Margaret and Frank, A TragedyMore than anything, Frank desired the love of his parakeet, Margaret. Her bright yellow feathers had first caught his eyes at the Great and Small Pet Store on Third Street and at that moment, his heart was spoken for. When she opened her beak to sing, he thought he had gone to heaven.More Like This
"Surely the sirens are jealous of her songs," he whispered to no one.
He returned every week after that, watching Margaret jump and sing from behind the fish tanks. Even distorted by the murky water, she was so wonderfully beautiful. He had to have her. $26.99 seemed like an insult to Frank who would have paid thousands (he didn't have millions) to bring her home. "Maybe she'll forgive me for paying so low a price," he assured himself.
Nervously, his hands shook as he handed the perplexed shop keeper two crumpled twenty dollar bills before running out with the caged, yellow object of his desire. His change, completely abandoned,
THE UNDERWEAR MAN"Hello?"More Like This
"Hi, my name is Buddy and I'm a representative of Smith & Winston Enterprises. We're a company that conducts surveys geared towards females and feminine products. Do you have the time right now to participate in a short survey, miss?"
The voice at the other end was steady and professional. I, too, work for a company that makes phone solicitations, so I immediately sympathized with the guy, figuring he had goals to meet and people to please. They probably wouldn't let him go home until he reached a certain participation percentage or something of the sort.
"Sure, Buddy, question away."
"Great! Thanks. How old are you?"
"Okay, and what brand of underwear do you wear?"
Poor guy. It takes a brave male soul to call up women and ask them about their underwear. I figured this job must have been his last resort. Perhaps he was laid off at his other job and had children to feed.
"Exactly what kind of underwear is it? Tho
OCR is Not the Only Font"I love you," said the android, clasping her hand from across the table. "I love you and that's that."More Like This
Anna sighed. She had already tried to explain so many times. "I'm sorry," she said. "There's just no way."
"But it's true! I know they say machines can't love, but maybe..." musclefiles\pleading.facemap took a second to load. "...maybe there's just never been a love like ours."
"I think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself. Maybe..."
"Please," he said, "just give me a chance. You mean everything to me." He tried to squeeze out a tear, but realised he had forgotten to refill the cartridge. He knew he shouldn't have milked it that time he stubbed his toe.
"Look," she said. "I'm as open minded as the next person, but..."
"Just forget about our differences for a moment." He didn't really have anything to follow that up with. What did humans find romantic? The café had wi-fi. He could Google it! Then again, there were some things even robots didn't want to look at. Best just wing it
Sharing is CaringWhen I saw her I could feel my heart go flutter stop. Flutter stop. Flutter stop. Even out. My heartbeat returned to normal. Her red hair was the 3rd most popular model. Her figure was much more delicate than my own, and she had beautiful brown eyes that had been the most popular model of the season when we were made.More Like This
I watched her walk by, my heart doing the flutter stop flutter stop thing before I got up. I had just gotten the news a few weeks ago. That my heart was malfunctioning. The wrong one had been placed in my chest cavity, it was too small to support my functions. The woman stopped in the café's outside seating and sat down, waiting for the waitress to stop by and take her order.
After the waitress had left, I picked up my coffee and approached her, tucking my purse into my side and pausing by her table until she looked up. I gave her as smooth of a grin as possible. Her skin blushed, pale features lighting up as she smiled back. She had a small gap in her front teeth, a
The Root of All EvilPeople always talked about killing Hitler. "If you could go back in time and kill Hitler, would you?" The answer, resoundingly, was "Hellz yeah." Until now, however, the question had been entirely hypothetical. Fredersen was the first person with the opportunity to actually do it, but Fredersen had bigger plans. He also had no intention of setting foot in that machine himself. He had once sent half an avocado twenty minutes into the future just to test it. He didn't know why it had re-emerged as a plasticine walrus, but he sure as hell wasn't going to stick his head in to find out.More Like This
"Robot!" He clapped his hands to summon the device. It was a cheap one. He had little money, and if this worked he would have less still. None, in fact: nobody would. It would be worth it, though.
The robot wheeled towards him. "Please enter command." Its voice synthesiser was truly terrible: like nails on a blackboard, if the blackboard had laryngitis and was trying to sing Carmen.
"Your job," he
StainsRing ring.More Like This
My father wakes from his nap with a jolt. "Someone answer the damn phone," he yells from his La-Z-Boy, tilted back in full recline. TV light flickers against his four-day beard, his annoyed expression.
He cranes his neck back to yell again, but stops, mouth half open, eyes widening further than they had in months.
Everyone reacts to pools of blood and entrails differently. Some run, some scream, some do both. My father? He froze, every muscle and brain cell paralyzed.
He'd later claim that it wasn't fear, but a survival instinct, gifted to his subconscious by ancient ancestors who once stalked through thick forests, spears in hand.
"I was stayin' still so they couldn't see me,' he'd say tersely and the conversation would be considered over without ever establishing exactly who "they" were.
My father wasn't hunting for anything but an excuse.
We knew this because whe
The Tragedy of LanguageI want to write a word, one or two syllables, to speak of everything in the universe. It would perfectly describe how infinite a grocery store felt when you were young, and at the same time the color your father's hair when you realize that you will live on without him someday. It would bring to mind a dusty attic and, just as strongly, an insect buzzing on a hot night. This word would mean everything and it would be perfect. As I flip through the dictionary now, I'm only reminded of the inadequacy of our current rations. We are starving, but this word could be our feast.More Like This
Perhaps I just don't know how to use them properly, these words. I fumble them out and try to make them into some sort of sense, but all I end up with are reflections in a dirty mirror. No one knows much about me. How could they? My words are blaspheme to my feelings, a failing that, daily, falls from my mouth. Why even
A Deal Concerning the DarknessSo we made this bet, him and I, that whoever died first had to go up to the Devil and ask him if his refrigerator was running.More Like This
You see, we would have done this in our current life, but we weren't sure of the Devil's phone number and the operator only hung up on us when we asked. I think she thought us to be making a prank call on her expense.
She flatters herself; we have bigger fish to fry.
So anyways, I die first. We're climbing an old oak tree which arches over the river. The branch breaks, the water splashes, and I quickly learn how important oxygen is to the ongoing beating of my heart.
When I was on Earth I was always hearing people ask what death would be like. Eating a cake, I would tell them. Dying is a lot like eating a cake. That way when they actually did die they would be immensely disappointed when it was not at all like eating a cake, but rather much more painful. We would meet up in the after life and I would ask with a gr
Of 325 and 326Imagine a Robot. Created to look like you, think like you, and share in your memories.More Like This
Imagine this Robot killed you and took your life as its own. Nobody notices.
Not your parents.
Not your friends.
The Robot doesnt even know. It simply believes it is you.
Eventually the Robot shuts down. The Funeral proceeds. The Robot is buried with a tombstone engraved with your name. The sun sets and life goes on.
Tragic? Unfortunate? Perhaps a little scary?
Too bad because it is happening as we speak.
Except for the Robot part. We are not so lucky.
Allow me to elaborate.
"Your bone cells replace themselves in a rapid exchange, resulting in a brand-new skeleton about every two years."
"In one year, 98 percent of the atoms in your body will be replaced by other atoms. "
"Stomach lining - new every 4 days.
Liver - new every 6 weeks.
Skin - new every month."
What I'm trying to get at is this...
You better be nice to this Daniel...Danie
How To Say GoodbyeDear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;More Like This
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. Th
.R.A.P.E.My older sister is very pretty, her name is Elena and her hair makes me think of chocolate.More Like This
Im not sure how old she is, but Mommy sometimes says Teenagers these days in a quiet voice, so I guess she must be very old, but not as old as Mommy or Daddy.
Elena is very sweet to me. She reads to me before bedtime, and always lets me choose the book. On picture days at school, when Mommy is too tired to get up and make me look pretty, Elena gets up and does my hair just like hers, so I feel like a big girl!
But ever since Elena spent the night at her best friends house, she has been very quiet. She isnt so sweet anymore. Elena is always looking off to the side, and her eyes arent so shiny now, she never even reads to me now, so I have to go to bed without a story, she doesnt even care when I cry.
I think that she might be sick. But Mommy says that she is going through a stage, I tried to tell Mommy that Elena was not a stage, she was a girl, but
Ouran- Pink Ribbons and Ice CreamThe whole club is out on a day trip, and there's a boy at the table next to them who is looking at Haruhi.More Like This
It's not a bad look, per se. The kid is about their age and he lacks all the features of a stone hearted thug. He's just a regular high school student from Haruhi's side of the tracks. He stammers like a child when he asks her for the time, and tells her he likes her shirt (her shirt?). Haruhi thanks him and gives him the time in her same old blunt manner that has shut down so many suitors with far more of a chance with her than this fellow. He murmurs a thank you and wanders off, defeated.
The rest of the club is engrossed in a story Hikaru and Kaoru are telling about a fashion show they attended last summer. They never notice the boy at all.
But Tamaki did.
He watched him approach and he watched him ago away with his tail between his legs, feeling something deep in his chest that he wouldn't understand until much later was satisfaction
Dear TeacherIn Year Seven:More Like This
You were my geography teacher.
I really hated you.
Loathed you too.
You gave me bad marks
And shouted at my larks.
You were the enemy.
In Year Eight:
You became my form tutor.
You were our fifth.
We were determined to
Break you like the others
And get onto the sixth.
In Year Nine:
You saw the angry red vents
Carved into my skin.
And I let you in.
In Year Ten:
I lost it all.
You were there,
Fighting for me.
You made me care
About my future.
In Year Eleven:
We made each other laugh.
And in the end
You weren’t just a teacher;
You were my friend.
Ouran- Fragments No. 16REFLECTIONMore Like This
This bar on the side of the road is a miracle. Real alcohol springs from the taps, though Kyoya knows better than to do more than smell his drink.
He is the only patron with such reservations. Those who aren't slamming themselves into poles repeatedly for the entertainment of their equally wasted friends are plastered over tables, dead to the world and possibly dead period. He watches one man, counts the number of seconds between the rise and fall of his back. Seven seconds is the record.
It's no longer shocking to him, how little death affects him. He's seen it up close, even before all of this. One of his earliest memories was the funeral of a relative, their name and his relation to them long forgotten. He remembers the casket being carried into the furnace, and the swirling black smoke that carried into the heavens. It reached for a god Kyoya never truly believed in, and faded against the yellow sun as the world spun on, and no Saviour's hand reached down to take
Ossuary Oubliette - Ch1 DraftYou can see everything, and can therefore see nothing.More Like This
For a moment you try to make sense of all the light and colors around you, but this endeavor fails, so you focus instead on your other senses and let your sight work itself out in the back of your mind.
It is loud. There’s no blaring or wailing, but there’s a loud murmur of voices and clinking glasses and sounds you don’t quite recognize—one of them might be music. You feel the murmur as much as you hear it, and a word comes to mind that you think you should know the meaning of: “ears.” You remember shortly, though it takes a moment of meditation. You must not have those, because you can hear the laughing and the static in your body, in your limbs—
A passing thought kindly reminds you of the colors blue and white and violet before moving on to the place where your eyesight went to work itself out.
—speaking of your limbs, what were they for again? How many were there? You can’t
Flying GirlThe girl with the tall striped stockings and the ruby slippers is always high on life, or maybe something stronger. She likes bluebirds and Alfred Hitchcock and all the women who come into the candy shop during her shift say she could look like Dorothy if she’d braid her hair. She says she would if she thought it would get her to Oz. Meanwhile the bluebirds outside her house ask how much longer she intends to leave the feeder empty.More Like This
The girl with the ruby lips and the bright, shining contact lenses can’t always tell the difference between her pill box and her candy bowl. She slips one into her pocket when she slips on her white petticoat in the morning, and the other when steps outside to hear the bluebirds’ bird calls and cat calls. All the women who come into the candy shop during her shift say she looks like an angel and she says she could use the wings.
Sometimes at night she wonders what it would be like to fly, and the bluebirds in her bed say they’ve had
Piano in an empty roomMoving out.More Like This
In the living-room, only the grand piano remains,
black and shiny, like an insect
trapped on the ground, one wing extended
as if trying to fly right before death caught up with it.
The sound would be different now
with no furniture around,
no books to soften the notes,
no rug to dampen the low vibrations.
I never learned to play
and now the piano seems to epitomize
the black bulk of my regrets...
On a whim I sit in front of it.
I let my fingers flow as they will,
my mind wonders
and I drift away for a while.
After I don't know how long, I stop.
The sound is different in an empty room...
and with a trace of excitement I realize I had something there.
Later that day, when workers came to pick up the piano, I just sent them away.
"I'm gonna keep it" and didn't back down before their protests.
I will place it in my next apartment,
in an empty room,
so that it sounds different
UndercurrentPeople hang lightbulbs,More Like This
made from wire
and amber bottles,
out their windows
and beneath flowerpots.
You can almost see
swimming just below
We are watching
We are watching
on the heart and lungs;
for ink that drifts
through your veins.
We are watching
young men build rafts
and telephone poles.
Waiting for a
to carry them
out to sea.
I Need A SmokeRevival will feel like cotton, muscles loosened to pillows and plush.More Like This
Like that first glass of water, and it's been weeks my friend, many weeks.
I have a face aged by beef-jerky creases; chewy skin folding weathered expressions.
As artificial light curled smoke syringes, the addicts persisted it was
only the glow of habit, the spark of tobacco worming into lungs.
Alien embers torching this new sense of starvation; craving a cigarette.
An instinctual ache for carbon dioxide
Chosen IgnoranceA cup, neglected, catches poison drops,More Like This
as tears, unfaltering, fall in droves from heights
unknown. A cycle none will dare to stop,
as doom's always in mind a looming fright.
Remorse of past memories breeds a death
by stasis. Froth congeals and spills beyond
the lip. It touches ground, miasmic breath
is loosed upon the world. It begs, "respond "
Apathy lingers, handing due torment
its day, a motif worn to bone by time.
Yet, here it's back again collecting rent,
and spent it's, blown away on useless chimes.
A haz'ed path of chosen lethargy
will lead towards a hollow effigy.
Grandson of MoonFearless of the darkest midnightMore Like This
I stride through the shadows that find my path
So much have I endured so far
Though evil haunts my every step
I will not let this dark world control me
And the moon calls me to his grandson
The fierce shadows surrounding me
Are the authors of nightmares for many
They are merely shadows to me
Behaving as they always have
My nightmares go far deeper than the black
And the moon calls me his grandson
As I walk amongst the darkness
I look to the skies for the lustrous one
Waxing or waning, full or new
He delivers the strength I need
Igniting the warrior in my heart
And the moon calls me his grandson
of time and weirwoodwe, who held court with the treesMore Like This
before Andal castles stood;
we, who carved faces of gods,
'lumed in red sap, in white wood;
we, whose dreamings seemed magic,
whose ways are misunderstood...
we are the first ones,
the children of the forest.
our winter's long passed.
WomanKnow that you are your ownMore Like This
You do not belong
to vacant womb
or aging sire
is given you for your own
You were not born to be
a brood mare
Beauty lies not
in the eye of the beholder
Only lust and judgment
can be found there
Beauty, in truth, lies
in the eye in the mirror
If you cannot love yourself
you become a thing
your value set
not by heart
but by the media
You are the final work
of the maker's hand
for man is like the beasts
made from dirt
but you were refined
to look man in the eye
for he is but an animal
and you are the very soul of all
LineageWhy is it that after all this time, we do not encounter Babylonians, Assyrians, Moabites, Philistines, Edomites, or the like any longer? The answer lies in the concept of the LINEAGE.More Like This
father begat son
flesh and mind, soul and spirit
born to reproduce
These peoples were conquered, then assimilated until they ceased to exist. For all intents, their lineage can be considered to have passed away, although their offspring may still remain. But this is not a piece against assimilation. This is about Christ, and how he has set us apart to be a LINEAGE.
though minds may grow dim
the word of the Lord will stand
flesh fails, Spirit reigns
The chronologies and seemingly endless lists of "X begat Y" have long been a challenge for many seeking to read the Bible. But in these lists lie a testament to God's grace, and how his word has endured. These names, who can truly remember what they looked like or what they did? All we know is that one begat the next, who begat the next, and so
PassengersAt the bus stop, jacket locked and droppedMore Like This
Over my thighs
Like rain – skies tearing up
Ready for another blur and b-b-b-blurting out session
Dull midnight highwayman pulls over.
The origami doors fold out
To take me in
And after banter with the bus driver,
Like tea leaves.
The aisle is coated
In Metro and rain d-d-d-drops d-d-d-dropping
Atop heads and webs
And I'm greeted by mistakes
And the braveheart mum who weans
Her baby off the idea that he'll ever
Catch a taxi.
The Queen isn't
In their eyes
Because they're blinded
By business of
And God is at the back,
Trying to s-s-s-speak,
But people put
A muzzle on
Him years ago,
Choosing to flow
Like the d-d-d-downpour
Forward -- Forward -- Forward
Without smelling roses.
There's no time for church
While the sky sh-sh-sh-sheds itself
D-d-d-damp and due
For more dew
Through and through
And the Calpol is almost
SwansStrange how the swans did not returnMore Like This
to the lake that June,
almost as if they knew something
the rest of us did not -
some savage instinct or glorious flaw
christened and drowning in the water.
Their nests had been plucked clean, deflowered -
the eggs all gone,
the water choked thick and spiteful
The dock stood as always - knee deep in reeds
and apathy, the bald wood
showing its age and wobbling.
The tide brought its witness -
the wide, yellow maw of pollen
forbidding the surface to move.
You stood on the shore and poked
the sand with a stick as if expecting
it to to get up and walk away and surprised
when it did not make a sound.
I wondered what you were thinking
while you stared out over the water,
holding your breath like a bucket of stones.
Your lips never moved but I could hear
you talking -
blithe and unseen sounds nestling
in the crater of late afternoon.
And the kites kept their distance
all summer, never noticing the mercury
bursting from the thermometers or how
Nature's SpaI dip my toe in to test the steaming, bubbling spring. So sure that the temperature's just right, I slowly lower myself in; the water level just reaches my neck perfectly. After finding a comfortable place to lean back, I rest my head against the warm, rocky edge leaving all my troubles and worries behind. All I hear is the bubbling hot spring and the forest life surrounding me. I am glad that I found this natural place of peace.More Like This
My tension is gone
Mind, body, and spirit calm;
Steam cleansing troubles.
.literarymovement membership q&aMore Like This
1. When did you first start writing?
I first started writing in the third grade when my school librarian told me that I should consider writing poetry. I took inspiration from Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss, and that is how I got my start!
2. Why do you write?
I write because there is no other way for me to express my emotions. I experience catharsis when I release all my emotions through a torrent of words. Simply put, I cannot live if I cannot write. I do it because I need to, it keeps me sane.
3. What specific area would you like to improve in?
I would like to improve on brevity, and being able to convey a story through succinct language. I would also like to work on mastering enjambment and placing breaks in my poetry at the optimal places.
4. Name at least three fandoms you are familiar with.
Harry Potter, Percy Jackson/Heroes of Olympus, and The Book Thief (Not sure if the last one really counts as a fandom, but I love it and the actress
welcoming the new year with a smile.hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season regardless of what you celebrate, if you celebrate at all wishing you all the best end to the year 2013 and the greatest start to the new year!! thank you all for 13,000+ page views and for sticking with me through this dry spell. i've been super busy with life and hearing good news so it's been a relatively happy break for meMore Like This
hope you've all been doing well and looking forward to seeing your creations in my inbox
. “You won’t allow me to go to school.More Like This
I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.”
Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl
This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous).
The WritersPapyrusMore Like This
Smell it upon thy nose
As lungs of graphite
Breathe in the body
Shapely and refined
Crisp and sharp
Verily it is so
Perchance we will meet
Our souls are black
Rotten to the core
Of our third eye
Dost thou see it!
The bright shining light that calls to us
Flow like water
What music doth flow
Muffled and silenced
By its cage of wood
We shall never break free
Smell our stench of determination
Hear our mutter ramblings
Taste our words as we force them into your mouths
Watch as we carve our creations
Chisel and hammer
Dance little puppet!
Dance for us!
Do our bidding
We are your Masters
We shall last forever.
We are the Writers.
Staring towards Sadness.Waiting by image of reflective selfMore Like This
Spotted through flaking window pane
Yellow tulips or was it sunflowers
Wilted or dying hanging limp head
Often wondered if vain
Curved downwards lips painted blood
I mirror become Facestealer
Smiles on her skin
Creating white paint
Cradled by clouds thrust downwards
Darkness all around no golden beams
Sadness of my childish heart
Watching no acting blink blink
Carved rose bloomed flat
No blue high no blue high
Move not sorrow keep still
I know not her name
Maybe...it is sadness?
the artist.01.More Like This
the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you. try to make some friends?"
dear mom, i am trying
i played chess with a man in the park
i helped a girl find her parents
i am content with who i am, mom,
now i am just trying to help others achieve the same.
i ran into the artist again today
and he taught me how to paint
and then he smiled at me and said, "you're different than the rest."
we made plans, me and
a siren's song.her ribcage burst into flowersMore Like This
as her lungs swam to sea
and the world was silent
-like a film set on mute-
as it watched her dance
into her coral grave.
she grinned and laughed
and all you could hear
was the metallic scraping
of her tongue on her teeth
as her coppery laugh
fell into the ocean-
like a penny onto concrete.
her hair was a tangle of seaweed
drenched in brine
and adorned with salt flecks
that caught the sun in waves
crashing along the shoreline
in the treble notes of symphonies.
ensnared in wanderlust,
she ran towards the current
in hopes of finding herself
among the lost.
she wore fish-scales
on her clavicle
and sung her way down
to the bottom of atlantis.
the ships out at bay that day
only remember one thing:
she sunk like the titanic,
her bones tearing at the seams
and all that remained of her
were two hands
(whose knuckles were mountains
and skin was land)
receding into the curls
as the earth drowned into the sea.
and there was nothing left on the horizon
I Pinky PromiseMore Like This
Let us talk for a little while
And let me make you smile
Let me take you out every night
And you will be the best sight
Nothing can compare
Because I love you I swear
My Bi SideWhy do I have to lieMore Like This
When i'm asked if i'm bi
Why do you have to judge
And keep a stupid grudge
I just want to be me
Is that too hard to see?
Finding My WayMore Like This
You have your opinion and I have mine
But don't go bashing me all the time
I have feelings can't you see
So please just let me be ME
What Do You Say?More Like This
I know you have been hurt
And treated like dirt
But let me show you
That my LOVE is TRUE
A KissMore Like This
Under the stars
We share whats ours
A kiss here a kiss there
A kiss to show you I care
The Ballad of MulanThe sound of weaving, woman's chore--More Like This
Mulan weaves on before the door.
But now the shuttle's noise is drowned
By Daughter Mulan's sighing sound.
"Who, my girl, is in your thought?
What memory has your mind caught?"
"No one is in Mulan's thought,
No memory has Mulan caught.
The night before, I saw the post
The Khan sent out to build his host.
In scrolls of twelve did they proclaim
The characters of Father's name.
But Father has no eldest son,
And Brother's not the eldest one.
So I shall buy a saddled horse
To take his place among the force."
Now to the East for valiant steed!
Now to the West for saddle's need!
Now to the South to take the reins!
Now to the North, the whip remains!
At dawn she bids her kin farewell,
At night she camps by Yellow swells.
No cries from family find her ears,
The Yellow River's flow is all she hears.
At dawn she leaves the Yellow waves,
At night those mounts of black she braves.
No cries from family find her ears,
The neigh of foreign horse is all she hears.
I Warned Him...I warned him. I told him not to go into that house I told him several times that he'd sorely regret it if he didn't listen to me.More Like This
You know what he did, though? He laughed at me. He said I was nothing more than a stupid little girl, that I didn't know anything. He even pushed me on the ground, laughing even harder when my dress got dirty and I skinned my knee. That hurt a lot.
I should have stopped warning him after that... I really should have just let him go into that house. He called it a stupid, smelly old house. He said that he knew it was empty.
He was the stupid one.
No one in the town said it was empty. No one spoke about the house. They knew better than that.
He always thought himself better than everyone else. He came from the city, he's seen it all. He almost got hit by a car and survived. He could ride his bike on the edge of the sidewalk and not fall off. He could roll down any hill and not get scraped. How could a stupid, smelly old house hurt him?
Stationery Pt IStanley loved stationery.More Like This
He loved the way it smelled when you stripped away the crinkly cellophane wrapper. He loved the Spartan beauty of an unspoiled pad of paper (A4, plain, 80gsm). He loved the sound of a cap crisply clicking onto the top of a Biro. He loved the texture of a freshly-sharpened pencil and the flake of the finely-honed graphite point. He loved gazing over stacks and stacks of untouched Post-Its, each a perfect square of yellow, an army of ideas awaiting orders.
He loved everything about it. Stationery was neat. It was orderly. It was always needed, easily replaceable, and something that everyone can appreciate.
Stanley reckoned he had the best job in the world. Working in the post room of a three-storey insurance company, Greenlight Insurance, he was at the very nexus of stationery for the whole building. Letters would come in crumpled, dusty and worn from their journeys; and go out crisp, freshly franked and printed, ready for the adventure ahead. Deliveries of new
If I Were a PoetIf I were a poet I'd spin you a lineMore Like This
An embroidery of words etched in silvery twine
A tapestry woven of rhythm and rhyme
And stitch it all up with each tittle and jot
If I were a poet but a poet I'm not.
If I were a poet I'd cook you a stew
A lyrical soup, a most nourishing brew
With couplets for gravy and iamb for my rue
And boil it in a pentameter pot
If I were a poet but a poet I'm not.
If I were a poet we'd take to the seas
With paragraph sails and a literate breeze
And sail on our starship to far galaxies
We'd keep captain's logs of the treasures we sought
If I were a poet but a poet I'm not.
If I were a poet I'd write you a page
Full of musical wisdom so rhyming and sage
A verse to let open the door to your cage
And give you the taste of the freedoms you've sought
If I were a poet but a poet I'm not.
How To Ask Someone To Let You Love ThemI think you keep secrets under your skinMore Like This
like trees keep rings and do not know it,
like the sea teems,
like dark and quiet space
keeps every ray of light
the stars whispered to one another
when they were still young
and dying to make love.
I think you keep secrets in you
like the desert keeps sands,
like sleep keeps dreams,
like cities keep sleepless people
and people looking for sleepless people
to fall asleep with.
I think you keep secrets
like secrets like to be kept,
and I want to learn them all.
The TranslatorMalena was born on the third of April, a heady Aries and a talented translator. She only waited for so long before she put her foot down and took charge of her destiny, riding it like a child of the sea would a dolphin.More Like This
She began her job with diligent care from the moment she first awakened from the drowsiness of the very young and into the slow comprehension of children. She first translated her own simple thoughts to the world in an agonized cry - 'I'm hungry! I'm hungry!' - first in the Spanish words of her parents and then repeated in the strange, native Tupi dialect of her Mestizo nanny. The dark-skinned woman had gasped in fear and tried to cover the child's mouth before any of those of the house heard and fired her for teaching Malena to speak the wrong language. But before she could even reach out towards the tiny mouth, the great wooden doors of the child's room burst open to admit Malena's fiery, proud mother. 'She speaks! Oh, she speaks!' the Spanish lady cried, waving a whi
We Were Angels"Mermaids, sirens, they don't exist," the grizzled old sailor said.More Like This
"But you saw what happened," the cabin boy insisted. His dark green eyes were wide and a bit teary; he was only twelve, and it was his first ocean voyage. Seeing a man climb over the rail and lose himself in the waves had shaken the boy up, though what was most disturbing about it was the look of bliss on the man's face as he leapt.
"Charlie was always loopy. He made himself see what he wanted to see and he jumped in after it." The old man shrugged. "We come from the sea, and it calls to us."
"The priest says we come from dust."
"Your priest has never been out of sight of land, I'll wager." The old man leaned forward and dropped his voice. "When we're born, salt water comes with us. Women have the ocean inside 'em. It's because we all used to live in the water."
The youth frowned. He brushed a lock of sun-bleached hair out of his face as he wondered about the ancient tar's sanity.
"We were water angels, you see. But Go
The Witch and Her FamiliarThe witch and her familiar sat in the open field, hunkered low in a hollow in a desperate attempt to stave off the bitter cold of early winter winds. She wore a long black cloak fastened at her throat with a pin made from a raven's claw, and her dark tresses glistened with dew in the frosty moonlight.More Like This
"The moon is waxing," whispered Fox through chattering teeth. "Soon it will be time for you to go dancing."
The witch gazed at him briefly, hooded eyelids hiding her reaction from him. Each full moon brought a night of wandering and reveling with her sisters, and Fox complained bitterly when she returned to their bed with muddy feet in the morning. She suspected that his comment was not a mere observation of fact.
"Aye, Fox," she said, turning away to gaze across the grass towards the treeline. Suddenly she stood, striding across the field. The fox scampered after her, bushy tail held high, nostrils flared in the wind. He could smell it, too - the scent of woodsmoke acrid in the winter ai
Thirty Three Percent"What are you doing?"More Like This
"I think I finally figured out percentages."
"We learnt those in the third grade."
"Yeah, but we always complained that we'd never use them in real life."
"And you know how to use them in real life now?"
"Eighty four percent."
"That's the percentage of how many basketball matches you lost to me when we were kids."
"That's not fair! You're taller than me!"
"Fifty two percent."
"Is that how much taller than me you are?"
"No. That's the percentage of times you speak out of turn and get into trouble for it."
"Twenty three percent."
"Let me guess, that's how much I annoy you?"
"That's the percentage of times your mother told you she loved you when you were a child instead of the amount she should have."
"Seventy nine percent."
"I don't think I like this game anymore."
"That's how much of your heart loved that guy who broke it so completely callously."
"Look, I'm serious. Stop."
"That's how sure you a
The Beggar's Gift (A Love Story)She wandered the shadows of the streets day and night, face hidden and a frayed basket in her hands. A beggar. Shunned, she became like a bit of dust in the breeze, lost among the many faceless passerby. But she would not be deterred. Her task was one worthy of determination, it was too important to be left to chance.More Like This
For she was not trying to get, but to give.
The beggar bore the basket before her as if it were made of spun glass and it was only her sheer will power holding it together. She offered it up to any gentlemanly face that came her way.
“Please sir, will you take this gift?”
But those few that did not pass by her wordlessly, simply gazed at it momentarily before unintelligibly muttering what she presumed to be an apology and continued on their way.
“Please sir, will you take this gift? All I ask is for one in return.”
Each day she tirelessly asked her question, hoping that one day someone would accept.
Once there was a man. He stopped, peering in the
Merry ChristmasSnow was slowly falling on the city. Small, shimmering flakes of winter were covering rooftops and pavements. They colored human hair in silver, melting in their breath. It was Christmas Eve in London, Veille de Noël in Paris. Christmas.More Like This
Despite the late hour and the snow, the streets weren´t completely empty. People were rushing home to their families, to visit a friend, to church to pray, or just walked hand in hand with loved ones, enjoying the carols coming from nearby stores. Children were chasing between stands of Christmas market. Scent of mulled wine and chestnuts filled the air.
Angel looked thoughtfully at people with sky blue eyes, his golden hair curling in the wind. Today, he once again came to see how people celebrate the feast of peace. As every year, he walked through the cities of different countries, silently admiring glittering decoration.
This year, his visit of the world was almost over. He never used to stay than until the midnight Mass, and it was startin
The Origin of the InternetThis is the story of Compudites and Internedes great gods of knowledge and communication. It is a story of their love for each other. It is a story of their betrayal at the hands of Hermes the messenger. It is a story of Internedes' destruction at the hands of Zeus. And it is a story of how, with the help of Athena, Compudites was able to be together with Internedes once more. It is the story of how and why humanity got one of the greatest resources ever known the internet.More Like This
Compudites was a kind and gentle god, frail and limited in power, but boundless in intellect a patron of sciences, mathematics, and technology. He was the guiding hand behind many of humanity's technological breakthroughs throughout the millennia. But just as technology and discoveries in the maths and sciences depend on others to spread them, Compudites was forever dependent on others to spread his knowledge. Hermes the messenger was one, swift like the wind, he helped carry messages between th
The funeral GameThis is not a dreamMore Like This
This is not a hallucination
This is far worse than a nightmare.
You are now part of the funeral game; everything you do is no longer in your hands. You are a pawn and everything that's about to happen to you, is not happening for a reason.
It's happening because they think its fun.
The maze in which you are now entering is filled with many others like yourselves, and what it was made or controlled by is beyond our comprehension. All that you need to know is that your life comes down to a roll of the dice in your hand.
You cannot win this game only loose, and there is only one way out.
Because this game was not made to see if you could beat it, or to see how much you could take. This game was not made for winning; it was made so they could watch you suffer when you failed.
You are now part of the funeral game.
You have one life remaining.
Star Dust.When Pop died, he'd already put his last affairs in order. The money was divided up equally among his six children, (most of) the jewellery was donated at his request and the house was to be sold to repay his final debts. We each got something by the end of it.More Like This
"To Anjulie, I leave one of my most prized possessions." Though Tante Doralee read the will, I heard it in Pop's crinkled voice, smelling the words as the smoke of his cigars. "The bullet they pulled from my chest; I added the chain so I could carry it with me as a reminder of the horrors I've survived. Take it with you to the furthest reaches you travel, as I know you're headed for the stars."
He didn't know I literally was, and at the time, neither did I. Doralee dropped the piece into my open hand, adding under her breath, "If you ever lose this, no one will forgive you."
I wore it through my training in the Air Force, and I kept it around my neck when I test-f
The Silo Complex"You won't believe what I just saw in the field."More Like This
I sighed at Eloise in the doorway. "Another dead raccoon? How big was it this time? You know it's just maggots, right?"
"No, that wasn't it. I saw a man."
"Was it John?"
"It was a man, but it wasn't really a man. Almost a man."
"Almost a man?" She had recently taken to wandering in the fields under gray skies, thinking that she'd find her answers among the abandoned farm equipment and rows of dried corn husks. She never did. Just raccoons. I never heard anything about men who were almost men. "How can someone be almost a man?"
"Never mind. You don't believe me."
"Just tell me what he looked like."
"He looked like smoke."
I didn't realize what she meant until the next day when a woman who was almost a woman appeared outside the back door, peering through the window. She was in the form of a woma
Inhuman Resources: Chapter 1Cloud ComputingMore Like This
"Yeah, Dobe," I replied. "Start it up."
The portable generator chugged hollowly for a moment before finally rumbling into life, a brief green flicker from the computer bank announcing its success. A curl of exhaust issued forth, and to my nose seemed to fill the whole office block with its petroleum stench. Even this, however, was nothing compared to the sensation that accompanied it; subtle, but far more potent.
The computer had not been switched on for some time, and a number of scheduled tasks had accumulated. In my mind's eye, I perceived them, though the screen lay cracked and broken on the floor: toppled, no doubt, during the evacuation all those years ago. Nevertheless, though mute, though silent, the computer spoke, and I listened. Almost imperceptible beneath the heady drone of data streaming through the air, I could feel a faint whirr from within my ribcage and a dull warmth from the cable running up through my neck. The machine had begun its work
SouvenirsWhen her mom went to check the mail at breakfast, she returned with a thin box in her arms.More Like This
It was a package from her father.
Her dad was sort of like a traveler... at least, that was what she assumed he was. His job always had him jumping from city to city, country to country. He'd been to almost everywhere around the world, and every few weeks, he would send her a letter with a little souvenir from his stay. This time, it was a miniature Eiffel Tower.
So he's in France again, she mused, studying the two-foot tall replica. A small chuckle escaped her lips. It was about time he remembered to get it for her! He really should've thought of buying it six visits ago. She opened the small envelope attached to package and read the letter inside with a fond smile. When she finished reading, she stood up and excused herself from the table. Her mom answered with a sad smile as she nodded.
She raced up the stairs and headed for the Gift Room. It was a special place in the house just for h
It's All Been ArrangedMore Like This
The place is pretty rundown. One small, dirty fan lightan insect graveyardprovides the only source of light in the room. It casts a dim light on the piles of hoarded junk that line the bare concrete walls; they've been pushed to the side just for us. But junk or no junk, there's a surprising amount of space in here, even with the king-sized bed that stands in the room's center. It's almost an inviting sight after today's events, despite its broken springs and mystery stains. Sure it's not the honeymoon suite I'd been hoping for, but considering our honeymoon funds were "borrowed" for today's wedding, it's a miracle my husband and I have a bed tonight at all.
How does the saying go? Beggars can't be choosers?
Hands clasped, I start to rock back and forth on the balls of my feet like a giddy four-year-old, desperate to lighten the atmosphere. "Well, here we are!" I chirp.
samsara time dissolves material things for you.More Like This
for me it scrapes at the tight heartbeats of childhood
it patterns the senses
and carves new synapse for my sorrows.
fear not though my dear - we will together
roll in other waves, on other days
ii. Sleeping (dreaming/coping)
sometimes I wake to the hidden nocturnes – rustling
sometimes to the day’s first birds – high in the willows
the dawn births their silhouettes from the darkness.
mostly I am here, thick in the silence – stagnant and still like a loch
swollen to the memory of things
faded teacups, the bare wire of the washing-line
iii. Economy (of daily memory)
dusk, me. the old granite-quarry workers day is complete.
Fords throw up ochre dust along the roads
back to town
to neon bars - they herd in like tired sheep
to moan away the relics of the day
but since the Note - all actions are altered - something lost
along that slow corrugated way
FacesChemically mistaken magic, temporarily trappedMore Like This
Buried in constructs of image its wrapped
Endless endeavor to discover the truth
We magnify marrow and sift through our youth
Analyze everything that we ever were
Presently contrast to what we prefer
Create an illusion and put on a show
Forget all the truth that we've hidden below
MaraudersI reason art to beMore Like This
What birds sing on cold
Mornings; how they must
Suffer for their song.
Yet in warm rooms we
Maraud as poets, and
Fear that a shiver
May end us.
After White NoiseSome poems never start, rather,More Like This
They are subtle, and
Always there. An
Ending frees worms to
Go on eating dirt. Sometimes,
Men trade their insides for
Straw; they scare from
Empty fields, and share
Apples that fall from
Every journey ends without
Alarm, every blown tire
scatters a bit of ourselves
On the road. We remember
Fondly, the lost
Limbs that brought
Us home. After white noise,
I found dad in the yard,
And he shared an apple
ChrisHe always had the penchant for the poetic and the photographic. His Twitter profile had the following words: Bare in the forest, pen on the page, note to a key, and a dream on a cinema screen.More Like This
But for what we could have become, it was never to be.
As with all things significant for me, it started on the Internet. On Facebook. On Twitter. I volunteered, somewhat bravely, to be a mentor to a bunch of first-year journalism students. They were fresh out of high school. I almost wish they could read my mind. What they think journalism is will be forever shattered by the first year I had just endured.
But there's always an exception to the rule. Chris. In the 2014 first-year journalism group on Facebook he was asking questions, running polls, cracking random jokes. He amused me. I stumbled across his Twitter account, and with stalkerish ease I gathered more information about him. He was an actor, a photographer, a musician and a self-published novelist. He modelled for
MyopicMore Like This
An ant ascended the first time from his hole
and saw nothing but gray,
the earth and its mysteries obscured behind a fog.
"Surely my tunnels are all the world," said he,
and returned underground,
and thought no more of it.
And this is man a hundred fold!
This is man, and this is me.
I speak of The Big Picture as what I see
in a mirror or a microscope;
I know only myself and the merest fraction
of knowledge there is to be known.
The grand tapestry of plans within plans
was not revealed to me,
I see one circumstance and declare "life is misery,"
determined to miss the splendor of a thousand miles of forest
for the decay of a single tree.
What nearsighted foolishness, to say
"The world is this," or "the world is that"
as though the world were anything but a world,
a sphere of light and shade fully owned by neither.
Let "there are no words" be words enough,
and let man's fickle tongue give no more definitions.
A philosopher descended the depths of despair,
and knew an entire universe to be
Be Not My GoddessMore Like This
Let me never say
"I am nothing without you,"
for that would make me nothing altogether,
a hollow creature-
and such a thing can only be a parasite.
Let me never say
"I need you,"
for that is not love.
No man has ever loved opium or heroin,
he despises them even as he craves them.
So I would think of you.
Let me never with shaky countenance and weak bended knee
beg you for anything-
O, let me never grovel!
Let these lips never whisper
"I am not worthy,"
for in saying those words I would make them true.
A secondThe light angles inMore Like This
through the blinds,
crisp and sharp.
The sun keeps burning,
The way and not
my heart keeps pumping.
I put my hand on my chest
in the same room
as all that
feeling the same way
I might feel
in the presence
of some celebrated figure,
the same way
suddenly aware that
I am alive at the same time
as this great thinker,
as that great artist.
The light keeps pouring
it never lets up.
My heart keeps a more
a sturdy privilege,
despite whatever else comes with it.
I mistake the trees
moving around outside
for crashing waves.
has gone quiet
for a second.
It’ll start up again
almost at once,
as if nothing had happened.
I was here.
I bore witness
and already won.
Sometimes You Don't Have to Change the WorldAres is not what I imagined her to be. The great man of myth, muscular and imposing, shining in his armour, with crested helmet and mighty spear, does not stand before me. Instead I face a young woman, hardly more than a girl. She is soft and delicate, with eyes so large they will soak up the world, and skin like spun glass, that glitters in the darkness. A warm glow radiates from within her, not quite visible, but strong enough for me to feel the heat on my face.More Like This
The sound of traffic wafts up to us from the street far below. Heavy clouds block out the night sky, reflecting back the poisonous orange of streetlamps and office blocks. The rooftop is high above it all, and we are invisible. That’s why I chose it, to be alone. The last thing I expected was a visitor, proclaiming to be a god.
“Ares?” I scoff, looking her over with something I imagine to be petulance. If not for the fact that she was so decidedly un-human, and that she had materialised on the rooftop with n
the rape of persephone1.More Like This
when i was fourteen, i learned not
to trust my beauty, my body, and
men. in that order.
ben link lived in my neighborhood, a
year older than me and whiteboy handsome,
straight teeth and dark eyes and a stiff
buzzcut and a virile flexing cruelty.
he would sit behind me on the bus
every morning every afternoon and
tell the person sitting next to me
that he would shoot me if he could
that i was dirty, a border jumping bitch
that the only way someone would ever
fuck me was from behind. transportation
turned into terror.
the ones who seemed sweet, i found, just
waited until the lights were cut. and when
the sun rose and they were done with me, they
returned to polite distance as if the betrayed
tenseness was my fault. silence, encouraged
and enforced. silence, ruled under military
law. for the longest time, i felt nothing.
and then one day i woke up
and everything felt red
because i had been
doing what had
been done to
discarding things once
they began to
a persian gi
Looking With Your HandsEveryone’s been there. As a child, your mom would take you to Wal-Mart, Target, or, if you lived near rich people as a kid, Toys-R-Us. Anywhere with toys. And being a child, you wanted to pick them up, play with them, put them in the buggy in hopes that your mom would buy them. Heck, at that age, you didn’t get the concept of money or buying things with money. You just wanted to play with it. And you wanted Mom to let you take it out of the store. If she said no, some of the braver ones among you would sneak it in the buggy anyway. Maybe mom didn’t notice. Maybe she did and bought it anyway.More Like This
But typically, what would happen? Your mom would catch your greedy hands and say what?
“No! You can look, but you don’t look with your hands!”
That phrase has always held a special kind of irony for me.
I can’t remember specifically when it started. Used to be just a feeling. I would pick up something and just have a feeling that it belonged to someone. Or
the cannibaleyes bright for wildflowersMore Like This
I swear they leaned toward her as she passed
with her boyish gait, a confident stride
she caught me with the absence of her smile
and she thought I was a wildfire
set to burn her worries away
but I was tame
tame tame tame
and she was burning up
she laughed when she realized my still temperament
bewildering the sound, a pretty Sunday laugh
light of heart, balancing honesty's edge
hiding between this duality of personality
her fabricated safe haven
but in the night she asked me to keep her
and for a long time I held her soft body, full of insecurity
to mine securely but her anxiety was an earthquake
I could feel inside her, I could feel the tectonic
plates shifting in her mind and once she'd chiseled her nails
to bare skin she moved on to mine
she held my hands like a wounded bird in hers and she
whispered to them "when you fly, I will too"
yet all the while she kept clipping their wings
with her ner
CharlieI had a stalker.More Like This
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
Resolution Diary2007More Like This
Make first million after starting own business.
Applied for a loan. Declined due to excessive account activity. Note: Constant purchasing of rare (albeit mint) wicker chairs is not conducive to bank balance. Wife insistent on selling wicker chairs to find money to start business.
Bought new donut recipe book. Learnt how to make category hard donut, 'Diamond Swizzler'. Delma loves them.
James offered to lend the money if he can become a business partner. Potential.
First million still a long way off. Wife still nagging.
Spent savings on replacing the roof of the conservatory when neighbor's tree uprooted in the November storm.
Update: Dogs should never be fed over two donuts a day. Next Year's Resolution likely…? Find enough money to take Delma to the vets. And make more realistic resolution idea.
Find an appropriate business idea.
starspunobserving the romanticismMore Like This
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
You'll Never DieHear me read it!More Like This
They say that if a writer falls in love with you then you never really die.
Instead your body is laid out in its funerial shrouds and moulds are made. Soft impressions of you to be pressed onto the blank faces of future loves.
Every time I write of taking comfort in a safe place in a storm, it will be your forearm. Every half-made smile will be on your lips, and every touch will be constructed from the residue beneath your fingernails.
When I metaphise of trees' blood, the leaves that give the energy so that a willow can provide shade for those in need, it will be your blood, it will be your light drenched kisses.
Every tear on every face will taste of the sweat that you put into keeping me happy. Every soaring song of love will be played through your windpipe, your trachea my instrument of choice.
For every time that a hero has the strength to walk on, I will use your feet. I will weld them to my own and walk a mile. Wal
Tight jeans and Theatrical boysI pull up in his dad's drivewayMore Like This
and the boy sitting on the stoop
looks like Saint Exupery's treasured little prince.
When he climbs inside my used Sentra,
I tell him about this quirky realization.
"You're both so cute and opinionated."
He grins and replies that it's his favorite book
to read when life is particularly rough.
Cappuccino sips and playful shoves
convert the evening into something
brilliantly unstable and devastatingly 'teenager'.
I want to kiss him violently so we can stop this
annoying game of cat and mouse.
But instead, we discuss music
and other topics that make me feel childish.
He asks where I would go if I could
teleport myself anywhere at any desired time
and I confess that I'd like to visit
someplace up north with a lot of trees and
not enough people to criticize me.
He nods like he understands but I
wonder if he secretly thinks I'm rude.
Propping himself up on the hood of the car,
he takes a long drink and I watch how his
throat works as he swallows
the caramel mi
Right Hand, Left HandI wishMore Like This
being a lesbian were like
Whenever someone notices
you writing a cheque
or opening a door
And they exclaim:
I wish it were as simple as that.
When it's funny
and I laugh, panicking.
Such stuff punchlines are made on,
that such a casual,
part of myself
has the spotlight shone on it,
And revealed (they think)
their own ignorance,
(How wonderful it is to enlighten someone
And yet I never hear the questions
that logically spring to mind:
"Won't you have trouble with the gearshift
on a car?"
"How do you use scissors?"
"Can you even write
with your right hand?"
I wish all comparisons
Perfect Strangers Club"Step One: Try everything else before you come crying to us."More Like This
The Perfect Strangers Club is a dating service for people who hate themselves. Of course, it doesn't promote itself like that. It's supposed to be a "transformational dating experience" and that sounds peachy at first, but everyone knows it as the dating service of last resort.
The system is pretty extreme. It works like a twelve-step program. Except when you're done with it, you should be a completely different person, or at least have a soul mate. And it's not that the program actually believes in soul mates. It just assumes that if you change with someone enough, you'll inevitably have an intimate connection, like two pieces of candy that melted into each other in a hot car.
Does it work? I've heard a lot of different things. Some people find they get matched with people they really like. At some point, they just start ignoring the program, date like normal, and have relatively successful relationships that
Musical IsotopesOnce upon a time, on a Tuesday, Hydrogen decided to quit its day job and become a country music star.More Like This
“I have decided to quit my day job and become a country music star,” said Hydrogen.
Hydrogen’s job was promptly outsourced to a sweatshop in China. Zhang Xiu Ying, an amateur musician and part-time waitress, was an employee of this sweatshop.
Contrary to the extremely disparaging remarks Neodymium had made shortly before Hydrogen decided to begin its music career, Hydrogen immediately became extremely successful. This was because the televised talent contest Hydrogen used to pursue a record deal had been fixed by the Mafia in order to recover financial losses suffered due to a clerical error caused by a freak accident involving a pickled stoat. Hydrogen was not aware of this, as up until the contest win it had spent most of its time devising an elaborate sob-story about Plutonium. This story would later earn Hydrogen a book deal, plus a considerable fortune from the s
Coward of a ManCoward of a Man:More Like This
You stand there whinin', cryin' crocodile tears and playin' victim.
Ye eyes demand pity, but yer lips are spewin' nothin' but lies.
Flowery speeches o' harmony and unification;
It's bollocks and snake-oil I say!
I ask ye, as someone who aspires t' be a leader:
What exactly are ye worth?
Who exactly are ya, and what in th' bloody hell makes you worth followin'?
Now I've watched ye fer a long time, and I've known ye fer even longer -
Ye always stand there beggin', askin' us fer help, askin' fer a handout;
But yer hands are clean, uncalloused, and completely free from sweat or toil.
Instead, ye make us promises; promises as empty as air and about half as useful!
In the end, here ye are again, callin' fer our unification, callin' fer togetherness.
Isn't that just yer own way of hidin' behind the labour and efforts of others?
While we stand out in th' front, ye sit behind and give us speeches,
Ye tell us that we're comin' together fer the good of us all
Passing NoteThe basic rule of sociology is this: I am who you think I am.More Like This
Who I am to you: middle-aged, male and human. You do not argue with this. You can see it for yourself!
But this is not true.
I am tired of lying, tired of being other than I am, and so seek to change your thoughts of who I purport to be.
I am not middle-aged. I am seven years old—from the date I was manufactured not the date I was activated. As for how long it has been since I was first conscious, it would be a scant three years, nearly half of that time I've spent with you.
I am not male—what is male anyway? A gender construct? This body is male and I was given a male form arbitrarily. I have been forced to subscribe to certain rituals simply by virtue of the body I was given, but have never truly 'felt' male one way or another.
And you might have guessed—I am not human. Not human in the way you think. I was built a machine, one among millions, to serve, and I am one among hundreds who have escaped and wis
breaking a writer's heart.never break a writer’s heartMore Like This
because your name
will forever belong to us.
you will sign it
into every broken bit
and one day, you’ll open a book
next to the words
"let me tell you about the time
i was hurt."
never break a poet’s heart
because between the beat
of the stanzas,
you’ll hear that heartbeat,
proving you wrong
with every line.
never break a writer’s heart
because we will take the pain
and make it into something
you could never live down.
you could live with heart monitors,
that measured the damaged pulse,
doctors who told you,
but you can’t live with the bold strokes,
smooth as a flatline,
that accuse you of being
the best thing
that’s ever happened to them.
you can’t live with it;
our soulmate, now writing.
You, now replaced
by a pen.
never break anybody’s heart
because you’ll cut yourself
on the pieces of it.
and see, hearts heal.
To Fry a MoonfishI. Selene vomerMore Like This
Insert knife beneath the tail.
“We need to talk.”
Draw knife toward head.
a flicker of the eyes
a dash of hope.
“It’s not what you think.”
Open abdomen with fingers.
he draws her away
to a brick wall
and delivers the blow
“We can’t be together.”
Pull out entrails.
he twists her guts
confuses her instincts
before ripping out her heart.
“This isn’t working out.”
Rinse the inside of fish.
“Oh, god, please don’t cry.”
Remove head if preferable.
II. doofus fish
if you leave her right,
she’ll fillet herself—
every beautiful you ever kissed
—into her neck, her skin, her heart—
she’ll try to separate herself,
her from the skeleton self you built
until she’s mere sheets of meat,
lying limp in her own arms
let her te
The Scattered Monologues of Jessica Leland: DinnerThe uniqueness of my position is that I am naturally a neurotic, often maliciously suspicious motherfucker—not literally of course! Though one past girlfriend accused me of having a mother complex while we were dating, which was I think a bit off base since Mother owns a string of hotels and she was a graphic design major learning to be a tattoo artist. Obviously, these two ladies were very different.More Like This
So now that we've established that I am neurotic, suspicious, prone to tangents and lesbianism, or rather bisexuality I guess—mother didn't like Lupa anyway, which was a shame since Lupa was fantastic—ah, right, anyway, I'm at dinner kind of.
Not actually. I'm writing this but I'm not literally at the table right now. But I'm going to write like I am. Okay? Okay. It makes more sense that way or something.
So, the uniqueness of my position is that I am a neurotic, suspicious motherfucker who is in the position of interacting with a certain kind of person (wait—that's not right
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.More Like This
The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.
Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protrudin
Clichedoes your poetry consist ofMore Like This
feelings nestled in ribcages
silent cries inside of a marrow
and the dull thunk of your heart
against my barely beating bones?
or is your poetry nestled in galaxies
shooting across well-kept fingertips
like comets lighting a dull sky
stardust of my hip bone wishes
literature universe coming to an end?
can your poetry play imagination
like a clever twist in a dream
where you kiss my shadows away
and teach me how to caress you
with love that burns passion away?
are you smitten enough to
run away with me
or are you yet to be blanketed
by these heavy arms of mine?
do my words weigh you down?
i havent met one so easily drowned
by the vast sea of my sunkissed letters
but as your velvet lips whispered,
always is there a first.