'Reluctant Truth'But, in the end,we lost.
SonnetsTo most this would seem weirdBut that makes it no less trueSince FIRST to me has appearedI've lived less like a shrewI've always been a stranger in a strange placeWhere I found other strangers was my homeWithin my group I've found a certain, unique, graceFrom talks of world domination to the law of ohmThe stress is always there to winThough winning isn't the only thingWhat we've been through has made us kin,Our time here a springboard for us to take wing
Though my team was never 'THE BEST'I still prefer it to all the rest.---On that day your face went blankAnd your voice seemed to leaveAs the red of your hair to your face sankThe words that were said I cannot retrieveFor those words I am sorryThough your ghost speaks of no ill ease,You no longer share with me your mind starryAnd I do see the way your brows creaseWhen we first met I thought you boringTime once again has proven me wrongYour monotone now is far from me soaringWithout a wave or single 'so lon
Six Word Storymy mother kept smiles in bottles
EmptyHe stared into an empty mirror.
The holeI was walking, and then I
Six Word Stories - DesperationHe grasped,In vain,Behind tears.
Going... Going... Gone.Another girl sold,Families left crying.
Six Word Story - DementorI'm silent, letting social anxiety talk.
Six Word Stories: ProcrastinationInfinite knowledge. Yet, I type: "lolcats"
Six Word Story III had to,I'm so sorry.
I Wish I Could TooThe hermit crab lived happily everywhere.
CharlieI had a stalker.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
Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't taste the difference.Listen, writers are the ones that drip fishhooks down their throats to coax out their hearts. Writers are the ones who fling those heart-hooks into the sea even if they have a message but not a bottle. Listen, sometimes fish swallow them. Some of those fish sink to the bottom of the ocean with the weight of the world in those heart
compareeins.you werethe smoke pouring out of her mouth,(misty coils of a vague filth,dancing to noir jazz, fading with each note)smudged lipstick on the side of of her mouth,and the little streak that crawled to her toothwhen she bit her lip in a supposed wonder,and her eyes threw a faint film over themselves,(like an elegant lady wraps a silk shawl around herself in a light breeze)zwei.you hadthe light feet of a dancerwhose calluses were hidden under tight shoes,whose toes would arch like Nut over her children,(and she or you would spin with the earth, holding her frame as if-as if earth was something of mass, as if it had a shape to hold onto)whose leg would stretch over her head,her arms, long, pretty, snakes, her fingers curled, and her wrists tense(her eyelashes were grazing her cheekbones,her ballet whisking her like a beaten egg, and the laces of her shoescaught on a rusty nail, which sliced her ankle open, a wince danced on her lips,mocking her)drei.you sanga
It's never too lateYou will have been dead fifteen years tomorrow,and yet not once have I visited your grave.I was always busy; there was always timeto see you, to make amends. And yet, I feelit's all a sham. I could make time, but I fearthe truth. It's easier to believe my lies.If I went, I'd see your plot, see how you lieuntroubled, beneath the soil. Your tomorrowsended many yesterdays ago. No fearsto face, no debts to pay. No decisions graveto weigh your brow. Not like your son. How I feelthe heaviness of this life. There's too much timeand not enough. Lives end every day. It's timeto stop hiding from the pain. My future liesalong a path you've helped me walk. I can feelyour touch in everything I do. Tomorrowis too late, sometimes. It shall not be gravedinto history that I gave into fear.For too long I feel I've lived a life of fear,of caution, of safety, and, and yet such timesI had. Oh dad, you'd be turning in your graveif you saw the choices that I made that liebehind
wrists that roarmama sayspull down your sleevesthey'll see, they'll seebut no-one's even lookingi say mamatigers are proud and strongand tigers show their stripesso today i'm a tigerand who saysi can't be a tigerwhen razors made me fierceand secrets kept me lonelywho saysi can't tiger-roarwhen everything unsaidripped my throat rawi made my stripeswith tiger-claws and tiger-teethso damned if i'm not a tigerand damned if i won't roarmama, i'm a tigermama, hear me roar
still,"i want grandchildren."that car ride ruined some thingsthrew a wine bottle at the wall15 years sittingit was good enough orit wasn't good enoughall the silence forcedmy pride to jump out the windowif any rested in hershe showed it off like a speech bubbletied it to her teethslammed it in the doorhad it under her pillow for monthsand years and years and yearsthere was no statementthere was no outstretched handjust steering wheel clenchingknuckles white and jaw taut(all because who i bed was not her mindful oftimeline perfection)i still think i'm a tumor--she shows it off like a speeding ticketi put a pin through iti put it on her sweatershe never wears it
The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know. You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do. If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead. I won't force you. But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets. Especially not when they are about you.You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else. Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness. Woven out of the ether, she remembered everything that never happened, and she looked down at you, cradled and squirming in her loving arms."Oh," she said. "So here is life."The doctor was there too, although a moment before if there ever was a moment before he was not. He just nodded, smiling assuredly, and said, "Here is the beginning."And
Gnome Noir "I did it for the money and I did it for the girl. Well, I didn't get the money and I didn't get the girl.":: Walter Neff - Double IndemnitySo I point the flintlock at the guy and that's no easy thing, big musket like that on a little gnome like me and I peer down the sight. Not many people know what it's like to stare at a man through a glass. But in those sacred moments, the whole world takes a breath and it's just you and him. I line up the shot, and I think about the girl, and--What? That is the start. What do you want, Sheriff, my life story?Alright, well, I'm Gniles Brody the Third that's GNILES, silent 'g'. G-N-I-L-E-S. Your boys over there in the robes got that? I'm a Risk management clerk. You've heard of Royal Gnomic Treasury, right? Well, that's me and the guys. You got a risk, we cover your back for a modest sum. We're like alchemists - 'cept we turn gold into more gold.What? This IS the interesting bit! You have any
Survival of the IllestAre those hints of lemon I detect?Look, I'm just here to get wasted, don't tryto make it more than that.I'd drink motor oil if I thoughtit could get me high; chase it with a shotof antifreezesoyou can keep your survival instincts,locked upin that pretty velvet box (along with allthose other thingsyou thought you could convince yourselfyou lived for). Instincts are the barebones of the impossibilities we wantedto believe in,remember,those times you tried to tell me thatadrenaline was God's wayof sayingthatwe were His chosen ones, we werespecial, we were free.I tried to tell you that instincts and Godcan't exist side by side, but I was alreadysofar gone, cornea constellationsspiraling and you looked at me with such pitifuldisapproval,I just gave up the fight.I told you once that my goal in lifeis to kill myself slowly, immerse my organsin gallonsof whiskey and scotchover a fifty-years-or-so period. "Just think,"I said,"it will be like an ocean, w
Things ChangeHe rode their tandem bike, alone.