InsomniaDreams. Nightmares. Unforgettable nights of longing for the things so far away. For the things that scare me. Pleasant tales of love, overthrown by stories of hell itself - all unfolding around my bed. My red sheets are the bloodstains on the gray wall one night, a bouquet of roses the next.
What are dreams? Imaginary places of make-believe happiness, as if some form of natural prozac? Realms where fantasy is pushed beyond the borders of our very imagination?
I can't tell. I don't want to. My dreams are chapters of the book of my life, they're the red ribbon on the edge of the next page. Never managed to do much reading with my eyes open. Why, God why, would anyone want to live in something as shallow as reality?
Being awake is torture. It's a red car flashing over the gray asphalt, it's the fast lane with me behind the wheel - pointless and fatal. I never got my license, you know. And for good reason; I don't want to control things. I don't need any kind of control, all I need pure fr
The End of the World Henry called them the "barefoot days." Their shoes came off the second school let out for the summer, and they remained off until school began again in the fall. Every day was just the same and every day was completely different. No day was ever boring. They were at that perfect age when everything was always good and nothing bad ever seemed to happen.The End of the World9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This was a day just like the rest of the summer days. Or at least, it started out that way. Riley and Alex came stumbling up Henry's front porch at the same time they always did. Henry's mother had already set the kitchen table with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, made just how they liked. Henry preferred his with an even amount of each spread and his crust cut off. Riley liked more jelly on hers, with just a thin layer of peanut butter. She liked the crust, but insisted that h
Day in the LifeYou wake up, forever bound by the ringing chords of the shitty pop punk blasting from the radio. Rubbing the last vestiges of some god-awful nightmare from your eyes, you roll out of bed, and shut the alarm off. The sun hasn't graced the sky just yet, pink dawn looming closer. It feels like you've just fallen asleep. Glancing at the clock, you realize that you had, in fact, just fallen asleep.Day in the Life7 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"And so life continues," you mutter bitterly to whoever the fuck out there that cares. The cat looks up, eyes you with amber orbs shining with mild disinterest. He goes back to sleep. "Lucky," you say, scowling at him.
You stumble, sleep clinging to your step, out of the room. Once in the bathroom, you glance at the mirror disdainfully. Yep, same reflection as always, perhaps a tad more disheveled. Short hair arranged in not-so-careful disarray, a spot of acne or two, and weary red eyes, ringed with evidence of a medley of stress and insomnia. Nothing can be done for the eyes, you decide, and att
Because...Kovah Setters, Sophomore, HomeroomBecause...8 years ago in Children and Teen More Like This
Most people say that homeroom is useless. I find it relaxing, though. Its an unproductive period, but its a good place to think. There isnt anything we need to do in homeroom; just sit there and wait for the bell to ring. I guess I take comfort in the moments with no obligations, the moments people mistake for wastes of time. Todays homeroom is quiet as usual. People are always sleepy when they get here. One kids even got his head down on his desk. I look at my own desk. The words, Life sucks, are written in blue ink. Why? If it was so important to point out, I dont see why the person couldnt be more specific. I take out an eraser and miraculously the words disappear beneath the pink shreds. Youre not supposed to write on the desks, but I pick up my pen and write on it anyways. If youre going to write on it, might as well be something important.
Sleeping BeautySleeping Beauty13 years ago in Horror More Like This
I can see him coming even through my closed eyelids.
He gets closer and closer to the bed, panting like an animal from the hundred steps, and I can smell the sweat and dirt come off him in waves that make my nostrils flare. But I stay perfectly still, keep my eyes sealed shut. He comes to me, and his dirty fingers explore me, spreading his filth all over my clean body. How can he?
He doesn't notice at all where my hand rests.
Over me he breathes hard and pulses, and I hate him for it.
The first was to supposed to be the perfect one, the pure. I wanted him to be so... perfect. But he wasn't. He scratched my face with his dirty, unshaven cheeks, and bruised my skin with rough fingers. He ruined my dream. What could I do but wait for another?
Finally he gets off me, let's me breathe again. He puts my heels together, and smoothes out my dress; they all do that, as if they think it makes a difference. Then, as if to seal the deal, he goes to kiss me, and I can smel
Open Mic Night at the Jazz BarThere is a reverent hush down in The Jazz Bar for a quiet rendition of we are nowhere, and its now. It seems, for three minutes, that this could almost be true, until the house lights come up and the compere returns and all is forgotten in a swig of red wine.Open Mic Night at the Jazz Bar8 years ago in General More Like This
Then He climbs onto the stage, with a borrowed guitar. She twists in her seat and says they used to be together, until the previous Thursday, but the rest is lost in the cocktail of voices, laughter and clink of ice on glass.
With little introduction, his song begins. An original, he says, an angry one to start with. Thick with accusation, his deep sandpaper voice tells a recent lover to go on and run away, and with every chorus she twists a rope of hair tighter and tighter. Her eyes at first twitch across the room but then stare, resolute, as he reaches his crescendo; singing of how he wont miss her Sunday nights, her politics, her clever words or her party dress,
Addicted to Self-RighteousnessJames Hairston is clean, and dont you forget it. He gotta drive us all over everywhere, just to prove he can. Orders his coffee caffeine-free, aint never had a drink or a smoke in his life. His damn station wagon has so many bumper stickers on it. Proud to be smoke-free. See Dick drink, see Dick drive, see Dick die, dont be a Dick. National Alliance Against Drug Use. Even D.A.R.E. Hes like a health teacher, back in junior high. That marijuanas bad for you, Bill. I care about your safety, and its going to kill you. I can help you quit. Shut up, man! Whys he even hang out with us? I heard his fiancé, Paula, is a smoker. Whats he doing marrying a smoker?Addicted to Self-Righteousness9 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
A Writer's Manifesto.I am your neighborhood whore of self-assurance. I am your lock-lipped student. I am every angst-ridden teenager, every heart-aching mother, every boy with a bass guitar. And I am a writer.A Writer's Manifesto.7 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I know the strength of the pen and the impact of digital words. Ill tell you of abandonment that Ive never suffered, of love never lost, and touch Ive never felt. I know the sensation of inspiration struck at midnight, of swallowing native ideas, of embracing a language of words never spoken. Im every sick child you picked on, every boy you cheated on, every adolescent brave enough to pick up a pen, every person who had the guts enough to make a difference on paper. Im what you wish you were in a place you want. Im alive in the red glow of lamplight, I breathe in the scratched ideas on a diarys blank pages. I know the envy of talent surpassed and the anger of muse lost and I use everything you toss to the garbage as my ink.
Im every song you hate
citiesCitiescities8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
The view from her apartment window made her feel lonelier. She saw the thousands of twinkling lights and the apartments of hundreds of others, and felt separated from the world. In a desperate attempt to recover her wholeness, she closed the blinds and played some Bach.
The world is always simpler with music.
Born in some other time and raised among the flowers, she wasnt made for cement cities. She wished a vine would reach her window, but she knew plants didnt grow that tall. The colors of her pillows imitated the gardens of her youth, and made her happy and forgetful of the grey of the skies. She bought a cactus to keep her company, and planted it in a yellow pot.
The colors of our childhood dictate the colors of our soul.
The yellow painted cat smiled at her with clever eyes. It couldnt hu
One of Her HostagesI'm being followed. She has it in for me, and I know it. At least I know who I'm dealing with, despite the fact that I don't know how to handle her. I know exactly who she is. She's beautiful, but absolutely cruel. Though she can be amazing and fill even the most downtrodden soul with a certain breed of unexplainable happiness, she can also drive the happiest man alive to suicide. Her colorless eyes see nothing, as she was born blind. She has multiple personalities, but in no way does she have a disorder. It's simply in her nature. But no matter what she is at the given time, she's always dangerous. Her name is Love.One of Her Hostages9 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
She's held me hostage before, though I can't say I wasn't content with it. Love even had a strange way of making me smile. I was stuck in her tight grip, but it didn't really matter. Somehow, nothing else mattered when I was with her. It was just the two of us, dancing in this prison cell. I wasn't bothered by my captivity, for I was the downtrodden soul bathing in a certa
Who Are Not You And IGather all of your pretty suicide things, Sylvia. Lace up your boots, smooth your crinoline and tie up your hair.Who Are Not You And I9 years ago in Post-Teen (Mature) More Like This
She crouched in tattered ribbon outside his door with her eyelids factory-sealed as he pulled her in by the hand. She did not open them again until the Chinese New Year.
They fell together like a puzzle and he stroked her hair and said her name in many languages. Lazy tongue, running letters together so exquisitely like bee blood honey. He tasted familiar like cigarettes and unfamiliar like rebirth. A praying mantis who would not pray, puffing clods of infant spiders into the air with every draw of smoke.
Is this mine? stomach piercing notion like the poles pinching together the earth. Can such cunning ever fit into my hands? Will it burn me? Will I crush it?
And so she held him in her hands. And so she was burned. And he was not so fragile as he looked.
Ted and Sylvia sat nose-to-nose in the breakfront and unhinged their hea
Surviving HerShes trying to drive me crazy. I know she is. There is no possible way that this is incidental. She stands there, pushing her hair gently behind her ear, taking drags off those nasty cigarettes of hers, and she looks so bored with everything. And then she smiles at me. That would be the beginning of the end.Surviving Her8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
She climbs into the car with me and sings off-key to every fucking song I used to love. Then we get home and thats when the real wild times begin. I cant watch movies without wanting to fuck the lead actress. Listening to music with female singers is a death wish for my afternoon.
Since she moved in five months ago Ive learned so much. Ive learned that the sky in fact is not blue. Nor is it really up. Ive learned that its not necessarily obvious that Arnold Schwarzeneggers face in Commando HAD to be pai
Living with A.D.D.Living with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.)Living with A.D.D.8 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Although I was nineteen before I was actually diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.), I knew that something was preventing me from performing as well as I could on standardized tests and in essays. Yes, those two areas were where I struggled most and still struggle most in my life. I never scored very high on those standardized tests, but did well enough to escape much notice from those in education. I also did not do too well on any sort of essays or long papers, but did well enough there to avoid much notice. I never knew that I had something that was affecting my educational performance.
Only when an English professor in college grew a little concerned did I realize that maybe there was a reason for the way I performed in certain classes. She knew I was a good student, but I always did a little below average in my essay writing. She was the first one t
Lucky I was always one to take the lucky things. I pluck four-leaved clovers from their brothers by the juicy stems, I pick pennies off the street and scrape the tips of my fingers on the sooty gravel, I wish on feathers and eyelashes and dandelions. There are five rabbit feet strewn in corners and crannies about my house, seven outnumbering the lipstick cases in my purse, and a large green one that dangles morbidly from my rearview mirror. There is a bamboo plant in every room of my house except for the closets, because they died when I put them there. There is a horseshoe on my front door.Lucky9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
My husband left me for his coworker. My eldest son died of leukemia. My computer has been destroyed by viruses on three separate occasions. Last week, when I was making toast, the toaster caught fire and charred a section of my cabinets.
Yesterday, my remaining daughter was in a car accident. I shuffle with my back bent through the hospital parking lot
The HouseThe House9 years ago in Spiritual & Occult More Like This
Jessie was sitting in front of the computer, working, when the scratching sounds first crossed the threshold of her consciousness. The noises were slight, and she stopped typing to cock her head and listen. Nothing. She went back to her typing, sure that she had imagined the faint scratching. The house was quiet except for the clattering keyboard. She had just moved into this house. The only furnishings in her three-bedroom residence were a couch, a chair, two end tables, and a coffee table; her bed, a dresser, and a folding table beside the bed; and her computer and computer desk. No television and no radio for background noise, since she hadn't yet bought them. She liked the solitude and quiet and was in no hurry to make those purchases. For too many years she had lived with noise and confusion. It was nice to be able to sit and enjoy quiet surroundings instead of the clamoring chaos of her former home.
Finding this house had been a boon. Sh
WeightlessNineteen with a nervous stomach and a dry mouth. I keep myself occupied by reading the drink menu over and over until I can taste the alcohol in my mouth. But, no, that's not really alcohol. That's just the acetone on my breath because I haven't eaten all day. Yesterday morning, as I conjured up an image of you based on scant descriptions, I decided that my thighs were too wide for your supposed party boy preferences. That is why I am sitting here dressed in black, stomach growling, reading about a martini that I probably won't even order when you finally arrive. A friend on my right keeps calling me Morticia and I suddenly feel like one of those shabby women at funerals that wear frumpy navy dresses with lace collars. I should probably leave before you see me. That way you won't be disappointed when you realize the girl in that picture hanging up in that dorm room only appears flawless thanks to an inebriated amateur photographer.Weightless10 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I keep looking around for a tall blond s
RevelationRevelation10 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
"You can see what sort of predicament I'm in," the detective sighed. "Twenty-four, female, tall with black hair, literary. Sure sounds like you, doesn't it?"
"Yes," the suspect huffed. "But your theory has one glaring problem."
"And what's that then?"
The suspect looked up from the table.
"Well, dad, I was at the lesbian bar last night."
Maurice Eugene DobsonMaurice Eugene Dobson, aged forty-three years and two months, is standing in the middle of a car of the A train, on his way home. He is not holding onto the pole: he stands off to its side, swaying slightly with the movements of the train, but balanced perfectly and seemingly without effort. He never holds onto the poles. He takes pride in being able to maintain his balance like this, although he knows its not the sort of quality anyone else will appreciate, and its not really something you can put on your résumé. Too bad.Maurice Eugene Dobson8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He is a small man, though he prefers the word diminutive. He is five feet, four and a half inches tall in his stocking feet, and slightly built: his clothes hang on him as though bewildered to have such an insufficient resident. He wears pressed khaki pants, their sharp creases billowing several inches forward of his knees; he wears a stiff checkered shirt and a navy blue suit jacket with a single gold button that is somehow incongruous.
senses poemsSenses Poemssenses poems7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
1) meet it halfway
when hope finds you it is yellow,
and it is underfoot, leaves crackling
like a spine,
and the earth cries it out,
spilling it from the green-smelling
tree branches, and it is
pacing around your room, hands
quivering with prickly words and sweltering language,
exploding stars inside its mouth,
and you expect to see white and gold glitter
fall through its lips, but
there is nothing; and
when you open the door, metal in your mouth,
it turns around and reaches
2) that other organ
the bluejay hits your window with
his wings spread out, eyes open,
and you listen for the sickening
slap and the smell of your window
slipping up with feathers and blood,
trying to hold onto the small blue
and the bird is the red-stomach curls
on the tip of his head, and the bird is
every endearing little girl asking you to
be the other sack of tissues and nerves
on her see(sea)saw, and the bird is every
old man who tugs at your ears with a sick
WhispersAnd ( shhh )Whispers8 years ago in Open More Like This
I believe that if you are
and still believing
That you will hear
an empty memory,
a soft song
from the sea.
Roses, spring and bad coffee Spring had come again. Robins, rain and flowers: the whole affair.Roses, spring and bad coffee9 years ago in General More Like This
Winter, however, didn't get the memo and continued to harass a small country-town. For almost a week, winter's lone dark cloud had taken residence, pelting the townsfolk with a constant drizzle (the cloud saved on water so it would last longer). Jack Ardent didn't mind the weather; his mind was on other things.
Today is February the 14th.
"Wallet, phone, keys, Pod…" patting down his trench coat, Jack made sure everything was in the right pocket. He was glad there wasn't anyone around to see his odd ritual; part OCD, part bad short-term memory, it was (in his opinion) wholly embarrassing. Locking, unlocking then relocking his front door a third time, Jack glanced at his right hand; the Casio's quartz glowed 6.45am.
"Keeping good time Jack, it's still half an hour to 7."
Jack walked in the light rain, skirting puddles and keeping his head down (he hated gettin
claycowardice runs deep, like a rich vein of redclay8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
through the bottom of a Colorado river.
so I gathered that clay, scooped it up in my hands
and packed it, carefully, over my face
until it covered every inch; and my lidded eyes
were merely dents in the thick tan façade.
this was cleaner
than the traditional, Oedipal method
of blinding oneself.
alone, the clay
was not enough. I stayed inside
the house, too, under cover of a sturdy blue roof
that cordoned the horizon
because out here there is too much sky
to hide from.
and I ignored the phantoms
still flitting in my ears,
because they spoke of the kind of roses
that wilt and melt in the rain, dropping their petals
to storms and in truth I sometimes think
they look even more beautiful
that way, spreading and curling and darkening
into decadence, like glorious pink-frosted cake.
but I dont want to be weak
sometimes, when we watched movies, Id scratch
tiny eyeholes in the clay, so I could see
just a litt
The Tinder and The FlameThere once was a flame who loved a bit of tinder. The tinder didnt know that flame loved her. On one especially dark night, the flame summoned all of his strength and approached the tinder, alight in a glorious blaze. Before the flame had a chance to spread his radiance, the tinder spoke out.The Tinder and The Flame8 years ago in Children and Teen More Like This
The tinder said, The weather is much too warm and you are far too great a flame. What use could anyone have for so hot a flame?
But the flame needed the tinder, for without the tinder the flame could never burn his brightest. And so the flame waited.
The weather grew colder and the flame began to wither. He grew smaller and smaller, and with every day that passed he needed the tinder more and more. When the flame could wait no longer and was about to flicker his last flicker, he returned to the tinder.
The tinder, shocked at how small the flame had become, said, You are far too small a flame for such frigid weather. What use could anyone have for a flame so diminished?
heavenIt seems like every man's always been looking for heaven.heaven9 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Like a kid playing hide-and-seek with someone they've never seen.
From Zoroaster to Nostradamus to Hinde… And I'm sitting here, it's two o' clock AM and I'm sitting here, watching this evangelical show on television.
I have a secret.
Delilah said she wanted at least a day with me. That my being gone at the hospital every day was leaving her lonely- and that she'd die of loneliness.
She swore it as she tugged on my sleeve the morning before, grinning and stepping back.
She says she just happened to realize that it was a rather sunny summer, and that the country side surrounding our home was simply marvelous.
Happened to realize. It's funny how she happens to do these things. But I realize I'm sick of the smell of sterile sorrow festering in my nose and in my mind, and that a day away from the hospital would be great.
I got a day off, it wasn't a big deal.
What really gets me is how these televised preachers always talk abo
just a feelingI step off the bus knowing that I'm nothing. I walk threw the door knowing that there's no one waiting for me. I open the icebox knowing no one will care. I live my life knowing I'm not there. To them, I am a burden. I am the flaw to their paradise; the scratch on their windshield.just a feeling9 years ago in Horror More Like This
I pull open the drawer that I know holds the solution to all my problems. If it means giving up, then surrender I shall. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend I'm happy with my friends, I can't pretend I love my life. This hurt in my heart is like vine that's grown its roots into my lungs, spilling into my stomach and wrapping around my hope. Its awful tendrils crowd into my head making it hard to think; hard to see past this place. It's hard to pretend you're something that you aren't. It's hard to love someone when they don't love you back. It