I. Jenny DwayneI. Jenny Dwayne7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I. Jenny Dwayne
Her words were tangled in filaments. She cupped her hand in front of her mouth when speaking, cradled the sounds like children, keeping them close in case she had to try to pull them back. Maybe she was ashamed when they were stocky and short, and stumbled, not quite ringing out with confidence. In her apartment, instead of slippers, she strapped on high-heels, dreaming of elegance.
But though she clicked on the pastel floor-tiles, chipping the gray roses in the kitchen, and left finger smears on the metal refrigerator door as she grabbed it for balance, she could not glide. And so the red-strapped heels did not step over the threshold, but came only as far as the hallway mirror, where Jenny would shuffle in a circle, critically squinting at freckles and rounded cheeks.
She was uncertain in other areas of her life. When she drove her car, she pressed the brakes and gas pedal simultaneously, sometimes even realizing it, but never quite being able to change. The flashing
Defense MechanismIt's precise, the ticking and clicking of the gears. There's oil in your veins, thick and dark. The oil hides your secrets, lubricating the simple machines that operate your clockwork heart. Wedges to force you away from the things you love too much. Pulleys erect walls to keep you safe; it feels like a distant tug at your heartstrings. Somewhere, a lever lifts the corner of your mouth in a smile that looks coquettish in its emptiness. Inside the wheels turn, turning like your stomach. Your eyes are blank; no one can ever know about the screws put to your heart. The sludge pumping through your body keeps you warm, keeps your hands from shaking.Defense Mechanism7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Something inside of you hurts, and you want to hurt back. But the sounds of your grief are overwhelmed by industry, by the droning, metallic clank of progress. Salvation comes in clips and stills. You never hear a thing.
Living UpFor all the similarities, I am not my father.Living Up7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I've got his face, but I wear a beard
to keep a distinction.
His swaggering walk: I dont have that.
I think it came from years at sea.
Dont have those either.
A scar; his finger nearly severed
in thirty-foot swells of churned
ocean. That's why I've never heard
I would trade every inch
of unspoiled skin
to have his stories.
Dear Writer:It is a struggle,Dear Writer:7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to decipher intent,
from words; between misplaced,
commas and unneeded
ellipsis, that perforate
the page a search
for the period,
that isnt there
you have no n-e-e-d
to give us clues
no inkling or insight
into your p
we. Want to
You Are What You EatIt was obviousYou Are What You Eat7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
upon taking off her lid
that she liked Spam.
There was a stench
of oversalted preservation
that oozed out; it would
smell the same ten years from now.
Her meats: just byproducts,
processed and processed
and formed to fill a mold.
She greased her pork-loaf
in jellies of the same foul stuff;
it slides easy from the can
and lies trembling on the plate.
In the pan, she sizzled
and popped as her juices
mingled, but the smell
never wavered from
oversalted, discarded pig parts,
chopped, pressed, and shoved
into a can and sealed.
ContactHis hands live in her crevices,Contact7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as bored mandibles that consume
flesh. They focus, myopic,
on pink-tinted, supple skin,
passing intent across synapses.
A rush of blood, sanguine triggers;
itchy finger. Intentions of tiny death
flow eye to eye; rods strain
against empty cones. Dilation follows.
Poppies, too, spread their petals wide
before being devoured, slopping
on the lips of this beast.
He's nourished by her
Cut OffHe is polite sniffling and a covert snort,Cut Off7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stifling a cough as he looks back
to hold open the door like his mother
taught him; he averts his eyes (recognized)
and hes hazily
trying to remember a name, then where this story
followed by awkward pauses-
shifting weight from one foot
to the other,
thoughts of escape, and inwardly cursing
Hes lost his place.
Awoke to choking on snot and spit,
head pounding, and sweat. Hatred
for this meatbag oozing fluids.
Lung butter churning, incubated
and gobbed on pollen-dusted
Hacking, it feels like a knife
blade between his eyes each time he
manages to dislodge a chunk of phlegm;
he opens his eyes after to find that he's been
-cut off in traffic.
Perfect: he listens to his brakes broken howl
as he applies pressure,
bringing himself to a stop.
The Plague:1THE PLAGUE PART 1The Plague:18 years ago in Horror More Like This
By Camper Sanborn
He didn't know what happened. Somehow he was put into this hospital. Maybe it wasn't a hospital. All he remembered was the fifth plague battle he had been in. It was supposed to be the last one he fought. That was what his Commander said. However, all that was behind him. He didn't remember getting injured in the plague much less bitten, so why was he here? There were at least six machines in this room, and they were all running but he wasn't hooked up to them. He took a moment to take in the surroundings. The beige walls were stained with a bright yellow green, the plaguebeasts' blood, yet the tiled floor was perfectly clean. His sheets were dark brown with patches of dark red spots, probably his dried blood, and the bed was a normal hospital bed, but... he only just now noticed, it had restraints built in. His hands an
Diacetylmorphine HydrochlorideThe air was cold and subdued. The dank bar lit only by the buzzing neon lights advertising bad American beer and the contrasting orange glow of lit cigarettes. Our protagonist stood from the stool and left his still-smoking cigarette in the ash tray to slowly burn away into nothingness. Most people enter and exit from the front door. Not him. Theres something about a fire escape that he finds appealing. Perhaps its the cold, rusty steel, a monument to solidarity and resoluteness. Or maybe he just never liked convention. Whichever the case, the allure was too strong for him, so he strode through the door marked employees only and up the stairs into the stockroom. He continued to trek upwards, until he finally came upon the roof. He pulled his wool overcoat closer around himself; it was winter, or close enough to it to matter in The City. Taking a moment, he paused to reminisce. Hed once gone to a party of emotionally challenged youths a year ago. The kind tDiacetylmorphine Hydrochloride7 years ago in Transgressive More Like This
Exotic PartnersIt was during the second year of our marriage that I realised my wife was a large monitor lizard.Exotic Partners10 years ago in Humor More Like This
It was one of those funny little revelations that creeps up on one over time. I think the first clue came when she decided to hibernate for the three winter months. At first it did not arouse my suspicions. After all I myself enjoyed a lie-in, and had once slept in three whole hours past the alarm - on a weekday! - so I did not think it particularly note-worthy when she tucked herself in at the start of December and remained there until late February. Still, it aroused in me some small seed of doubt - for I had never before known her to go even three days without tending to the garden, let alone three months.
Her taste in gardening was minimalist, and this I applauded; it may have been one of the reasons I married her, I forget now. Instead of the silly sentimentality of a lawn or a flower patch, she insisted that the entire garden was covered in soft fl
The Biggest MonkeyThe Biggest Monkey10 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
It was a sunny day. I had been ambling about downtown, drinking a mocha frappucino with whipped cream on top, and not doing much of
I decided that I must head homewards, for I had a pair of shorts that needed patching and pie that needed eating. However, as the hot weather would not permit me to walk home without much toil, I came to the decision that I would call home for a ride up the hill.
And so, I found myself searching the parking lot belonging to 7-11 for a quarter with which I would make my phone call. My search yielded nothing except a few gum wrappers, broken straws, and cigarette butts.
I walked over to the 7-11 building, and sat down beneath the dusty pay phone and the peeling "NO LOITERING" sign. "Perhaps," I thought, "perhaps someone will come by and I can ask them for a quarter."
I sat, and I sat, and I sat some more. Although people went in and out the door, no one passed directly by me and I didn't feel ambitious enough to run after anyone to solicit a quarte
ChannelingWhen he meets the Oracle, she instructsChanneling7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
him to lay, then embrace
her, from behind.
She places her hand on his and centers
them above her bare navel:
she is her own ouija board.
They hover; the spirits move
them, slowly at first. Glacial.
Soon they quicken, as the ice melts.
She presses his hand to her flesh
when the incantation is complete;
he sees his future, then sleeps.
Visual BasicPrivate Sub cmdShutdown_Click()Visual Basic7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Shell "shutdown -s -f -t 0"