Dear CharlotteDear Charlotte2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It's September 1st today. It's weird, isn't it? The way most kids associate the start of September with brand new backpacks, pencil shavings and the panicked beating of their hearts as they get on the bus, pretending all the while to be perfectly collected, not even a little nervous? I guess that's one thing this whole thing has given me to be grateful for. Dr. Spence says it would be a good idea for me to write a list every day of things I'm grateful for. You'd like him. He also told me I should try writing you a few letters telling you how I feel, even if I would never send them, and it's not like you'd open them even if I did. Anyways, don't get me wrong, it's not like the start of another year doesn't faze me, it's more like I'm used to it, you know? And besides, I have other things to think about.
Charlie. It feels strange to call you Charlie. It's like when we used to go to that sushi place on 3rd street that you absolutely loved and we would order the rolls with
It's Just CandyIt's Just Candy3 years ago in Romance More Like This
You tried balancing the handful of grocery bags as you stumbled up to your front porch. Placing some of the bags on the ground you grabbed your keys out of your pocket and unlocked the ceramic door. You grabbed the bags that you had previously placed down. You used your foot to open the door, grabbing the keys with your teeth. Once inside your house, you kicked the door shut and walked over to the kitchen counter.
You let out a sigh of relief as you placed the groceries down. You took the keys out from your clenched teeth and shoved them back into your pocket. You began to unpack the many green bags, placing the items in their designated spot. You were just finishing putting away the last bag of groceries when you heard a yelp of pain coming from down the hall. Placing down the yellow boxes that were you in your hand on the counter; you began to run towards the location of the yelp.
You ran down the long narrow hall of your shared house all the way to the living room. Peering inside th
Selfish Suicide"People who kill themselves are selfish."Selfish Suicide2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Well, darling, let me tell you a story,
A story all too true.
A daughter who became a wife, a wife who became a mother.
A mother of three girls...
One just above the age of a toddler,
One at the age of twelve,
And one entering the life of a married adult.
Now, the youngest girl was watching television,
And the oldest at the neighbor's home.
The twelve year old daughter sat at a computer with her closest friend,
When something terrifying happened.
Her mother was in the kitchen, coughing.
The daughter, although unable to see her mother, only could imagine the situation.
The mother walked calmly past the daughter with tears rushing down her face,
And up the stairs she went,
Into her bedroom...
Locking the door behind her.
The daughter, hearing the door lock, didn't bother to check on her mother.
She decided to expect and hope for the best.
Five, maybe ten minutes passed, the daughter still sitting at the computer,
When the mother stumbled down the
reasons to love a shy girli. men fear strong women,reasons to love a shy girl2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but she's far from strong.
this wisp of a girl
doesn't even need a hurricane
to fall apart.
she'd glued and re-glued,
old bonds wearing thin,
but if you ask politely,
she'll let you touch her scars.
ii. her lips are fettered in rusted chains.
you'd need a crowbar to pry up
her whispered secrets.
you are not worthy to hear her voice
just as she is not worthy to give it to you.
she told me everything she knows,
and i shut it away,
kept it safe.
i tied the threads into double knots
just to make sure
they wouldn't curl away from me,
twisted up like a dead spider's legs.
iii. she is hewn from shadow,
woven from grains of sand.
you might think she'd flow,
breeze by on a sparrow's breath,
but she's never been good at
anything but sinking.
she is buried treasure, and all
the things you wish you could forget.
iv. you found her washed up on the shore,
drawing pictures of her flickering soul,
and knew she was too unsteady to love.
when you reached for her heart,
LithiumA single trickling rain dropLithium4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like gossamer silk strands
Gliding along my third eye
Whispers wind's secret caress
I exhale. Lungs releasing-
Pressing translucent memories;
Fragment of a fragment
As water kisses rose petal,
Drifting down stream's curtain
Pretty little curtain.
Where the wizard lies.
He smiles up at me
With his monocled brow-
Sipping on warm tea
And fingers quacking casually
To the rhythm of his notes
This is a safe-zone. Free-zone.
Innocent eyes sparkle,
Imploring it to be true. I breathe.
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.Latreuophobia2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
BreakfastYou told me she had died in a hospital bedBreakfast2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
With her glasses on
So that she could see Death properly
And I picked away at my breakfast,
Which was pancakes and strawberries,
Trying to imagine
Her squinting ahead at Him
With her dying eyesight
The pancakes were dry and store-bought
And my plate was a pool of cold syrup
When I had finished,
And my hands were stained with the sweet blood
And you took my place,
Picking away at soggy crumbs.
To Be a Mother I do not believe, as is common, that age brings with it wisdom; my mother (and consequently, myself) are bright examples of how time does not cure the tendency to make irrational decisions. When I was a small child, I saw my mother as the brightest star in the evening sky; she was my light, my direction, my goddess. Any mistakes or unintelligent decisions she made were, in my mind, exempt from ridicule; being my mother, she was, of course, the epitome of perfection.To Be a Mother5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Drawing closed the blinds of my childhood, I grew into the realization that my mother, as all others, was a flawed creature; her brilliant red hair came from a plastic bottle from the second aisle of the supermarket, and correspondingly, so did her self-worth. As I aged, it was forced upon me the degree to which she placed value in appearance; no test score could bring joy into her eyes the way it did when I placed aside twenty e
England x Reader- Nice Guys Finish LastEngland x Reader- Nice Guys Finish Last2 years ago in Romance More Like This
Come on, Arthur, it's just one simple, miniscule little question. How bad could this possibly turn out?
The blond Englishman kept his determined gaze locked on the old black telephone that he had set out on the wooden table that was in front of him, wringing his hands together to the point where they had gotten a tad raw and uncomfortable. It had surprised him as to how nervous he was acting about the whole situation, and he did have to admit he was being a bit childish. How hard was it to say six simple words to a girl he had known for a good part of his life? Will you go out with me? That was all he had to say, and he thought it easy enough at first. But each time his trembling hand reached out for the phone, he started to think about the possible chance that she could say no and turn him down. But then the vision of her beautiful, toothy smile and brilliant (e/c) hues that seemed to hold a thousand questions still left to be unanswered wafted into his mind, and he
A Promise She Made With DeathShe was conceived on the edge of a mirror,A Promise She Made With Death5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lined with pretty white lace,
that burned the inside of her parents' nostrils.
She was born with a hole in her heart,
that the doctor's never noticed,
and no one bothered to fill.
She met Death on the playground,
when kindergarten was bending her bones.
Enticed by the glinting of his scythe,
as it preyed on a malformed baby rabbit.
She made a pinky promise with him,
swearing that she'd never forget his face.
He came and went,
swayed by corpse breaths
and east-coast winds,
but always leaving her alone.
He showed her how to hurt,
in the worst kind of way.
And each time,
he paid her a visit,
he'd take someone back with him.
She often asked where he would go,
when his curled claws would drag her mother,
and every love she'd ever fallen for,
into the darkness that he crawled from.
All he'd say,
was that she'd find them again someday,
and that he would take her to them, personally.
But as February,
of her fourteenth year,