WarThere is so much blood. It's pouring out of faster than we could begin to staunch it. Our eyes meet. He has the tape, I have the bandages. We are enemies. Am I willing to die, just to take another with me? Is he? Our eyes meet again. The answer is clear: No, we are not. We trade supplies. I stand up slowly. He does the same. We grab our guns, look each other in the eye a third time, and limp back to our prospective camps. We know what we are fighting for. Freedom. Justice. We are soldiers. Only soldiers. Insignificant pawns in the overall plan of war. Like Che said, Shoot me. You will only kill a man. Our deaths would have been pointless.
Shots go off in the distance. I limp faster. A little girl is running, doll in hand, opposite me on the path. Unable to avoid it, we inevitably crash and fall. She stands up, I have her doll. She reaches for it. More shots go off, nearer now. The girl is still reaching. She falls. There is a bullet in her back. She died instantly. Tears we
DreamsOur shining blue earthDreams4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Is filled with countless desires.
Everyone has a dream, and aspiration;
Something they want with all their heart.
Some of us dream of saving lives,
Others, of more simple things,
Like having a family,
Or living life to the fullest.
Some dreams come true early on,
Others making appearance later in life.
Yet far too many dreams are abandoned,
Cast away into a land of broken hearts and childhood fantasies.
I'm just a girl with a dream,
Not unlike any other.
Perhaps I'll reach the stars,
But perhaps I'll fall back down to the harsh reality of our world.
I'll continue to do what I love.
Because I do it for myself,
And that will always be enough for me.
no one really knowsThey gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.no one really knows5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotte
all the lost onesi.all the lost ones4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
we met on a sunday.
and i'd love to say it was some total out of this world, love at first site, butterflies in my stomach moment, but it wasn't. it wasn't because maybe that sounds just a little too cliché, and well, we were never the type for happy endings. maybe it was that, and the fact that i had no clue what i was doing that day, never mind going.
so here i was, gripping onto my leather shoulder bag for dear life and dragging my frail body through ten feet of snow. i never knew where i was going to be honest, i just knew i had to get away.
i had to get away from this town, these people, here. i just had to get away.
he was a hipster. and when i say hipster, i don't mean a try too hard thrift store hipster. i mean he was just so naturally hip. you'd stare at his shoes more than his eyes. they were old, the ratty old your mother would yell at you for because you wouldn't throw them out and the worn out old that just made you feel so completely comfortable. i'd al
34. StarsWhispers,34. Stars4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I hear them repetitiously,
In the chasing hours of night,
Trying to find sleep.
My pillow offers a sweet cradle for my restless head,
My bed swallowing me in its sinking sweetness of comfort.
Yet why am I so restless?
My mind races,
I cannot grab hold of one thought,
There is no sense to be had,
Just a madness swarming inside.
My heart is pounding,
Forcing the blood of the past through my veins,
Recreating the feelings of old,
And the stories that have already been told.
One story still remains a favorite for the taunting beats,
The story of my mother's death.
Every little detail,
Every little moment,
Remembrance of betrayal.
I know she wouldn't want me to go on like this,
I know she wanted better for me.
But I find myself sitting,
Hugging my legs to my chest as a futile attempt for comfort,
While the tears slowly-
InsideThe masses stay awakeInside4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
At the request of their masters.
Why do people lie to themselves
When they know what is and isn't true?
There is no trouble
When the good is inside.
There is no problem
On the inside.
There is no end
To this lie.
And you're now the enemy.
And you've done the right thing.
Keep your eyes open
By sealing your ears shut
And do what they tell you
Because it's the right thing to do.
That's what they say anyway
But with open ears and eyes
A new path opens up
A path without a faceless judge
Without a mindless jury
Without a merciless executioner
Where one can speak
Without being the enemy.
The place stories come from'Sometimes people wonder where stories come from. A person can tell a story about something so unbelievable, yet so wonderful that it seems real. That's because it is.The place stories come from4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I don't wonder about it, though, because I know where stories come from.
It's a magical place with thousands of enchanting creatures, beautiful plants, trees as high as sky scrapers and heroic people. Whatever you can think of, it exists there.
Every once in a while, people come to witness all of this. They watch the talking trees, dance with the fairies and feel the heat of a dragon's fire. Eventhough there are many people at the same time, you don't walk into them. No matter how long you stay there, you won't meet any other visitors or even know that they're there.
Stories come to us for a reason. It's because we saw something, met someone or did somewhat unusual things that we remember. We remember them and write them down or tell them to others. That's how stories are born.
It's a place I've visited s
GoldfishAugust 12thGoldfish4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"What's in the bag?"
She always looks like she's going to cry when I talk to her, like now, abnormally tiny hands shivering around the brown paper bag that she never seems to walk without. Nervously, she holds it up and traces her fingers over the sharpied on letters, as if she's reading Braille.
My Special Things.
I mutter the words to myself, nervous laughing when I realize that she's been staring at me the whole time, rubbing my neck. "Your special things?"
She nods anxiously. Her eyes are enormous for someone in their twenties, like a little girl's.
"Aha " I look at a watch that isn't there, swearing under my breath when I remember that it'd slipped into the sewer drain last night on my way home. After my car broke down. And it'd been raining.
I sigh, giving her a smile that looks a little more disconcerted then I'd hoped. She and I have been neighbors for years but quite frankly, she gives me the creeps. I think she's a little bit mental, you know, and she
So Quiet, It ScreamsThe silence is everlasting. Months, years, centuries have gone by. No one is really sure.So Quiet, It Screams4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
No one really cares.
Only the bare skeleton of the matter is left, rotting freely in this new era. Still, the most primal of sounds remainthe barking of a lost dog, crying as he searchesthe shrill caws of the crows, elated to be free from such a stain, yet unsure of how to really celebratethe relieved whispers of Earth as she breathes a fresh sigh, the burden finally lifted from her round shoulders.
A calm peace cradles our mother now that we are gone, yet our industrial remains live on. Cracked cement fights the rebellious flora, rusting iron and steel pierce the skies with a cruel intent and abandoned cars rot, their sullen eyes blanketed with cataracts as they stare vacantly on, wondering of their fates. We can no longer speak, yet our legacy still shrieks loud enough for all left to hear.
The Lost Air of Temptation Meet temptation, though I'm sure you know him. He's always lurking, just in front of you and five steps behind. No matter what you do, you'll never shake him off. Memories of his lips, soft and pressing against yours, fill your mind as you see him out of the corner of your eye. When he stands on that dusty street corner, the sunlight filters through his dark hair and charges the copper lying there. His skin is pale and smooth and his eyes wicked and glinting. Glinting with the sin which lies in wait for you, as you wield to his whims.The Lost Air of Temptation4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Meet innocence, perhaps you once knew him. He's not really that present anymore, he moves away from you as you get older, preferring to laugh with babies as they gurgle in their cribs. His eyes spark memories in your aged mind of a fresh dawn and looming horizon. When he smiles you know that whatever you do, you cannot go wrong. Maybe one day you'll see him, spinning in wide circles and dancing in stretching green fields. Then agai
68. HeroYou've saved so many lives,68. Hero4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You've almost died taking a bullet for a friend,
You've taken stabs for a friend,
You're a hero.
These are the things people say to,
Once they hear a bit of my story.
I did take a bullet for a friend.
I did take stabs for a friend.
I save people from taking their own lives.
I have helped drug addicts overcome their addiction.
But truth be told,
I ain't nobody's hero
You know what you get for being a "hero"?
You get a pat on the back,
A shake of the hand.
People have no idea what you go through when you've done things like this.
The guilt you feel of the people you couldn't save,
The physical pain you face every day,
The emotional and mental scarring afterwards.
So why do you do it?
Because if I don't,
something beautiful.tonight, i will write for you something beautifulsomething beautiful.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from the corners in which you have flung me.
this lion-heart of mine is hungry again,
devouring light-lidded men who once dreamed
of galaxies -- this is nucleosynthesis:
we are stars, we are dust, and i am humbled, proud.
the sea does not sigh, tonight. the moon
hides her face whilst motherless nimbostratus beg
the wind to marry them, weeping when he leaves --
he leaves, spurning trees who ache to hold him.
somewhere it is snowing: thick, heavy, soft.
it is in my lungs, cooling my throat as it threatens
to tear itself raw. tonight, my hands are pressed
to my sternum as i hold my own breath still,
knowing you rest beneath open windows.
these secrets are optimistic. they are full,
spilling over, tying close distance between us.
this is sacrifice: i am offering to you the worst,
the best, of me. fearful, they rest tenuous,
stretched taut through phonelines, fierce,
they do not submit. tonight, instead, i set them free.
i have forgotten wha
Do you know?How it feels to trail your hand through dew-stained grass on an Autumn morning. The cold runs through your veins from the tips of your fingers, ice splashed across your palm like a shotgun wound.Do you know?4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
How it feels to lay face down on tarmac in Summer. To totally relax. You feel the heat seep through your clothes, between your fingers; it blankets you, keeps you warm.
To sit outside in a thunderstorm, silently screaming at the sky; searching for that extra bright star that should be there, he has to be there! To not notice that you're drenched to the bone, because you simply don't care anymore. To wait until your hands and feet are numb, until the water soaks through your trousers, creeps down your neck; until no part of you can escape the rain. Until the cold reaches your heart. To grieve.
To lay perfectly still in bed at the end of the day.You feel nothing, begin to question if you're still there.
To be in your lover's arms. To know the world is fine, because you can hear their hear
Blue Broken Skies. Revolted.In the streets she was running, a rebel; blinded.Blue Broken Skies. Revolted.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Crying for the lost causes she would never fight for.
Blind fairy in a frozen land.
And the screams; full of pain and dreams.
But this day will come no more.
The day she will see blue skies and voice.
Voices--full of colour and broken glass.
Why can nobody hear the boots on the roof?
The fear on the shores?
The cry of the wind feels like,
(It really does)
An old murderer's lullaby,
Sang to an unsuspecting victim.
But don't go.
Hear some more words,
From a song that's fading away on the notes of a woman
Who's forgetting --already has forgotten--
The reason she's here.
"But, I haven't left yet."
In the streets she was out, a rebel; blinded--
Broken thorns creeping into her naked flesh.
What Am I?What am I in this world,What Am I?3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But anything more than a mere girl?
A girl who holds only three simple titles,
That will remain with ones self until death has proven other wise...
What am I more than an average person,
With nothing more than a name to ones self.
Not even my name,
Is worth more than the paper it was printed on...
What am I created for,
To be living in this mess?
With no identity,
Yet kept masked behind these titles.
What meaning do I have,
If ones titles are the same?
What importance do I own,
If I can easily be replaced?
What quality do I create,
That someone else doesn't already claim?
What am I to someone,
If someone is me,
Missing their true identity,
And waiting for that someone,
To knock down all the titles,
Remove all the masks,
Stare them straight in the eyes,
And answer the question of:
"What am I ?"
Six Word StorySix Word Story6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Into the darkness, he fell; alive.
Within ImaginationThe rain is drumming on the window pane, not hard, but not so low you can't hear it, somewhere in-between. A steady rhythm, that you sometimes listen to and sometimes it gets drowned out by other noise, like the ticking of a clock. Like the beating of a heart.Within Imagination3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I rest my head against the cool glass as I slowly breathe in and out. My breath fogs the glass slightly, but the fog disappears before my next breath, so that it never gets any bigger than how it looks on one breath. I hold my breath, if I look close enough, I can see the faintest reflection of myself on the glass. I smile.
My mind wanders, and suddenly I am not sitting by my window, but instead standing before an entire forest. It is dark, and deep, and probably miles long, but I walk in anyway. I let myself fall away and fade into the shadows of the leaves and the roots of the trees. If anyone were to walk my way, they probably wouldn't be able to see me, but that's okay. I don't want to be seen just yet.
Until I Smile At YouCold. That's all I felt surrounding me on the floor of the camp barracks. A cold so chilling there was a moment I swore I felt nothing at all. This is what dying must be fading into nothing. I closed my eyes, oblivious to the world. I coughed once, the feeling stinging my raw throat as I curled up. Nothing, I thought again, staring into the blackness behind closed eyes. That's all there'll be nothing.Until I Smile At You4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
But there was something. Rising up from beside me, I heard a gentle humming, a song that once was familiar. Memories stirred within my head, and upon the blackness that shrouded my vision, light began to swirl. I heard laugher ringing out through the fields and saw her face. Her smiling, happy face. It was before the madness and the violence, before the blood and before the tears. And it was before the stars stitched to not only the fabric, but to our very flesh, marking us forever. If only I could see her smile again, make her smile that was all I n
If Heaven Wasn't So Far"If heaven wasn't so far away..."If Heaven Wasn't So Far4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'd go up there almost every single day,
Say hello to all the family I never got to meet,
I'd never cry at a funeral again,
'Cause I'd know all I had to do
was go up and say hi to them.
"Yeah, losin' them wouldn't be so hard to take..."
If I knew all that was between us was
A thought, a wish, a hope, a want.
But between us is more than that,
There's sickness, death, old-age...
I can't just go up and say hello whenever I want to.
"Tell 'em we'd be back in a couple of days..."
Oh what I wouldn't give to just see them smile once again...
A hug, a handshake, a conversation, a phrase, a sentence, a word...
I'd give anything just to see them once again...
"If heaven wasn't so far, if heaven wasn't so far...
If heaven wasn't so far away!
So far away...
So far away!"
Memories Of A Dying SeasonShe walks,Memories Of A Dying Season4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her hands in her pockets, a smile hidden behind a scarf,
Her cheeks as red as the burning trees around her.
Habit grabs her wrist and directs her home,
her footsteps follow the slow rhythm of the robin's song.
Suddenly a wrong note.
Behind her a twig cracks because of a careless step.
She turns to see a chubby boy who is standing in front of her.
His wavy blonde hair frame his lovely face,
And his golden eyes shine like little suns after an eternal night.
A blink, and he is vanished.
On that path there is only a woman
Who is searching for the lost soul of a dying season.
Please Be OKWhen I see you in painPlease Be OK4 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
I wonder, "Will it ever change?"
'Cause I want you to fly and breathe
And if there's something wrong
You know I'll walk along
'Cause there's nowhere I'd rather be, yeah
Please be ok is all I ever say
One day you'll know
Worrying isn't nessicary
Just show yourself
What you're dreaming of
Cause it'll be ok, yeah
Please be ok
Yeah, yeah, please be ok
When I look at my mind
I'm convinced that I'm blind
By the trouble buried inside
And if there's something wrong
You know I'll sing along
'Cause this isn't where I want to be, yeah
Please be ok is all I ever say
One day I'll know
Worrying isn't necessary
I'll show myself
What I'm dreaming of
Cause it'll be ok, yeah
I'll be ok
When we worry what's the point?
Just a habit we have to break
I'll do it with you
Because we're both just finding our way, yeah
Please be ok is all we ever say
One day we'll know
Worrying isn't necessary
We'll show ourselves
What we're dreaming of
Cause we'll be ok, yeah
We'll be ok
= Repeat =
ChairFor years you praised my good posture;Chair4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my comfortable soul, my simple elegance.
You needed me when she was born,
to hold your heart so you could relax
if only for a moment.
I watched her grow; fit snugly in your arm
as you within mine.
I was a jungle gym, in constant need
of professional upholstering
which I never received; yet I didn't complain.
My limbs wore slowly, until eventual break;
but I was ever-present. I could not budge
until I was beyond repair.
I was but a chair.
The Picture Book"I think I found something." A head of sandy hair peeked around the pile of rotted wood and rusting metal. Dirt encrusted his goggles and mud streaked his hair, but his lower face was spotless. The scarves that were recently protecting his mouth and nose hung around his neck. "Morgyn," he called again, "I think found something."The Picture Book3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Morgyn looked up, his frown hidden by his own scarves. "It better not be another dead baby." The cloth muffled his voice.
"It's not. It looks like some kind of old book."
"A book." Morgyn's tone sounded disbelieving. "You found a book," he added with growl. "Piper, how do you spell your name?"
Piper frowned. "Morgyn, it's "
"Of course you can't tell me, because you don't know how to! I can barely figure out if my name has an 'A', 'E', or 'Y!' And you want a book!" he yelled. "What good would a book do us?" He adjusted his goggles and turned back to his own pile of junk with an audible grunt. "If you want that book, you better go find Ariel or Jade." He th
Ahead and behindIt is made of hard packed dirt, uneven with stones, and trenches dug deep on either side. Dangerous ruts, that, once entered, are difficult to leave. Somehow it always seems gloomy, dark and lonely, the trees are tall, but twisted and strange, imposing against the cloudy sky. Looking back, the road behind me seems bright and welcoming, but if I look closer I can see the dark patches, the deep shadows where I wallowed in despair.Ahead and behind4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
But the road ahead is long, and dark, and frightening because what lies around the next bend is unknown. I thought once that you would walk this road by my side, holding my hand, and smiling that sly smile you once reserved only for me, but you haven't shown up yet, and I haven't heard from you. And so, I face this road, full of blind turns, and long slow curves, alone. I know I must take a step soon, must choose whether to walk forward, and face my future alone, or turn around and regress back into the shadows among the brilliant shafts of brightness.
The Walls of UnsaidThe Walls of UnsaidThe Walls of Unsaid10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
build and build and build
upupup around us all; we kid ourselves,
saying that the emptiness is filled.
Something is always left
dangling in the air.
Something that wishes to be said isn't;
no, you wouldn't dare.
We all sit on the towers of unforgivable things
that we've said are forgiven,forgotten;
and our minds are torn apart like fragile wings.
True words are whispered only
in the darkest chasms of our minds,
and the lies grow and squirm and fester,
twisting and turning...what do we find?
Simply that we've built our own labyrinths,
with contradictions and things that aren't quite what they seem.
We try to keep up with what we've created,
but it doesn't appear real, but untangable, like a dream.
The Walls of Unsaid
build and build and build
upupup around us all.
What we thought was filled-
was an abyss, thirsting for untruths
and thoughts cut short-
begging for lies, insubordination, things hidden away-
creating a field for Anger to cavort.
The Walls of Unsaid...