bipolar hearts.we use to watch Fight Club together, because she said that it made her feel a little less alone, and i could never reply so i held her in my lap.bipolar hearts. in General Non-Fiction More Like This
and she told me she was kalea's dizzy mind.
and in real life, you would think nothing of anything really, because she watches the birds fly just like you do. the morning rises on the same side of her window, and she can watch the clock tick away hours, just like you.
and she told me she was kalea's spinal cord.
i watched her pick at her fingernails for too long, and always decided i would leave as soon as they started bleeding. her arms are full of scars where she thought she felt something crawling up her skin, only to find she was still alone. i told her i was here, but she turned over(and i can still hear her uneven breathing)
and she told me she was <i>
messages.it's twenty degrees outside, and when he breathes into the air, the smoke spells sex.messages. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
but not the loving kind, the kind where taking a shower just isn't enough to get the smell of him off of me.
he's all wrapped up into disney movie, magic shit. when i know that he is just some dirty subliminal message, and i'll get sucked in.(but i'll tell myself it's not my fault, because my sub-conscious should be more aware, and i'll pinch myself to make sure i'm sleeping.)
i know that's not right. (anything to keep me asleep)
if and when he holds my hand he squeezes 3 times, and that means "i love you." and i am aware that i should squeeze back 3 times because that is just courteous to do. but for some reason i squeeze once, and that just means, "okay."
(there is this part of me that wishes my subconscious could catch
watching you spin.you're a disco dancing, drama queen with dirty hair and the permanent smell of stale cigarettes. but god, are you beautiful, twisting and dancing under circular lights,watching you spin. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
and vomiting when you're done.(acid does some crazy shit)
your hair was once blonde and beautiful like your eyes, but now it's laying in clumps almost everywhere, because you fucking pull out a strand whenever i'm around, i don't know why i do that to you.
but i never really ever offer to leave, either.
there's that one song that i always hear you listening to, it's the same old shit about love and loss and never being able to forget that special someone, i use to get mad at you for giving in to such conforming types of art.
but now i just let you go, because last time i actually made you cry.
"would you rather fly, or read minds?" i told you i'd rather read minds, and know what everyone thinks, because you can fly on a plane anyday, but no one ever thinks the same.
lightening bolt eyes.he has lightening bolt eyes and one fucking killer smile.lightening bolt eyes. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
let me introduce you to whom i call "fire-fly."
he has ice white skin and something about the way his hair falls that makes me wish mine would conform to such a beauty.
looking at you for so long makes me feel. Really feel.
he calls them fire-flies but i say lightening bugs.
fire burns hot against his skin, and i can feel the heat in his heart
but lightening bolt eyes can destroy you.
but god, it's so beautiful first, but only at first.
he calls me his "freckled girl" and i call him my heart
and he says that i shine underneath the sun
like it was made for me, and only me
but he has telescope eyes, and those can see to the stars.
he has razor blade hip bones and they stab into me while i dream
lightening bolt eyes and freckles like stars
and in my bed at midnight is the perfect galaxy
and for a second we make one constellation
still.one.still. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
her name is alice. there is a slight blood stain on the valley where her lips part, and her eyes are two supermassive black stars that can't show anything but hurt. she can't bring herself to look in the broken mirror puddles that are all over the ground.
(and i don't blame her)
she borrows her mother's raincoat because it smells like home. not the homes that are flooded with laundry soap or soft candles burning in the family room, but more like the paint she spilled on the carpet, or the whiskey on her father's breath.
(and sometimes, she swears she can smell her mother's sadness.)
when alice was little she remembers playing freeze tag with her mother. she remembers feeling anxious, and now she feels sick. "if daddy touches you, stay still, and don't make a sound."
william.dreams make him vomit.william. in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
he has spider-leg fingers and eyes so cold they could stop your heart.
(and they will.)
every night william goes to sleep knowing that someone else is waking up with his only friend, and he wishes he could brush the honey-stained hair from her cheek.
(not the man, who can't even spell love without cheating.)
william dreams at night.
his spider fingers are creeping up the jagged edge of her spine. her skin is the color of milk, and lightly freckled. william keeps her safe, and has made a tiny door, where he keeps her in his heart.
(he wakes up next to an empty pillow, with an empty feeling)
william writes a book in his nightmares.
she is in every chapter. her legs stretch across every page, and taunt him with sex, and things that spiders are not allowed to touch. she holds
Life's Like An Hourglass......glued to the table.Life's Like An Hourglass... in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He was tired. He was always tired these days; between the chemo, the meds, the fucking fighting for his life, he was exhausted.
And it never seemed to end.
Life was hard, getting the best of him these days. Most of it was spent alone in a quiet apartment he shared with no one. Most of the things that had been important to him had stepped back - not gone entirely, but just far enough away that their faces seemed blurred, unrecognizable.
Looking back on it, it made sense and the more he'd learned over the years, he understood why it had happened this way.
He would never have imagined him thinking it then, in his youth, but women dealt with shit in a way totally different than men. They tended to stiffen their upper lip and face life head on, for better and for worse.
He remember all too well, her leaning against the bright red monstrosity that was her car outside of the hospital: him out of his first bout of chemo and feelin
MelancholyMelancholy in Horror More Like This
Most tiresome and scintillating pathways
Toward endlessly intoxicating lights,
Glow longingly for better days,
And the want of a nail for horseshoes rotten
With the taste of blood and the steaming scent of regret.
A purple eye and blood-stained thigh,
And something better, maybe soon.
A punctured heart and knotted veins,
And telltale signs of wishful thinking
For love in the morning, and the lights on at night.
Rehab for Roleplayers - IntroWelcome to Rehab for Roleplayers, a series of articles aimed at helping roleplayers more successfully make the transition into writing fiction.Rehab for Roleplayers - Intro in Articles & Interviews More Like This
Introduction: How to Spot a Drow Illusionist
I can identify a habitual roleplayer from fifty paces. Those who've been spooked by my asking whether they're a roleplayer within ten seconds of reading their fiction will know what I'm talking about.
"But how did you know?" they gasp. When I'm done chuckling, I explain that I know they are a roleplayer, because they write like a roleplayer.
There's usually a pause, then, while the writer decides to what degree they're going to feel offended by this statement, and/or wonders whether I've been stalking them, before they pose the next question: "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"
What I mean is this: roleplayers almost invariably share the same basic writing habits, and some of these habits stand out as flaws in their non-RP material.
Many people develop their interest in writing
Swish-CthunkSwish-Cthunk in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Today I went down to the Bureau of Words to trade in my autumn onomatopoeia. Usually I put it off until at least the end of November, but this year the squelch-thud of my boots in the mounds of soggy leaves brought me up sharp. I went home, gathered my dry snaps, crackles and swooshes, as well as the cheerful spthooshk of a water balloon left over from August and headed down to the department. The rain hurried down to meet my umbrella, an excellent winter sound for which I had no words. But that would soon change.
The stooped man at the front desk greeted me with a finger to his lips. "We're running the barnyard tests, so we've got to be very quiet. Get me?"
I nodded. Fortunately, the entire antechamber of the Bureau is soundproofed, so my rubber soled boots made no sound on the white carpeted floor despite leaving a great deal of mud.
"What do you have in mind for me today? I'm here for the seasonal trade-in deal."
"Well, we've got snow falling on cedars, rain dripping into a puddle o
9.11 is...9.11 is... in Philosophical More Like This
The day I died
You were listening to the hand stains slapping against skin
The day you died
I was executing an electronic rythm with it's corpse
To explain the way I enjoy hand wrapped sponge cake
Would be...practically inpheasable
Light and dark is starting too
bring us down, wouldn't you agree
Eh hem...turn off the lights will you?
To say my head is hurting
Is the equivelent to saying
We all have aquirred a taste for champagne
Which is not as good as it sounds
dArama - ISSUE ONE - Love.dArama - ISSUE ONE - Love. in Editorial More Like This
The dynamic between core staff, volunteer staff, and the community can at times be pure quality dArama.
It's worth noting that for years I've worked pretty hard to remain neutral on community politics. Today, I'm going to shatter that concept.
Needless to say, I am extremely politically aware of the inner workings of the deviantART community. I read *a lot* of journals, comments, forums, chat rooms. I have fake accounts. I spy.
But I don't spend my time talking politics, instead I focus internally at deviantART designing technologies and implementing understandings with core staff to address the issues I see pop up.
It's time to take a moment to be a bit more petty.
In the inner workings of our politics exists the soul of deviantART. What is this place? What was it meant to do? What does it do? What could we do better? And it's the politics that give insight into how well the greater plan is running.
There's $core staff who are employees or contractors and work 8+
By the Hand of BastBy the Hand of Bast in Short Stories More Like This
With the last hieroglyph finished, Wati set aside the scroll he had been working on. He closed The Book of the Dead and ran his hands along the cover. Despite the fact he wrote these words on a regular basis, never had it been so hard. Ra had long since disappeared for his usual voyage, and the wick of his lamp was nearly burnt to the end. As the flame died its orange glow was replaced by the ghostly light of the moon filtering through the linens that covered the windows and door of his small hut.
On either side of the doorway, stood the shadows of two pots. It had been many days since Tiankhit had left him, but still the barley continued to grow. Wati had so hoped for the emmer wheat to sprout first. Like all men, he wanted a son, but had come to love the idea of his daughter just as much. They were overjoyed when the first leaves pressed their way up through the dirt to tell them the news of their child, and the days passed with excitement as they waited to see if they grew to be bar
Pawn of Wizards - Chapter 1Prologue Pawn of Wizards - Chapter 1 in Fantasy More Like This
Archwizard Lerrin Tocsell looked up from the work spread across his desk at the sound of the soft knocking. There, standing in the doorway was the portly shape of Stefan Ostwick, nervously ringing his hat in his hands as he looked into the tidy office. As the Arcane Brotherhoods Chief of Messengers, Stefan was responsible for the safe delivery of its goods, both magical and mundane, between its many buildings and outposts. Lerrin placed his quill in an inkpot with one gnarled and shaking hand, and affected his warmest smile.
Please, do take a seat, Master Ostwick, The Archwizard rose partially from his own seat as he spoke, his back protesting slightly as he gestured to one of the chairs on the other side of his desk. And many thanks for taking the time from your busy day to cater to an old mans needs.
It is no bother, Archwizard. The jowly man went wide-eyed as he spo