The Bird"Found a bird in delta." I say.The Bird8 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
John doesn't stir, so I repeat.
"Said a bird flew in. Little scrawny thing, but it got in."
"What I thought. But it did."
I can hear John stretch out in the bunk above me, the ancient springs groaning as his body and muscles shift across them.
"Where's the leak?"
"Sally's looking. Be in delta though - can't of got through a bulkhead."
"Better not be delta two."
I nod, because neither of us want it in delta two.
"What sort of bird?"
"Little scrawny bastard, don't know. Could look him up."
John swings himself off the top bunk, and sits down on the end of my bed to do his boots up.
"Nah. Still loose?"
"Hope he gets out."
And then we laugh, because it's just such a normal thing to think, because birds should be out, shouldn't they?
ConformingConforming8 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Conforming to the Counter Culture: Costa Mesa's SoBeCa District
Maybe it's the rusted metal bars intersecting dangerously overhead, or the graffiti that covers the walls on either side, but something about this place leaves you feeling like you've just walked into the wrong side of town. And you're not really sure you want to leave.
It's 6 p.m. and the lights have finally come on in this small, post-apocalyptic alleyway, spilling over the enormous slabs of concrete and broken tile that scatter the ground. Each of the buildings that line the edges is distinct in its own respect, causing the place to look almost like an abandoned art gallery. First there's Arth, a hat store with a devotion to combining art and fashion; then there's Blends with its refrigerated shoe and clothing selection. The two lime-green shipping containers to the left come together to form the Artery (a portmanteau of the words "art" and "gallery") and tonight's performers can be heard tuning up all the way from the
The One Where The Cake IgnitesThe One Where The Cake Ignites9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Phoebe is in Central Perk with Ross.
Ross is writing a poem to Rachel,
unlikely as this may seem. Phoebe
listens to him recite it, then Chandler
walks in on the last few lines: "And Joey
is a noey like Hannukah with Monica,
so you see, you're left with me." "Monica
and Hannukah?" says Chandler. "Gee, Ross,
I thought you quit poetry." (Titles) Joey,
elsewhere, is cooking with Rachel.
They're baking a birthday cake for Chandler.
Joey's idea. They're counting on Phoebe
to keep him stalled. So, naturally, Phoebe
tells Chandler to write a poem for Monica.
"It's Phoebe's poetry workshop!" Chandler
relents, but writes four lines for Ross:
"Oh Ross/So cross/Becoss/Of Rachel."
Monica arrives in the flat to find Joey
and Rachel cooking. She screams. Joey
belts her - she falls unconscious. Phoebe
senses violence, contacts Rachel
psychically. "Something just happened to Monica!"
Chandler's ode has riled Ross.
He demands satisfaction from Chandler,
produces two pistols, whereupon Chandler
PalestinePalestine9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Homes being torn down
to make room for better people
It starts with a family still inside
As the tank moves
a small boy starts to cry
The fear chokes him
He goes blind
The older boy who escaped
tries to defend his home
throwing rocks at the tank
He is seized by men with AKs
The fear chokes him
wetness drips down his pants
A man teaches his son to pray
in the house of God
until tanks surround them
and soldiers destroy the peace
Three laugh as they fire their weapons
at the son
The father stands over his limp body
in a last act of defiance
More bullets fly, hitting mosaics on the wall
spelling "God, the most merciful" in flowing Arabic script
One shot missed, he's paralyzed
more laughing as another hits its target
in between his eyes
He falls over his son
This is Palestine
This is Hell
there’s a drawing room...there's a drawing room hidden insidethere’s a drawing room...10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my right pinky. I go there sometimes when I can't
sleep. I have found all I have to do is bring
some peaches and imagine I have a red hat on
and it will let me in. I realize that this is where I keep
my poetry, and where I kept that poem I wrote
in my dream, which I thought I had lost. It turns out
it was bad, anyway, but it was dripping with honey
so I licked it and stored it away under my left middle toe.
that is my storage closet.
my soul is located in the back of my right knee. I visit
when I can and talk to it through high frequency brain
waves when I can't sleep. it's nice, but very boring and sometimes
I don't like what it has to say. but it's my soul, and do your
brain and soul have to agree, really? God will meet me there
on occasion when I'm feeling lonely and
then he'll move and whisper into my left ear.
I can see things out of the palm of my hand.
I yell at it to start the show! Start the show! but it is limp
and can only show me a scrol
Front Page News"Hey! Mr. Miller, sir, I have that story you…" He let the door of the elevator close, shutting out the young intern and the rest of the 31st floor. God, he was sick of this place. People always yelling and screaming and running, rushing in and out and every which way, unconcerned about anything except for that ever ticking clock on the wall, sitting high above the bustling employees as if it itself were in fact the manager of the place. Or the overseer. Pushing and pushing them without so much as a word, its foot tapping impatiently as the seconds went by, unheard through the activity below, yet felt all the same. Its black whip raised high towards noon, poised for its impending fall towards six; the sting felt throughout the building by all those unprepared for when it hit.Front Page News9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
And Sulzberger. Sulzberger did nothing but make things worse. Riding everyone as hard as he could, never satisfied with anything, even when he got the stories he wanted. Of course, that didn't make
Three MinutesThree MinutesThree Minutes8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
So what if I am.
She didn't like considering the possibilities of pregnancy. It was a surreal state of being reserved for women in their middle twenties to early thirties (she was twenty-three, but this didn't matter). It was for the adult world, which she was separate from and had always been separate from. It seemed like schools and television went out of their way to extend youth, so why couldn't biology as well?
I could get an abortion.
She sat on the side of the bathtub and stared at her fingertips while she waited. The test was balanced on the edge of the sink. Just a little piece of plastic with a damp, now yellow-tinged stub jutting out of one end, harmless-looking and generic. She'd never been afraid of anything else so much in her life, except for maybe talking to her parents. She was pretty scared of that too. The clock on the bathroom wall ticked methodically every secon
Coalwho breaks their back, and lines their cageCoal8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with glass to hold their power? Like a quiet
finch, tar-covered and hunched over
its child, murmuring a gentle salve.
we wrench as a reed in the flow of
a mighty wind, that crushes our chests
and snaps our legs. We hold our liquid hearts
in the fleshy sieves of our cupped hands.
down the plateau of the cheek
I burn, I sizzle.
I am only coal, within a great fireplace.
Black and ordinary, but I can yet
spit from the fire, heatedly
like an angry snake.
I may terrify. Let my rough edges split
the yolks of rotten eggs,
As I come to the shimmering surface.
The Dress She WearsThe Dress She WearsThe Dress She Wears8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
It rides the slow curve of her hips
pulls tight against them as she walks
her gait confined to conscious steps.
Not long enough to be lady-like,
too long to be whorish, it falls
heavily over tired thighs, licking
the tops of her knees. The neckline
plunges. A greedy vice, it squeezes
the bulk of her heavy breasts up
until they spill out for all to see.
Its coarse and jealous-green fabric
scratches her most delicate places
rubbing them raw, I know, until
her skin weeps a salty pink.
Made before we were born, it is
given us by our mothers and theirs
before. It suits us just the same.
The dress she wears is thin as skin
and frayed beyond repair. Lined
with fear and trimmed with guilt,
I put mine on each morning, as if
it were the only one I'll ever need.
Fast Acting Kool GluDear Fast Acting Kool Glu Company,Fast Acting Kool Glu8 years ago in Humor More Like This
Hello. My name is Joy B_________ and I have been a loyal customer since second grade. Your product has been very useful to me in my many school projects and with personal problems at home. I used Kool Glu to put together my fourth grade science fair project. I made a volcano. I also used your product when I accidentally broke my mother's two thousand dollar Ming vase. The incident involved a baseball bat. Don't ask. I even used your product when I accidentally broke my retainer in half. Coincidentally, this incident also involved a baseball bat. Unfortunately, I didn't let the glue sit long enough and I was unable to remove my retainer from my mouth for about four days until I could find a tube of Fast Acting Kool Glu Remover. I also don't think it was in my best judgement to use your product in my mouth.
fistful of fightfistful of fight9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like fistfuls of red
She borrowed knives from wolves
To accessorize with her own
Sat on heights
Before I became wild fire…
But as I settled as ash...
There was no phoenix to
Fill my day.
(An army that reeked of February 2006)
Powerful guns that owned
Men who had strength
That wasn't their own.
…They were pumped with fear
That made them feel
Our master plan was
To escape to an island,
And here I am;
Alone on an island,
With a War(I)saw from afar…
And a gun I withdraw
Which I sometimes call talk.
i was just drowning duckكلماتك تعيد تنشيط خيالى المجنحاi was just drowning duck8 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
بالدعوات وصدق الكلمات بهذا افرحا
دفعتنى لاطلق خيالى بعد ان ترنحا
اطلقتنى حرا لارى صدقا طائرا وتسامحا
فدومى بالخير والخير لك فقد التق
Abnormal, but unspecificAbnormal, but unspecific8 years ago in Articles & Interviews More Like This
At 25, almost half of Riikka's life has been spent with being sick and visiting doctor after doctor. She would surely have better things to do. There's nothing she hates as much as doctors and she has nightmares about visits where she's humiliated. That hasn't been unusual. Even now, doctors treat her condescendingly, like a kid. It took over a decade to obtain a diagnosis.
There have been dozens and again dozens of doctors over the years, neurologists, opthalmologists, infection specialists and rheumatologists. It certainly feels like they couldn't care less what happens to Riikka. They're constantly trying to push physiotherapy, something Riikka has been doing for years, even though she doesn't have much mobility left any longer.
Riikka is sick with something many doctors don't even believe in and that officially doesn't exist in Finland, even though it has been included in WHO's official ICD-10 for a long time. In many countries it's known as myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME). In Finla
drowning out westdrowning out west10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It has not been so bad here -- warmer than home and they call the place differently than we do. You know how we always said Mizzery?
They call it Mizzera.
Auntie J and Uncle Agner have made the attic comfortable for me. From my window I can see hills fattening in the distance and the river veins away from them -- winds right through the pasture.
Tell mother I wear the cardigan she crocheted and no one can tell yet. Auntie looks hard, cause she knows I should be blowing up, but she's disappointed. She tells me eat right cause she wants her new baby healthy and she heaps enough food for two grown-ups on my plate; I eat as much as I can, but it all comes up anyway.
Give everyone my love.
Mother is still too upset to write; I hope you understand. I'm glad you're settled in.
Agner only owns the pasture,
he hasn't a breath of livestock
His job is on the road,
so I'm alone with Auntie
and the boys most days.
The phone rings
You UnderneathYou Underneath9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
brushing the willow,
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
brushing the willow
Smouldering Graffiti SleepSmouldering Graffiti Sleep8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(This poem's due to be published, so I've taken down the text for now as a courtesy. Will delete it entirely once all is confirmed)
The Laughter of DucksThe Laughter of Ducks9 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
fisherman and son
catching nothing but minnows
and the laughter of ducks
Tears in HeavenTears in HeavenTears in Heaven8 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
Nate River had gone by many names over the years, and yet he often felt that none really suited him quite the way he would have liked. Most recent had been the addition of a new code name, L, along with the sub-categorical personas of Erald Coil, Danuve, and a few others that he had developed on his own. L was fine when it came to work, but it lacked a personal feel to it. Nate wasnt sure why that bothered him, given his pre-disposition to sitting alone in corners twirling his hair. But it did bother him, and as the years passed he had stopped questioning the feeling and simply let it remain, buried, festering.
And so it did remain, like other feelings he had taken a few moments out to classify and then toss aside over the course of his life. Feelings, that went by other names, all blank and invisible letters that identified him by face but not by heart.
N, another name, was an older façade than L. N was the product of a child trying to become a
What Was Left of Joan MarieWhat Was Left of Joan Marie9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her lashes cracked and barked like thunder,
but it was a mild summer -
a mild slumber
on her door step.
Her mouth slipped under stones
to dining rooms and
dinner parties but
her breath was raw and baited-
So she waited
by the back door.
Flush and Pale in PamplonaFlush and Pale in Pamplona9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We have never seen a dawn
that has not died within an hour.
But here's one now,
and, unsure if it has lied or not,
I check your eyes:
The sun's still struggling to get inside,
the small bright spots of fingertips
tugging lightly at your lids.
And I, from a family of cowards,
am hesitant to wake you,
though not so much as to stop my lowered hand
from moving upwards,
stilling only when you start to stir
and stretch; and then exhale
in a way that makes me flush,
then pale, as I, too,
drift back to sleep,
to wait until the midday sun
has come and gone
and left us one.
The moon is out
and so are we, sitting, nestled
in the busy market, free
from the deaths of bulls
and those who claim them.
A man, old, weighted
by a wedding ring,
sells flowers for the women
of men in love. I am,
he says, a king, and you agree,
with daffodils to please your smile.
And here, we have no fear,
just the whispers in our mouths and ears
in the way we drink each other's beer.
We pause, quiet, and know then
busdust animalsbus9 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
loll and swirl against
fake forest leather
(around sable beaststrands,
sun-sullied to pyrite)
at a garbled missive
scratched and misconstrued,
its stories unvoiced-
"warm is uncomfortable;
cold is far worse."
A driftwood Essayforever and flawlessA driftwood Essay8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
those un-plucked flowers
pressed in poetry volumes
and the ocean.
oddities of memories
as river stones, well rounded
in their patient education;
as punctuated coffee stains,
those discarded sutras
by accidental monks,
who learned calligraphy from
what clever lines
the cipruss roots, embroidered
with lichen 'nd worm trails.
how fertile those monks are now,
as love is recorded
diligently, in chronicles
of a child stomping in