A Guilmon change Part 2Karov punched the nearest rock, angrily. Missed...oh, no matter...the next one will be...hey, where did he go? he said, looking around, anxiously. Where is he? Where is that stupid lizard?A Guilmon change Part 27 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
Right behind you
Karov turned around...he saw the red creature's fist. A punch in the face, and Karov was on the ground...his riffle landed a few meters away from him. You...how did you...
Alex smiled, showing him his deadly fangs. Let's just say...that I am fast...now...
Karov grabbed the gun in his pocket. Fortunately, Alex had good reflexes, and he managed to kick him in the face, and steal the gun.
Bad move... Alex said, aiming the gun at the man's head. Now...I have some questions for you
Karov spitted blood on the ground. I won't tell you anything...you are wasting your time he said, smiling.
Alex smiled too. Oh...so, I don't need you anymore...and you know...I'm starting to get hungry he
you have such a pretty smilei.you have such a pretty smile7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it has been scrawled and every letter looks like a hooked crow's talon, and i am sitting with my jeans all rolled up and my feet are made of seeds and wrinkles like protrusions of stems and dreamy roots, and i am exploding stars in my mind and they shatter like yellow confetti, slivered gold glitter, and i read so slowly like the words might escape me before i can finish, the tail-ends of ns turning into legs and the es unfurling and falling delicately away and the m scattering away like leaves coated in sulfur and membrane and silk, and on the wall is scrawled a picture, a color, that looks like this:
my stomach opened up wide
and out came
a forest, topped in limp rashes of stringy red and slices of white, splattered lightly with a crimson you could dip your finger in and taste, playing your tongue like a careful harp, and the gilded stains of green came out to meet the sun with extended pointing arms
What I KnowI know that in five minutes, I am going to push my little brother out of the window of our twelfth floor apartment. And I know that there is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent it.What I Know8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
It's a huge window, more like a little door, really. It stretches down to a few inches above the floor and then up again to the ceiling. I don't see why it's so big. Maybe it's so we can get a nice view. Our apartment overlooks Riverside Park, so there's no one from the building across the street who can see in or anything.
Normally I like the window and how far it is from the ground. Normally I like to look down at the tops of trees in the park. In the summer, I like to open it and get a lot of fresh air inside the living room. Now the thought of it frightens me. I look at the glass of the window and all I want to see is a nice, thick brick wall.
I am going to push my brother out of this window.
I've done e
Piano HatI remember when we got our first piano. It was a black upright. Not exactly gorgeous, but definitely a nice instrument. I was really excited to get my hands on the thing, but dad wasnt too, um, keen on the idea -- "Keen"? Really? I say things like that sometimes even though I know they sound lame. What can you do, though? I didnt have my first piano lesson until a few days later. Sounds of tinkling piano keys filled the room. Bassy notes caused the whole foundation to shake. It was a thing of beauty. It really was. Best part: It was me. I was playing it. My hands couldnt throw a ball with any sort of accuracy at all, and I was picked on for it bad, but damn could they play a piano! I mean really! Just damn!Piano Hat7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
That was, what -- like, five years ago? Yeah, I was about eight at the time, so, like, five years ago. So here I am, five years after I started playing the thing, and Im still going. In fact, Ive got a recital tonight. Thats why Im all
Champagne Girlslisten:Champagne Girls6 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
the higher you fly, the harder it is to breathe. the harder it is to see all thats below you; to see the ones that helped get your glorious kite off the ground in the first place. you owe them just that much, dont you? for them to at least catch the occasional glimpse of your lofty form between those clouds and the sun's rays pressing down on their heavy eyelids?
we would all love to have a kite that will carry us to heaven's blinding gates, the ideal circumstance, but it seems kites like those are going extinct with infinity between. i'd be happy just to have a balloon to tie to my pinky, one that wont float off at the slightest breeze, hover vastly out of reach of my outstretched fingers among the teetering spires of brick and mortar, modern corridors of hell-scorched babylon, simply to waver, depressurize, and
yesterday i spent nearly 12 hours in the cruel swift winds that rarely blow so sharp on the curvature of vermont's unyielding mountainous vi
I Love You MoreHe said, I bet ifI Love You More6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I ate fireflies,
I'd light up something
wonderful and special
and then I'd be the perfect
man you'd always want.
She grimaced, said to
stop reading Alice in
Wonderland, to stop
being such a dreamer,
stop talking in abstract
ideas and nonsensical prose.
It's. Not. Healthy.
He hand wrote a little
chapbook for her, poems
and thoughts, his deepest.
Pricked his finger,watching in
fascination as the sanguine
liquid dripped, splatter small
in the corner of the cover page.
She would always have a piece
of his heart near-by.
He found it abused and dogeared
through use of neglect in corners
of forgotten grooves in bookcases.
Your poetry is tired and abusive
to the English language,
name dropping doesn't make you
any weightier and let the piece
breathe just once, for goodness sakes.
Stop using so many friggin commas.
Periods can be your friend too,
she said. He propped his head up
on his bent arm, cheek mussing out of
shape. Really now? he
bad poetry good poetryWrite poetry.bad poetry good poetry7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Write bad poetry and then
burn the paper.
Write good poetry and fold
it into a crane, let it fly away
on an extended vacation with your muse.
Write nothing and see what happens,
when you stand in the dark
with nothing on but
a halfhearted smile.
Kill a mocking bird, and scoff;
write about that too.
Write about things that never
happened like they are the truest
thing in your heart. Write
about things that did
happen like they are dirty lies.
Write about smoke rings
and cancer patients and thirty
degrees below zero. Write about
the rising oil prices,
like it will make a difference.
Dont write and see what happens,
when there is no one left to listen
to your heartbeat and you wish
you had written that song
three years ago.
Write about how the dish
ran away with the spoon,
and rain rain go away
like it was your idea.
Like it was a good idea.
Blonde BombshellBlonde Bombshell11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
She's an airbrushed blonde bombshell, a teen queen glam rocker
Every boy's masterbation fantasy, perfect on paper,
Disguised by makeup and mishaps, holding in
Her bursting alcoholic liver (its cool, that's why) with the lies she delivers the crowd and
Her lungs burn (its all those cigarettes, you know), but that's no concern, because she's
Beautiful. And she knows it.
It's nothing new, this death she's learned to fake, to die inside
But she's not willing to sacrifice her fame for
Dignity. Because no one's going to remember, (no one's gonna count at the finish line, right?) how much
She has left, when she steps into the Rock and
Roll hall of fame, half dressed, but it's
Gucci, Mom, it's okay, and she'll smile for the
Camera, a girl's best friend, she's good at it now. It took some practice
At first but she's mastered the art of faking it harder
And harder until she's breathing hard, its believable. You might wonder
Why her smile never breaks, it's
forget yourselfDear J,forget yourself7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I thought I saw you today. It scared me; a cascade of butterflies erupted in my chest. My body lurched and my long-legged chair screeched like an out of tune cricket amidst the orchestral warm-up of the coffee shop but no one, no one noticed--no one noticed you. And no one saw the shade of fog that overtook my eyes, the hollow, haunted shade; like a tear on the cheek, the look that took all afternoon to dry. Are we both invisible?
the cynic's love songI will not write love poems becausethe cynic's love song6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stars and laced fingers and deep
kisses make me sick. Because dawn
doesnt blossom and the night
always ends. The pillow loses its scent and feathers.
I lose myself in closets, waltzing with skeletons.
The sky fades from violet silk
to rough gray wool filling my throat
until I choke. I will not write love
poems because my soul aches for release,
but there is none. The grass
browns, the trees turn to skinny sentinels, watching
through sleepeyes. Life becomes routine
until I dont notice where my feet take me.
I love yous fall on ears full of cotton balls
and the echo never comes back. I will not write
love poems because love is a baby
growing in the womb of the world:
this time we cannot bear
the weight of it so we walk to the clinic
wearing black sweaters and shame
in the set of our lips. I search for anything
to make me dizzy and forgetful.
I search for anything to touch and never
get farther than my breasts and stomach.
Sleeping SongsSleeping Songs8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I had a sister once with
hair like wildfire
tangled like young
She had a boy once with
eyes like moons,
great brown moons
that lit the dark
of the halls he walked
as he made his way
out our heavy front door
toward that beat-up station wagon
escaping as the morning
was just turning rosy round the edges
already missing my sister's lips
pretending he had never come]
When silence falls from dark blue walls
[and the lights have gone out in the halls]
We will build a fort of blankets overhead
As friends dream frantically and our
flashlights threaten to give us away
I ask and you smile
and we kiss for awhile
[without thinking once what if ______ wakes up?]
Bodies like maps laid out on the floor
has never traveled outside his city walls
with no cinematic ending or music swelling
or any passionate affirmation of any true-true love:
:we simply turn the flashlights
The Portrait[975 words]The Portrait7 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
You see, its hard to explain Jonathans words formed a small puddle on the expensive, imported carpet next to the shattered corpse of the china vase. His down-turned face was painted in shades of red; the light hue of guilt brushed across his checks with two bold strokes of embarrassment for eyes.
It cant be that difficult, just come out with it.
He didnt mean it, Daddy-- Emma tugged on Fathers sleeve.
I'm talking to Jonathan. Father removed Emmas hand from his suit. Don't speak.
I-I heard Emma shout from the kitchen and I thought she had gotten hurt so I ran to see what was the matter and on the way the vase fell over, he said hurriedly, his shoulders slowly hunching and his palms facing the ceiling.
You ran. Fathers eyebrows fought over the territory between them. &
It's okay to have cheesecakeI get overwhelmed quickly if there's too much of something,It's okay to have cheesecake7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That's why I steer clear of long lists
I hate Dora the Explorer.
We like TV, but it doesn't make us happy.
So why do we spend hours in front of it
Instead of doing things we like?
TV is a narcotic. We're addicted.
I'm compulsive. I inhale food.
I don't want it. I'm not hungry.
I need more.
I have no self control.
I act on impulse.
If I want something, I need it now.
I'm obsessive. I have intrusive thoughts
About death and scary images.
I stayed up late to watch a show that I thought would be good.
But I still watched it.
I like even colors, numbers and days of the week.
Yellow, green, orange, white.
2, 4, 6, 8.
Thursday, Friday, Saturday.
It doesn't make a difference though.
It's just being irrational.
I complain about washing dishes.
But I don't mind it.
I sort the dishes in a certain way.
Spoons, forks, and knives first.
Little plates, medium size plates, big pl
My Broken MirrorYou are my broken mirrorMy Broken Mirror7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and once I picked up all your pieces
and I once tried to place them all together
but now I realize that I like them
shattered and sparkling
because when I cast my image on you
you throw it back to me
at one hundred different angles
that I never would have seen
Hippie Lesbian GirlShe don't care for me,Hippie Lesbian Girl8 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
Half as much as the trees,
I've heard she's a lesbian,
Guess she won't play with my pen,
She likes animals and plants,
But won't let me in her pants,
I don't care about the environment,
Just wanna dance in fields,
I don't care about global politics,
But I'll sit and watch you spin,
Crazy hippie lesbian chick,
Oh won't you be with me?
Hippie lesbian girl,
Oh how I watch you twirl,
From the window in math class,
While you check out Jane's ass,
Hippie lesbian girls, they don't like me,
They're afraid of STDs
Hippie girls don't like pesticides or razor blades,
Lesbians won't let men give them AIDs,
But I'll love you; yes you'll see,
But hippie lesbian girls,
They don't like me!
I don't care about animals,
Or how the world will explode,
I don't care about green house gas,
But knowing you do makes me smile,
If not even for a while,
Hippie lesbian girl,
Oh, won't you be with me,
I won't give you STDs
monsters aren't human.whispering the headlines of last saturday's news, he's rocking back and forth, back and forth to the sound of laughter collecting with the rain water. mornings of splattered paint and scrambled eggs fill his life like he filled so many hearts. saving his last breath for later, he smiles instead. maybe simplicity is what we have yet to learn.monsters aren't human.6 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
"i'm a monster in my own skin. and monsters aren't human."
sinking ships and shrinking waistlines. she's a mess. all tooth aches and flyaway ribbons of jet black hair. she's the girl with the sharpie markers drawing aimlessly on undamaged skin. in her room are pictures of her failed perfection along with the posters of sought after measurements. she's the girl that was a best friend to someone.
"i'm a monster in my own skin. and monsters aren't human."
empty alleys and broken glass bottles once filled with anger. he's the father with washed out eyes and dead dreams. paycheck to paycheck, bottle to bottle. the eff
This Was ConventionThis is a test. No, not so much a test like, check check, one, two, three, but an experiment of sorts. Like the first potato clock or when teachers decided to demonstrate the use of condoms on bananas instead of the fully erect penises of hired male models. I am not explaining this properly. Worry is a troubled girl. The entirety of the Universe breathed a sigh of felicity when she was extracted from her mothers womb, entering existence in a burst of blinding light and a gurgled scream, rice paper skin and dental floss hair. Not literally. That would be terrifying.This Was Convention6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Her birth name wasnt really Worry. She acquired it in high school after a series of anxiety attacks and mental breakdowns and et cetera; thought the world was going to end every day. She was so conscious of everything self-involved: had to justify every action she took, every sentence she spoke, like some unseen audience was judging her. Shed skip school for days at a time, forging her father
she lost her facethe postmanshe lost her face6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is at the door again,
delivering her face;
she puts it on
and smiles. She paints
her nails the color of the
sharpens them to points, grows bear teeth.
the children run;
it's not just the leaveslast autumn i spent an entire afternoonit's not just the leaves6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on my back in the grass waiting for a falling
leaf to drift downwards into my open palm.
i was convinced that there was something
special about being the first to hold on to
something that had never touched the ground.
i pulled my eyes shut and tried to make a wish
but when i opened them it was spring again and
i had forgotten how to believe in something that
was heading towards the ground anyway.
EdgeSometimes I want to tell you you're uglyEdge6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
so you never talk to me again.
I have all the symptoms of a fever
without the temperature to justify one.
I don't know the color of my father's eyes.
I don't care, he's not my friend.
Today I wished I'd never dream again.
I can't sleep.
I can't sleep.
I can't sleep.
Get out of my head.
The Yellowiest DecemberShe was atheist andThe Yellowiest December6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he was a painter who
believed in everything
and the world, the glories
it held, endless fountains of
knowledge to be obtained.
"It's an amazing situation,"
he mused, running his hands
through her red hair.
She believed in asbestos,
that it was her favorite
color and he believed that she
needed more things to believe in.
He ate cranberry sauce while she
read him poetry about cats and disciples
and classical compositions and the
relevance in it all. It
was all he could do to say, "Wow,"
staring at the sky, effusion of clouds
draining, pouring out before dispersing.
Her blue flower dress smelt of
chamomile and tulips and she wore a
yellow chrysanthemum in her hair, his
head rested in her lap, her breathing
Flash cards and timer reminders on
PDA's kept him remembering every
little nuance. "This cupcake is in
celebration of the fifth time
I kissed you and made you blush."
She blushed again before becoming
flustered. A mental note, Twenty-fifth
Asking Men OutI am an intellectual.Asking Men Out7 years ago in Other More Like This
And I also floss my teeth.
Das Kapital is a comic book.
Nietzsche should go watch 'Annie Hall.'
Keynesian economics is a good contraceptive.
There is a Jeff Koons in my bedroom near my
It is shaped like your watch and it means
something about sex
and a bath mat
I once knew.
And there are clouds. And there are clouds.
And there are clouds. And there are clouds.
There was an artist that painted me the whole sky
and then said that I had ripped it apart
piece by piece. Everytime I said
'I'm not ready.'
'I'm too young.'
'I'm too needy.'
There is a hole in my heart the size of your fist, but
with a tiny piece of metal that you
ripped of your father's car.
I gave my teacher an apple.
I gave my friend a flower.
I gave my head a pill.
I use repetition to distill boredom. I use repetition
to ignore the main facts of existence.
Sometimes I even use repetition to avoid getting
I am an intellectual.