.
One thing is for certain:
a little bit of rope goes a long way,
but a lot of rope
will hang you.
oh my archimedesthere is a mediterranean maelstromoh my archimedes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
inside of me, and frankly these demented bones,
are inventing a thousand ways to drown
my soul inward,
the curves of my cartilage are overripe vineyards
for myriads of apprehensions blossoming
age, insipid sand charting the honeysuckling
progression of snapping parabolas
the tempests swat opposing ranks
& I am afraid that I have begun to lose myself
between the roaring of my ears,
torrent in a can,
a soulless man -
and what is a man without a soul
[ I'm lighter than that]
these mythical caverns of what once was my days
are condensing into dripping pages,
I want the books to etch my ru
Burning Out, and Falling FastYou're sitting in your parents' old corvette (if you had bothered to check, you'd know it was older than you), flicking your eyes between a lighter in one hand, and a box of matches in the other. You forget when fire became such a need, a distraction.Burning Out, and Falling Fast4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Spencer is right beside you in the car, his fingers stroking idly at your forearm, watching you with hooded green eyes.
"If you want to die," he says, "then just kill yourself, but do it with style."
You met The Boy Under the Sycamore Tree when you were four. Your mom encouraged you to go see the lonely boy, and when you first went over to him, he ignored you. The Boy Under the Tree, that's what you called him for the first day you knew him, was a little older than you with dark hair and smoky green eyes.
With encouraging looks from your folks, you walked right next to him and sat down, pressing your back against the tree's rough trunk.
The Craven: A Parody of PoeOnce upon a court inquiry, while my witness plead sincerely,The Craven: A Parody of Poe4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Over whether or not he witnessed a murder on a mansion floor,
While I prodded, nearly smacking, suddenly there came a cracking,
As of someone's neck snapping, snapping behind the courtroom door.
"Tis some murderer," I muttered, "whacking behind the courtroom door.
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, we linked the oft dismembered mobsters of a chic September,
Yes, the mob's each dying member spilt their guts upon the floor.
Eagerly I swished espresso on the morn I named the torso,
She who until late fought escrow, clauses, deeds, and more.
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Jobless here for evermore.
And the sulking, sad and witless weeping from each extra witness,
Chilled, fulfilled me, raging 'tween the jury's and the judge's snores.
Yet now to hush my unbelieving mind, standing there conceiving:
"Tis some nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door,
Some late nameless witless witn
Fragile--FFM Day 7Lindsey Stirling blared from my ear buds and I bobbed my head, furrowing my brow. My hand was shoved deep into my purse, searching for my keys. Instead, I found receipts from the Stone Age, a collection of seashells from last year's vacation, and enough pepper spray to blind at least twenty bears.Fragile--FFM Day 72 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Frustrated, I dumped my portable landfill on the welcome mat; lipstick tubes and loose change bounced across the wood and disappeared, lost beneath the porch. Spreading objects out with my hands, I sighed. No keys. "Damn it all to Hell and back ag--"
Glancing up, the box near my door caught my eye. Wrapped with neon-colored paper, a large skull-and-crossbones bow held a handwritten "FRAGILE" note in place. The colors were garish, clashing with the ivory siding.
Wrinkling my nose, I pulled the package toward me, keys forgotten. The paper was slick, slipping against the pads of my fingertips like silk. Examining the box, I flipped the "FRAGILE" note over--and gasped.
Yanking the ear
terabyte ruinswe've clicked the help buttonterabyte ruins3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the tool bar.
we're the first to admit we're confused.
this morning the council met with a proposal
to replace god.
there have been complaints.
"dear eternity, i'm disillusioned
your god is a single snapshot of deep space
and a soundtrack of silence.
i tried pressing reset.
my old model featured google images,
a personal blog, and a comment section.
yesterday's god had to be recharged.
it was a rough way to be hardwired,
but there was a five-year money-back guarantee
and excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.
i'm not so sure about redemption,
and i saw it on the news yesterday:
they recalled the golden rule.
it had a bug called desire."
give us a refund,
and we'll continue shopping.
our browsing has offered up
some promising candidates:
and technological giants.
we're not sure yet, god,
but we're pretty sure you're out.
it doesn't come highly recommended,
but we're considering a newer model:
idolatry. instant gratification.
tell a liei. rivers are stronger than oceans despite their sizetell a lie2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they tumble through sharp mountains
but they never, ever stop
ii. i can rush and pick up sediments
and disperse them where i wish
iii. i'm lying -
i knew you saw it anyway,
there's seaweed in my fingernails
and salt on my breath
Survivalist NewsletterDear Survivalists,Survivalist Newsletter2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In light of the recent remission of people
we are writing you today.
You see, the exit plans are only provisions
for leaving a beautiful sort of language
of fossil records,
like entire rogue planets in red bloom,
as warnings between the architecture
of a fresh wreckage.
And the most romantic spin is that we've succeeded
but only briefly-
of a scenario of beached whales;
the reckless communism of the sun.
To those who are receiving this:
God has been missing for several years
and a body was never found.
Our advice is to desecrate your atlases
as a sacrament to whatever it is
that we've pissed off this time.
Cut them down, cut them and spread them
across the lamp, the walls,
the threshold of your shitty apartment
and take drugs that remind you of the people
you once were
because everything is wonderful
but only on paper.
And on paper we must remain,
upright and angry. We must remain
with our music and stories. We must remain.
Our assurance is in your s
Suffocate“I didn’t want him,” she says. “I wanted something, something I saw in the eyes of Libby, Sam, Sandi, and Agnes. Something that would have made our new world, our safe world, a home. Children were a part of that world and so I found myself a child. Perhaps, I thought, I would love him and everything would fall into place. Perhaps with a child I could be content with safety, and normality, and a world without knives taped on mop heads.” A cold smile. “I still catch myself thinking that. I still think that maybe tomorrow will be the day where I can fall asleep with the lights on.”Suffocate3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Carmen’s features are stark and cold; like the chiseled lines of Soviet propaganda etched onto an icy street corner. A straight decided nose, high sharp cheekbones, and thin pinched lips. Her eyes are black. We sit together in a small, bare walled, room on a pair of fold up chairs.
I frown. “You mean off?”
“No. I mean on. During the war
We Were All Going to be WonderfulKathy's mom, shaped like a ripe pearWe Were All Going to be Wonderful2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
black-haired, she wore it long, tied back.
She looked foreign, she should have been a gypsy--
silver and red, smoky and asleep;
should have smelled like cardamom or cloves
but she smelled like onions and carrots, potatoes and oregano.
She leaned at the sink in the tiny kitchen
peeling potatoes, head bent, sallow-skinned, heavy-hipped
her dark hair traced with the first lazy spider webs of gray.
We slunk past the gray-mouthed man on the sofa
with his Reds game and his beer;
men weren't soft then, but the new kind was coming along.
The suburbs were a garden
through the hot summer days and the Catholic schools,
and it wasn't the dads who had the dirty fingernails.
But he worked every day, by god he did,
drove a truck fat with bakery goods
flaccid and without souls
(whole wheat was a color not a life.)
Robert kept the kids fed, didn't interfere
with their summer afternoons.
"Come in here, Josie, pull down my pants and make love to me."
She only grunted,
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Trust IssuesI. (Set the stage)Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Trust Issues3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"The color of my bra is called Flirt," the girl says, popping a bubble in Amelia's face and winking. The sickly sweet scent of chemicals and sugar mixes with the chemicals and the sugar of the bar, hags low and heavy about their faces. The girl slides closer, beaming, her eyelids low. She's wearing too much mascara. Amelia grips her drink tighter and pulls her elbows in collapsing, she fills less space than she did before. Volume stays the same, the number of atoms composing her stays constant, but she appears to be smaller. Could this be expressed mathematically, or with a computer simulation, she wonders, and sips at her drink. She says nothing.
"See here." The girl tugs down her shirt sleeve and shows Amelia the thin bra strap pressing into the moon pale skin of her shoulder. The orange lighting makes her seem healthier than she is. "Flirt." She wiggles her eyebrows in a way that would be suggestive, if her makeup wasn't so dark that it made her look
Jack in the BoxIt was nearly dawn when my phone rang. If the time wasn’t an indication of who was calling, the fact that it was my permanent phone was.Jack in the Box2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
“I do hope you know how late it is, Trent,” I answered without looking at the caller ID. “I was about to go down for the day.”
“No you weren’t. You were about to go post on those ridiculous chatboards pretending to be a four-hundred-year-old vampire.” There was a patina of derision over the amusement in Trent’s voice.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not pretending.”
“That makes no difference. No-one believes you on the internet, especially when you only post during the day.”
“What better place to tell the truth than where no-one will believe you? And unless you spend as much time on the chatboards as I do, how would you know my posting habits?” I waited for a moment to see whether he would dignify that with a response, and when none came, I asked, “What do
Aaron GreenHe has four patients in analysis,Aaron Green3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who lie on the couch, and six patients
who come in for psychotherapy
and sit in a chair.
A vivid, impatient,
black modern sofas
reproductions of modern
art, an unswerving classical
I remember the agreeable warmth
of the low-ceilinged,
dimly lit room.
A cozy lair.
From these early, unimaginable transactions
between proud, lovesick women and
nervous, abstinent analysts--
the feverish rush of discoveries.
He conducted therapy as no classical
Freudian analyst would conduct it
today--as if it were an ordinary
in which the analyst
I keep the trackI keep the track3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
I keep the track
in spite of the pouring rain
leading towards home
Time Traveller's EngagementExactly ten years from tomorrow, we'll be married here. My wife doesn't know that, of course. In a certain sense, neither do I.Time Traveller's Engagement5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's a beautiful spot, now. Now meaning today, when the sunlight is still pure, and the sky is still blue. The ivy still climbs in green snakes up the side of her father's chateau, the pennants of the House of Renard are snapping gaily over the towers.
I hear a lilting laugh that even now sends my heart into my throat. Euryale Renard. She is only a girl today, no older than my little sister is in the days I left behind. Even at twelve, my Ury's curls catch the sun like molten amber, with a flower basket flung wide as she runs. Behind her tumble the Twins, her best friends, their giggles almost as musical as my Ury's, their golden hair belying the poison in their hearts. I remember the snarl on Cassandra's lips as she spilled out her wine glass on the floor after Ury's father toasted our engagement. I remember wiping Chloe's spit from my eye on the same
soft as waterthis is the funeralsoft as water2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where grey ash spreads
& in the air, a traffic of kites stream across the horizon,
the ash of sails, ghostly non existent,
sails set wide, slicing across the Hudson river
the water heals itself
rescinding wounds, sowing back together the places
where edges meet, and we become soft as water
doves sow the horizon thus, weaving through the kites on fire
& the lovers on fire
and the burns and burns and ink stains
on quiet carpets
everything became a silent memory buried under graves
in the cemetery sails bloom in deathly renaissance.
overpopulation expands exponentially
underground, in empty spaces
(between the sand, rivers, dust storms)
waves recede and seagulls echo
and the shivering saline sea is rough
(baring our naked spines against the asphalt
of the shore, the seagulls soaring echo
more truth than we'll ever know)
they know about:
recessions, receding shorelines and horizons,
and men retreating within,
United States Summer 2011America alienates me.United States Summer 20114 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
From touchdown in Atlanta it is obvious I am, so to speak, no longer in Kansas.
I am asked what I am doing here. Repeatedly, and not always in a nice way. I want to answer with the obvious, that I am queuing endlessly for the privilege of being cross examined by an unfriendly customs officer who wants to know all kind of private details my best friend doesn't even know, but I swallow it back and smile meekly, while trying to act like I am not nervous, frustrated and insulted.
Procedures, waiting lines, probing questions, stamps and signatures, and then, finally, the liberating "Enjoy the United States".
I never felt more alien.
passports, fingerprints, eye scans...
I just want my love.
America amuses me.
This first meeting scratches only at the surface. I encounter all the clichés and smile inwardly: the food portions, the convenience stores, the SUVs.
damn that woman"You don't get it, do you? I'm dating your goddamn production, apparently!" She is a whirlwind of impeccably dressed, green-eyed fury. She is Juliet Smith, one of the most prominent artists of the twenty-first century, and she is tearing up their apartment and his emotional stability all at once.damn that woman3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She looks good, she always does. But standing in the doorway of their apartment in her trench coat God damn, she's never been so gorgeous. Anger does something to her, and he hates himself for loving it so much.
She watches him for a moment, looks him up and down clinically, likely trying to decide why he isn't begging.
"Where are you going?" he asks, finally.
"I don't know, and I sure as hell won't be telling you," she says calmly. "I'm going anywhere I goddamn please. I always planned to travel, and I never did, because I was so fucking happy with you." She pauses and the green of her eyes intensifies further. "So that's what I'm going to do now. Travel and make art. Maybe I'll