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The DollA doll sat in a corner of a young girl's room. She reflected upon how she had come to this point in time.More Like This
Born in a factory with countless other twins. Sent off to a shop, waiting to be sold. Yanked off the shelf the next day by a child with sticky-candy-fingers. Bitten by the household's pets, food spilled on her. Forgotten in a closet. Sold in a garage sale. Losing fingers, toes, her left eye, her mouth glued shut and pried open, the loss of her entire left leg. Somehow finding new owners every few years. Hair melted, curled, straightened, pulled off, replaced in gaudy colours. Countless new faces given and taken away according to the whim
Girl Disappearing Funny thing is, maybe I'm as bad as her when it comes to just knowing things, sometimes. At least, knowing how she operates. Shauna Mull and I hadn't been face-to-face in over two years, and I still knew exactly how to break into her apartment.More Like This
Chicago was moving behind me as I clambered up the stairs, half-stumbling a bit from the exhaustion of it all. Travel-sick and sleep-deprived. Maybe heartsore. The dark wood of the steps was slightly damp and smelled of mildew, and the dull thumping of my boots as I climbed was too loud in the weird and half-suspended dawn before rush hour. There was the soft sound of traffic, down below, and papers
Testament of a BlossomThe phrase had made her hate flowers.More Like This
Her grandmother, after two glasses of liquid courage, had "the talk" with her when she was eleven, but only because her mother too wrapped up in the suffocating neediness or dominance of the next, potential, step-father-to-be to do it herself.
"You're blossoming into a young woman now, Sophie." That's how her grandmother had started that eye-rolling, stomach-dropping monologue. Sophie felt trapped by age, trapped in this life by her mother, and trapped by her grandmother's orientation into her impending adulthood. The thought of a flower blossoming in the sun made her fume.
She had been Daddy's little girl, but Daddy had gone and she wasn't little anymore. But, she was short and stocky like Daddy. Though she had no fat or paunch, the changes wrought upon her by her "blooming" had left her feeling rounder and wider. Tyler Messner had called her an "Roly-Poly Oompah-Loompah" one day in eighth grade when she
Twenty Minutes to LiveThere was so little time left.More Like This
Penny knew that there was almost no time left, and that was the beauty of it. She could hear the people outside; the panicking, screaming people. Shattering glass and gunshots rang out every so often, often accompanied by a chorus of audible pain or rage. The news was still broadcasting on most of the radios, she knew, although it was mostly just re-run stories at this point. Even a news reporter wouldn't stay at work when there was so little time left. The news wasn't on here though, and Penny felt at ease with that. She had heard the reports, the rumors, the street preachers and the governmental confirmations
Loving an old oak treeShe twirled about the meadow, wearing a blue dress to match the sky. Running with her, was a boy in new suede shoes, who laughed as he tried to catch her.More Like This
"Come on! Wait up," Cole shouted, running through the crowds of daisies and to a huge oak tree.
"I told ya! I'm faster than any of you boys!" Claire laughed, as she was sitting at the base of the tree, with a few flowers in her pudgy hands.
"Yeah, yeah. I let you win." Cole said coolly, rubbing his neck, "You just remember that."
Claire giggled, "Sure. Here, sit next to me." She said, in a chirpy tone, patting the ground beside her.
Cole glanced at her ocean eyes, maple lips, her terra
The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.More Like This
He wouldn't like me writing it that way—a fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'
The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of
Grandma Rose's Story: OneOral TraditionMore Like This
She told this story one day while she did beadwork and a few of her grandchildren played nearby. She remembered her own grandmother, the one who raised her as a little girl. She talked about a time many years ago, the last time she saw her grandmother.
"My grandmother lived on a place where she had a barn and grain holders and chickens and horses. She used to let me help her take care of the chickens. The horses roamed out to pasture, coming in sometimes for hay she always had ready for them. She and I lived there together. My older cousin, a young man then, stayed w
If Doves Could WhisperThe dove stared at the man with her sorrowful, curious eyes. She watched as he walked each day from the bedroom to the kitchen. He would put the kettle on to boil and set a teabag in the small cup, now browned with ghosts of tea long past. His journey would take him to the bathroom, where he would prepare for the morning and then back to the tiny kitchen, always just as the tinny whistle was reaching an adolescent whine. Once he had poured his tea, he would carry the cup with him to the table and sit down. The teacup was always set into the same place, marked by a tea-stained circle and the beginnings of a worn groove. He would read the newspMore Like This
Tale 2: Worlds in the AtticHe was very old by now. His long, white hair, uncut for fifteen years, was loosely spread all over the back of his coat. His shoulders were brought forward by age, his fingers weren't as deft as they had been. If there was one thing he was very happy for, it was that when he had started, he had used the higher shelves first. It meant he didn't have to climb steep, uncertain ladders all the time now.More Like This
There were hundreds, thousands of jars and bottles and little tin boxes neatly stacked on the shelves, hung from the ceiling by thin chains or ropes, some small and precious glass containers brought together by ropes hanging from the ceiling like
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 eye
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 wa
The funeral GameThis is not a dream…More 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 w
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 fur
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?"
"No."
"Fox?"
"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
Inhuman Resources: Chapter 1Cloud ComputingMore Like This
"You ready?"
"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
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 b
It's All Been ArrangedMore Like This
The place is pretty rundown. One small, dirty fan light—an insect graveyard—provides the only source of light in the room, illuminating the piles of hoarded junk that line the bare concrete walls. Obviously they've been pushed to the side just for us (bless my aunt's heart). But boxes or no boxes, at least there's still plenty of room, even with the lumpy old king-sized bed that lies in the room's center. It's almost an inviting sight after today's events even with its broken springs and mystery stains. Yes, I think it will do. Sure it's not the honeymoon suite I'd been hoping for, but considering our honeymoon funds were "borr
The Lonely Prince: An Adult's Anti-Fairy TaleOnce upon a time, it's said,More Like This
in a land far, far away,
there lived a prince of the dead,
in a castle by the bay.
But this poor prince was lonely,
though his home was fair and bright,
since his whole court was empty,
and from him, folks fled in fright.
For his face was pus and bone,
and his fingers, putrid green,
and though he bathed with cologne,
he smelled of rotten gangrene.
Now this prince was very smart,
and so hatched upon a plan,
that he hoped, in some small part,
would bring people to his land.
He found himself an artiste,
whose canvas was uncooked meat,
to paint him a masterpiece,
from his neck down to his feet.
He
The BoyThe boy in the blue tweed jacketMore Like This
The boy with a battered book
The boy with the little quirked smirk
He has a tendency to look over his shoulder at things that aren't there
He's self conscious but confident
He's familiar yet flighty
And yes, he can be smart and still a moron
The boy knows the stimulants
And what makes a smile
He reads while he's walking
Can't ever stop talking
And has his quiet moments too
He whispers soft spoken words
Pillow talk, he calls it
He looks up lyrics
Recites into the night
He sets the stars
He lights the glass
Does he even know?
He strums and hums and whistles a tune
He knows I'm jealous of his
Ouran- Fragments No. 12SINKINGMore Like This
Aina Kosaka is thirty years old today. She's the only one who knows this, her and her daughter. Most people don't bother to keep track of dates anymore, just Mondays through Sundays. Who knows if that's even completely accurate? Birthdays were never a big deal in her family anyway, being the daughter of a military man who was transferred to a new base every other year. It's hard to make new friends so many times, let alone keep them after you leave. A few gifts and her favorite foods for dinner was all Aina could have hoped for, and that's what she got. These days, she has to count on herself to splurge on extra food. Her one gift is a fresh bouquet of flowers for the table, picked by Junko herself. She comes back with more flowers and less dirt every year.
She admires herself in the mirror, the morning sun at her back. Aina's not vain, but she can appreciate how soft her skin is and how her nose fits her face perfectly. She really is a young looking woman. She suspects that no
Ouran- Fragments No. 11KAITOMore Like This
Kaito enters the jailhouse alone. Junko had wanted to come with him -she kept on begging until he was out the door- but he doubted Aina would appreciate him bringing her nine year old to an interrogation even if he wanted to.
Two men are waiting for him when he gets there. He recognizes them as the ones who have been chosen to guard the wall tonight. The smaller one shifts off to the side when he approaches, a mumbled greeting his only acknowledgment of Kaito's presence. Kaito lets it slide for now. The only thing of interest to him is the lifeless body thrown over the larger man's shoulder. The man gives a respectfully low bow, almost allowing the prisoner to slip off of him. A little moan escapes their lips, but they don't stir. At least Kaito knows they're still alive.
"What is this?"
"Found him wandering around outside," the large man says. He walks to the interrogation table and drops the prisoner on it.
Ouran- Fragments No. 10ALONEMore Like This
He opens his eyes and he sits up in bed. The clock reads far past noon. He's overslept.
Groaning, he runs fingers through tangled hair, hitting knots that pull painfully at his scalp. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and strides to the bathroom. He's almost out of water, but the mirror is clean enough without it. He brushes out the knots and ties his hair back, leaving not a single strand behind. Once that's done, he uses the little bit of water he has to it's fullest extent, washing his hands and his face and brushing his teeth. When he's done, he examines himself one more time in the mirror. He sees the same old face, clean and well shaven. The bags under his eyes are of no consequence. They're what he gets for staying up until 4 in the morning trying to settle another land dispute. Next time, he's just going to delegate someone else to take care of it.
He rubs his eyes and stretches tired muscle
Ouran- Fragments No. 9ATONEMENTMore Like This
Haruhi closes her eyes and listens to the crickets. The fire crackles, warm and gentle, several feet away as Hikaru tends to it. He's been poking at it with a stick that is charred halfway up. Then he throws it in and sits down. Kaoru and Mori-senpai are on either side of him, one warming his hands, the other staring off into the trees. Mori-senpai has been doing this for a while now, like he thinks any moment now, Hunny-senpai will run out and call his name. Haruhi gave up trying to start a conversation ages ago. Why she thought it would work, Hunny or no Hunny, is beyond her.
So once again, she is left to her thoughts. They travel along the usual, painful path. How is Dad doing? How are Renge and the kids? What about the rest of their neighbors? Fujiwa and Mariko? How could she be running around on what could very well be a wild goose chase lo
a lover's observations.when you asked me to define love,More Like This
i answered with this.
love is
i. a collection of sighs
strung together
by remembered dreams
and rapid heartbeats
ii. fingertips on knuckles
and the hugging of thumbs
iii. making silverware
on the mattress
in the company of the stars
iv. exchanging dialogue
with our mouths shut
and our eyes open
v. cheekbones and crow's feet
vi. turning every what if
into a reality
when i asked you to describe love,
you took the answer from my mouth
with your lips.
Absolute Ouran No. 2408.16.11More Like This
MEI’S STORY
Okay.
I’m guessing you all saw that last post. Obviously, I didn’t put it up. Mei here decided it would be funny to hijack my blog and freak out all my readers just because I left my account open. She has a rather sick sense of humor.
How did she get here so fast, you ask?
Turns out my Dad, in one of his frequent lapses in attention, managed to invert the date and time she would be coming. Instead of the 16th at 5, it was really the 15th at 6. This is why I’ll be taking down all the phone messages from now on.
It’s also why Mei now has full knowledge of everything that went on last year, and that the six guys we briefly went to school with were, in fact, not really my cousins and not really human.
Fantastic.
I had to fill her in on the rest of the story too, because I know she would’ve prodded me all day and night if I didn’t, and I’m beyond not in the mood to deal with that. So now she
Been a long time.....Wow, it's been a long time since I've been on here. I finally went through all my notes and everyone's posts. Kinda sounds like I've got a billion followers or something, lol. Anyhow, I found a poem I wrote a long time ago and I thought I'd post it.More Like This
For what seems the thousandth time
I curl up in my bed
pulling covers tight around my little frame.
Someone had called me something.
Noone seemed to understand.
In tears I try to push away the pain.
I try to rest-to go to sleep.
I want to run away.
Then somehow I remember that You're near.
I tell You that I'm hurting,
and I know You understand.
Then I feel Your arms around me and I know You're here.
As I grow and face new dreams and hurts
I learn to trust myself.
I think that love is something I must earn.
So I set out to be perfect-
to make everyone my friend.
And that's the kind of love that I return.
I learn to live in fear of You-
afraid that You will leave me.
I'm not as innocent as I may seem.
Through the years You never left.
I still
the man at the ticket counter.the man at the ticket counter told meMore Like This
he had never sold a one way ticket before
and i said why not
to which he replied,
because people need to believe that
they have someone or something
to come home to
i scoffed at him,
well i guess i have no one
but he just stared at me
with lantern eyes
until by some ungodly urge
my bottom lip trembled
and i spat out the words
no one here cares if i return or not
he was silent as he completed the transaction
but his forehead frowned at me
and his implied pity became unbearable
to the point where
i snatched the ticket from the counter
without so much as a backwards glance
even though his eyes followed m
50 adopt theme challenge/ReferenceI know myself as well as many others get stuck on themes for adoptsMore Like This
so I put together a little theme challenge tho you can just use it for a reference if you're ever stuck
I want to try and do all 50 of these in 100 days *7*
ahahha im a crazy mofo :icontonguewhipplz:
[x]1. Inanimate objects in your room
[ ]2. Seasons
[ ]3. Your favorite video games personified
[ ]4. Emotions
[ ]5. Ancient civilizations (Egypt, Rome, Greece, China,..)
[ ]6. Your biggest fear(s)
[ ]7. Folklore
[ ]8. Villains
[ ]9. Black and white
[ ]10. Hair accessories
[ ]11. Stereotypes
[ ]12. Inverted
[ ]13. Endangered animals
[ ]14. Plants you'd find near your house
[ ]15. Types of vehicles
[ ]16. Halloween
[ ]17. Highschool
[ ]18. Something you wished existed
[ ]19. Dinosaurs
[ ]20. Favorite foods
[ ]21. Gourmet foods
[ ]22. Desserts
[ ]23. Zombies
[ ]24. Sea critters
[ ]25. Something you hate
[ ]26. Weather (wind, rain, snow, sleet, hurricanes, )
[ ]27. Animal species made of 2-3 animals combined (channeling avata
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
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
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, 260gsm). 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
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
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 tri
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
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 mor
deviantANXIETY, A Case StudyYou've joined to become a great artist, or to show the world that you're a great artist. You've joined to ogle all things kawaii. You've joined to troll the forums, or the chatrooms, or both. But above all, you've joined to become a llama baron: you've got your heart set on obtaining a golden llama badge, and nothing's gonna stand in your way.More Like This
You've added a couple of people to your deviantWATCH whose art you're somewhat interested in. Or perhaps you added them because you thought that they were cute, or because you liked their avatars, or because they offered you some advice, or because they helped to allay the awkwardness you felt on joini
deviantANXIETY, A Case Study, Part IIYou should congratulate yourself on confronting your previous problems. However, new problems have arisen, and these cause you more anxiety.More Like This
For you, deviantART has acquired not just the status of an opiate, but of a religion (which are only the same thing if you believe Karl Marx) - you regard deviantART as a monolithic, abstract entity which claims to love you and which is prepared to punish you - by way of suspending or even permanently banning your account - if you should do anything which displeases it. As such, you feel guilty for acknowledging that you have new problems; but you can't ignore the fact that overcoming the old ones wasn'
deviantANXIETY, A Case Study, Part IIIYou've now been here for so long that you're a veteran. You've acquired a set of impressive but questionable statistics; you've burned through many an account, repeatedly promising your exasperated watchers that each time was the last. If only the account name-change feature was available earlier, you could have saved your friends, and yourself, a lot of trouble. You've no idea where your original account is, or in which year you joined.More Like This
You're full of tales about such defining deviantART moments as the birth of Fella, the fall of jark, and +spyed spurning his $ in favour of +. You don't remember if you witnessed them or only read about them
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,More Like This
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
[metaphors]
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
speck
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your
The Doppelganger 2The book still sings to me, and that's when I pull it from under my bed and stroke the cover. But I never open it, because I know what happens if I do it wrong. It's still blank; but only of ink. I know the secret, you see. It's how I understand the songs, and know the melodies it echoes up to me, through time. There are impressions hidden in the pages- spilled mead and raucous laughter, summer sunshine and frost on dead leaves. The last time I tried feeling them from start to finish, I passed out from the sheer weight of knowledge, and it left my brain scrambled for ages.More Like This
I found out things about my past and my family's past. I have Irish o
This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.More Like This
Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you
keysThe supermarket's made for scalping sprouts.More Like This
"Hair today, gone tomorrow," said Theo, working the razor like magic. He'd been rehearsing for weeks in the produce storeroom, stroking peaches free of vellus with a disposable blade. Thank god for the practice: Tibby's scalp was the tenderest of territories, and the boys were crowded Roger-Bennett-Sam from showerhead to soap dish to see who would start bleeding first. Theo chased the curve of Tibby's neck in quick columns, steady and unsentimental. A thousand fruits and vegetables sitting bald in their sale bins. By Friday, not even the onion
in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.More Like This
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.
a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.
and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.
and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s
Send Me the Raintoday, they're all talking about the fires.More Like This
the people on TV, the voices on the radio,
the mouths that open and whisper
and softly touch tongues. even the sky is
revealing black plumes of smoke,
flaunting shameless and seductive curves.
the rain's been too dry and the lightning
isn't wet enough, panic is
rising out of control in this
burning city. that's
not all;
we have a crisis on
our hands- the balloons are
running out of air and even
the experts don't really know why,
and on top of those sinking rubber toys
my soul is losing moisture
faster than the crackling grass under the duress of flame.
i'm sta
i) Wanderlusti),More Like This
The first time I met the girl who started a revolution the sky was throwing down so much rain it felt like we were underwater. It was hard to breathe; and maybe that was because of all the rain, but probably it was because I looked at her face, under this dark red hood, and inside I was a story with all these feelings I could never say. I guess those feelings could only ever become words on paper - words in ink - not the kind I could ever speak aloud to anybody, if only because I couldn't bear for a person to see the look on my face while I remembered. Despite how good it felt - so hopeful, so desperately happy for what it was and could
WanderlustI've been sleeping with my jeans onMore Like This
and seatbelt unbuckled,
So I can leave early
before my regret wakes.
In the check-in, on the road,
I distract myself
Walk, go, leave
go further, leave again
I like my life
Oversimplified.
I never meant to break your
working-class heart
(steady and warm)
But truer ways of joy I found
on the road,
in long railways and stranger tongues
And I'm sorry that we never
Quite catch up with each other.
I never loved goodbyes,
but I love leaving all behind
In the movement I found tranquility,
easing for this burn.
Don't think I'll be able
To ever forget you, no
You're like Venus in th
Little PatrycjaI must’ve been born disordered,More Like This
sweet, tiny, tender child with a mind that wouldn’t let her live.
Filled with so much pride when the doctor said
“Minimum healthy weight,”
Perhaps the only perfect thing about me.
Tiny Patrycja.
I can never remember not being tired.
I was called lazy so often, just because I didn’t want to run
Because I was always out of breath
And everything hurt
And my blood was pumping way too fast
And Jesus Lord I just wanted to sleep.
Lazy Patrycja.
I wonder if there was a time where I thought I was pretty.
Little girl, staring-- glaring-- in the mirror
Saying, praying
Please
Please change
Self-Injury Awareness DayMarch 1st is Self-Injury Awareness Day. This is a day that is important to me because of my own history. Here is a poem I wrote about my experience:More Like This
Here are images displaying my scars and my thoughts for TWLOHA:
Thanks to ^NicSwaner for bringing attention to this day. Thanks for the life of all those who are struggling now. And thanks for my life.
I started cutting in junior high because I had so much emotion built up in me. Uncle Pedophile (now dead from a recently self inflicted gunshot wound--thank you. Fuck forgiveness.) molested me at 4 yrs. old. Then because they told me to keep my mouth shut about it or it would break my gramma's heart (no police or punishment for him) he molested my younger cousin. He spent his life with girlfriend after girlfriend that had children.Tremendous guilt for not telling a teacher or someone that might have saved my cousin lived in me like a burst of pointed fungus that just
The Gay AgendaThe Gay AgendaMore Like This
we unpacked the car in hundred-and-ten degree heat
home after our three-months, big-haul supermarket run
stared at the late season watermelon
we grabbed on an impulse
I got the cutting board and a bowl for rinds
you got the never-dull, wedding-gift ceramic knife
we tore into our pieces at the same time
swamping desert thirst in southern fruit
pretending we were comfortably cool
believing it during each bite
I opened a new paper towel roll (we had been out)
you gave me the next slice, cut yourself another
we ate the whole damn thing in one sitting, not talking
just munching one icy wedge after another
until I mumbled a joke y
LevitationObserve.More Like This
This is how women walk away.
In broken heels
and secondhand jackets,
cigarette smoke in their hair
and no kiss goodbye.
Do not mock.
It is what it should be.
A girl in a car,
hanging a u-turn
on a glistening, empty street.
Her body is a road to be traveled.
A shipwreck to be plundered.
She does not know how she got here,
and she does not care.
And it does not matter.
This is how women smile.
Knowing, secretive,
though her cheeks are sore.
Though the wind
is blowing right through her clothes.
Though there is no good music
on the radio, and no food
in the refrigerator.
This is just an impression.
An idea of nir
Vignettes of Love and Grief(i) Metamorphosis of CarbonMore Like This
Awake, I become conscious of you in the crystals of my mind
your image
butterflies into
an energy that lifts me from my bed
into the dream of day.
(iii) On the collection of lives by the soul and the harvesting of apples
In the orchard we cry.
A dead man, by fire, soon to be news (paper).
His wallet holds a jigsaw of pictures that drop down in concertina plastic sleeves when she opens it.
The collected past lives of the corpse, single person portraits. God has had these photos developed in black and white to denote their age. Other deities have harvested the apples.
I could count those lives. I cou
Dear Little LightsDear Little Lights,More Like This
You never knew me. You didn't know that I existed on the same planet as you, you were too small to understand the scope of the Earth. You lived in your secluded and sheltered circle of friends and family, as children do, merry and healthy, bright and focused. Not one of you had even an inkling that there was such a great, wide world, ready to be explored, and now, you never will. Tragically, unlawfully, disturbingly, you have each one of you been removed from the painting, inked out and painted over before you achieved any of your hopes and dreams. You will not be able to close your eyes and wait patiently for the day you
The Day I Didn't Die.For many years now, today is the worst day of the year for me. And I can't help but think it always will be.More Like This
Quite honestly, it should be the best day of the year because it is the day I didn't die.
Let me explain.
After a drunken phone conversation with the woman I hold dearest to my heart last night, the Aunt convinced me that it's finally time I share this story. If for nothing more, just to get it out and put it in the past. It's not a story I like to share. It's not something I like to talk about, but I'm hoping the catharsis of writing it down will help me be a better person. A person that doesn't dread the arrival of December 16th every year.
It's always a dark day because 17 years ago it's the day I woke up to find out that my grandmother was dead. And with her, any hope of a normal childhood because she was the one that was there for my brother and I when our mom wasn't and when our dad was on one of his rampages.
John at 3:16Dear Jesus Christ,More Like This
I went to bed at 3:16 last night and started thinking about John—John who pissed away every paycheck he ever made and only fucked virgins, John who beat up a woman's husband and spent a Christmas in jail, John who shot himself on the front porch of his mother's house. I don't think anyone shed a tear except her. I heard she shed many tears as she cleaned up the mess.
I thought about when I first met him. It was at church. He and I were both eight. He sat next to me and we stared at that stained glass image of you in your white robe with your outstretched, loving arms, and he leaned into me and asked, "Do you bel
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963More Like This
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I did not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
May 1968
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood-red poppies
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
December 1971
The Way We Used ToAre we wasting our time away,More Like This
All this time spent awake
When we could be sleeping;
Every day is the same day but
Played in reverse, monochrome
Framed grey caught between
Blacktop ball game stained
Shoes playing hooky with the
Laces pulling tight a child’s
Smile six feet from the hills
We rolled down – it’s so dizzy
At the top.
Strolling with collars popped
– big boy style –
With hair pulled back into
A surprised laugh and a chance
Look aft to try and catch a guilty
Glance of conscious denial punctuated
By a ruler slap,
But also a giggle with a snap
Of heads looking down pouring ove
Storybook AddictionsI want you to love me as much as you doMore Like This
the thorns in your side; seeds planted and
forgotten and bleeding cyclically.
when the swallowed night drowns and
drains darkness like a trickled lullaby, I want
to be the last thing in your dreams.
I want to be your mistake East of Eden, your lack
of redemption; when they tear apart your paper
flesh with metal claws, I want to be the one you
come crawling back to with bloodied knees.
[right now I am an empty vessel, unfulfilled
and metaphorically obsolete. I want to clear
my throat for once, without seeing the ashes
of my disease.]
I want to love you like a swansong;
breezes make your bones ach
Insomniacs and Insecuritesthe ground is a friend, feeble feet meet stabilityMore Like This
and never return. it listens, oh, it listens
with tiled ears and absorbs all your secrets.
fault cracks, your fears seep underneath
the pavement, someone knows
that you cry at smoggy nights and
run out of words when you stop to breathe
and you drown in your thoughts, no
one taught you to swim, your
stunted, stilted stature goes stagnant and
this is destiny. it was written in
the storybooks that the princess would find
an answer in the murky depths and her
prince would turn out to be the
desperate attempt at normalcy all along
(raw,
plunging face-first through
vibrant v
predatorRead aloud here.More Like This
sly
fox eyes, i will be
your rabbit--
running prey coveting
every cinnamon-stride
death wish.
miss fox, i wouldn't mind--
there must be worse ways than being
swallowed
by that slick little smile.
starry eyes implodeshe cannot recall allMore Like This
the things she's
swallowed:
pretty pills, rancid
razor blades and
wasted words coat
her sorry throat
she can't count her
fingers, like she can't
count the days again--
it's zero to zero, in it
to spin it:
time is measured in
lengths of abandonment.
she comes home empty-
handed; defeated,
depleted, repeated:
"I gave up again
I gave up I gave it
away I gave up"
repeated like some
makeshift lullaby
and once more she
apologizes to a
broken window,
shattered, scattered,
just hoping to
know somewhere
better to go
and when she walks,
she holds hands
with the yellowed
skeleton of a
forgo
Jellyfish DreamsFlashes of stinging white crackle across satin. If you stared at it for too long, wishing for stars, you would surely be driven mad. Only the omnipresent hum of vehicles grounds me while I am in transit, preventing exactly that.More Like This
Despite frightening posters of malicious stars, their light bleeding into blood being my earliest memory, I continue to peer out the window and search for the malicious stars. Once there was a time when you could just see them beside the faint halo of street lamps, ornate and cheerfully painted. Sometimes, even a globe would blow and in that little patch the stars would glow brighter.
When I heard that rumour there
dead1.More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
a poem
or planet.
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
of you
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
stock frontiers
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
and free
of me.
2.
the squirrel
has left the limb
as light would leave
a photograph.
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
one where
only
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
the poppies
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never chan
TopazMore Like This
Topaz
Rare blue butterfly wings flickering, between
our little girl's elegant cornflower gloved hands, her
husky colored eyes greet the ocean's tide.
Cardinals singing their morning chorus, with
your Tsailes' soft melodies filling the woods, where
bubbling brooks groan in the foreground.
Butterscotch melting on my burning lips, your kiss
Honeycomb sweetness embracing my tongue, you entwine
Hot, soothing peach tea sliding down my throat, you slide.
Intimate fingers through buffalo hair, your chest
Reckless abandon grasped within your kisses, my breast
Breathless confessions as our hips join as one.
You're a constant volcano of
Burning Velvet"They know nothing of the meaning of Paradise."More Like This
I remember those words, soft as lead feathers
whispered in my ears, his breath as warm as the cold flames
that flicker and bite at my ankles.
"They will never understand me."
I remember the fire that flowed though a river of blood
setting fire to the veins flowing though my shaking body, frozen wind blowing
kisses to my transparent skin.
"All I have ever known is darkness."
I remember the gentle silk dripping crimson
staining the pale snow beneath the surface of my skin, charcoal and embers aflame
in the depths of endless nights of his eyes
"I have never known of love until I met you."
I remember the burning velvet that touched my lips
sweeter than the juices that tainted my soul, the shackles of deathly ice
broken because I was never trapped.
"I am no longer a prisoner."
I tell him these words, the lullaby of his dark and dreamless nights
loving the melti
Revenantthey came like phantoms;More Like This
oceanic whispers left me washed out.
those gossamer ghosts that lined
the doorways-- eyes in a constant
state of surprise as they reached for me:
needle fingers pricked, fueling
my addictions. they ached
for my veins, entangled like
the strings of my paper heart
and they stained my skin,
amethyst bruises in the shape
of recognition.
their breaths were the heavy hums
of a forgotten lullaby "one day you
will leave, and you will fade into a
virulent void, like us. you will warm
our icy bones, and we will love you,
like no one else can.
go back to sleep, little girl, we will
come again" with their cer
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
Resolution Diary2007More Like This
Resolution:
Make first million after starting own business.
Progress:
:bulletblack: 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.
:bulletblack: Bought new donut recipe book. Learnt how to make category hard donut, 'Diamond Swizzler'. Delma loves them.
:bulletblack: James offered to lend the money if he can become a business partner. Potential.
:bulletblack: First million still a long way off. Wife still nagging.
:bulletblack: Spent savings on replacing
starspunobserving the romanticismMore Like This
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
you watched
all my pick up lines
drop things.
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
of starlight,
pretended
that two teens at the park
at midnight
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
in thoughtful
paths.
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
stars
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
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
Right Hand, Left HandI wishMore Like This
being a lesbian were like
being left-handed.
Whenever someone notices
you writing a cheque
or doodling
or opening a door
And they exclaim:
"You're left-handed?"
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,
integral,
part of myself
has the spotlight shone on it,
And revealed (they think)
their own ignorance,
(How wonderful it is to enlighten someone
by being.)
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
wi
WhisperI want to create an aromatic sea of jasminesMore Like This
and stardust mountains of silver and —
No.
Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...
Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.
I want to write
gods
and
chaos.
imaginary conversations I“But it’s not like you just say, ‘oh, you have the attributes which I seek in a mate, so I will now proceed to fall in love with you.’ You can’t turn love on and off like flipping a switch. It doesn't work like that.”More Like This
“In a way, it does, though. Because any kind of real love—not a crush or an infatuation: real, deep, lasting love—centres around a similarity in the core of their being and the core of yours. You have to have a reason to love someone—to really love someone, I mean—whether it be their integrity or fortitude or kindness or intelligence or something else entirely. A
Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character whoMore Like This
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival
(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)
wake me up.floating above the tree lineMore Like This
leaves tickling my feet --
i.
moving in consistency
colors all around me --
am.
the sky looms above
winds move my hair --
not.
understand my dilemma
the fate of my sanity --
awake.
i. am. not. awake.
wake
me
now
with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawnMore Like This
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.
The Man and the MoonHer mouth corners hung themselvesMore Like This
and I began to wonder if that was the death of them.
A simple, quiet death;
without broken fingernails lining the walls
with the stripes of a despairing end.
I began to ache with the questioning in my heart
with the echoes reverberating in my capillaries
of her face scorching sunshine in her smile
right before it crumpled
and nothing was left but a frowning moon
set firm in its resignation to an upcoming eclipse.
RomeoThe name's Romeo. Yeah, alright. Don't bother. Whatever you were about to say, I've already heard it: considering the fact that probably everyone in the world is force-fed Shakespeare at some point or other, it's not surprising that all the stupid puns that come my way aren't exactly original. I've had English teachers yell lines at me, thinking that, for some dumb reason, I've got the whole play memorised. Not likely. My parents didn't call me Romeo because they're Die Hard Bard fans. Dad lost a bet to a mate. Not exactly enchanting.More Like This
I was watching TV in
Why I Don't Write HaikuThe thing with haiku -More Like This
you start with this deep message
and then run out of
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;More Like This
that paper-thin line where
the current swallows the stars
and the water churns violet
(you tell me to be
quiet,
dandelion queen, we've
heard all these words before)
tonight
I will sleep heavy
and wake a few hours before dawn,
only to forget my name
my wave-weathered heart will cry,
I will cry (my biggest fear
is drowning in too many
of my own weighted words
you tell me to be
quiet
so I can hear the world breathe)
I want to go home
Chocolate ShakeWritten on the backMore Like This
of a ketchup-stained receipt
I peeled off my shoe
in the McDonald's parking lot:
Poetry
should give new life
to the moments
you remember
in cheesy metaphors
and quarter-weight words,
but what if
your well has run dry?
The poet
ordered a chocolate shake
and a Big Mac.
The name
at the top of the order
is poetry enough for me:
She said yes.
Poets have the loneliest hearts.I drink morphineMore Like This
like peach tea;
down 6 pills by morning
just to keep my mind
filled up
with nothing.
& I know I can go days
without speaking a word
but-
I want a moon shy girl
with wolves at her back,
bite mark ankles &
a bottle of writer’s tears
tucked under one arm.
I want to be end of the war
kisses bruised into her hipbones;
the epilogue written over her
tiger-striped skin.
With these wisteria limbs
February cold, &
these weak lungs
exhaling coralline whispers,
I’ve got a tongue for words
but still have no idea how to love
a universe girl.
Sta.sh
