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
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 Life6 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...7 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.
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-Righteousness8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
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 World8 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
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 Bar7 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,
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
Sleeping BeautySleeping Beauty12 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
citiesCitiescities7 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
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
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 Hostages8 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
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.Weightless9 years ago in Biography & Memoir More Like This
I keep looking around for a tall blond s
Letting goLetting go8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
At the end of a frazzled rope hung a man, daggling by a few blistered fingers and a little hope. He looked down, staring into the black abyss below, wondering if it would hurt, and if there was a bottom. Only a half an inch, he slipped, but it felt like forever in an instant. He breathed again. In short, quick bursts, as sweat beaded his brow.
The rope wiggles a little and looking up he sees her, knife in hand, slowly sawing and smiling. I know you said you loved me, but I thought I told you good bye.
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.Lucky8 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
Living with A.D.D.Living with Attention Deficit Disorder (A.D.D.)Living with A.D.D.7 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
RevelationRevelation9 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."
A Matter of InterpretationA Matter of Interpretation7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
"I'm sorry, if I'd have realized you were coming tonight, I'd have prepared a more substantial demonstration." The Professor addressed the Investor nervously, moving piles of notes and abandoned test equipment out of his way.
"Your message stated there had been a significant development." The Investor stood unaffected amidst the chaos, collar turned up against the chill of the room, gloved hands clasped behind his back.
"Yes, we've made an exciting advancement." The Professor ceased his tidying, and strode to the corner of the room, hefting a small wooden shipping crate from a half full pallet of the same. Stepping over the clutter, he carried it to the middle of the curved array of alloy beams that seemed to be the focal point of the laboratory. The structure itself was easily half again as tall as he was, resembling a giant sectioned orange, exploded and suspended in mid air. He deposited the crate at the approximate center of the array, and stepping beyond its perimeter he began to
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 I8 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
The EmpressI believe in Gravity,The Empress6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but not in you.
I have seen
the way you let lies float
from your throat, out of your
empty mouth. I have seen
The way your eyes flash, like
a storm in August. I have seen
you take my trust in your hands
and suffocate it, like a baby kitten.
The HouseThe House8 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
Potato ConfusionRight now Freddy is sitting in his trailer, scratching his head and holding a potato before his eyes.Potato Confusion8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
He's been like this for days now, staring at that potato. He's fascinated with it. He doesn't know what to do with it.
His friends still drop by every once in a while, offering him advice and moral support, saying things like, "Still staring at that potato, Fred? Well, hang in there!" "Potatoes are my favorite vegetable!" and occasionally, "(You're supposed to eat that.)"
Fred just waves them away with an irritated grunt. He doesn't hear them, his concentration is too powerful.
Memoirs of John KeatsMemoirs of John Keats7 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
The Memoirs of John Stiffpocket Keats
The name is Keats. You call me by no other name. Tis the name of my dad, my dads dad and all the other dads down the line, yknow? Tis that one name that I go by. You call me Keats or I sock you. Right there. In the kisser. Hah.
Kay. Now lets get down to business. I hang around at the White Daisy pub with my mates. We call ourselves the Big Six. Were the maddest badasses in downtown London.
You gotta meet Percy man. Percy Shelley. Hes the man! Hes a bit of an idealist he says. Bullshit. Hes just Shelley to us. Ditched his wife because his ass was lonely he says. Cant get no rear action from a lady. Barges into the pub he does. Joins the Big One, thatd be me, and we become the Big Two. Damn right.
Then came that Coleridge fellow. Smoked up a joint, got us a discount on the drinks after smacking up the bartender. Hes alright. Real fine fella.
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 feeling8 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
WhispersAnd ( shhh )Whispers7 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 coffee8 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