[x]

Pocket StainsShe keeps pens in her pockets,

and the ink bleeds

d

o

w

n

her thighs,

dripping into her shoes

and soaking through the soles,

so that people will see her footprints

and know

where

she’s

gone.

quipped to perhaps listenersi.
i thought i was nothing
before i thought i was special
[ said the phantom to curiosity ]
now i know, self-righteously
that everyone is nothing

ii.
the scars are from knives
not a razor blade
a pointless venture
[ and sipped his tea ]
it didn’t hurt like living
and the carpet was already stained

iii.
i’m too competitive to die
if you really must know
and i am not quite sure
that hell has an elevator

iv.
for posterity,
we could probably incite a riot
but that would be an awful lot of trouble
for just a little bit of scream

v.
in being unpretty
you conclude that you
are not exceptional/beautiful

vi.
and you realize
neither

voicelessi.
I lost my voice one day. I woke up to a hollow echo in the base my throat and knew I’d lost something special before I’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. I checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.

ii.
I found my voice one day. I took long walks with silent friends, made travel plans and came home tired but fulfilled. I pulled a pen from the junk drawer, or sat down at a keyboard, or bought a journal on a whim and found it curled up around my fingers, sleeping, rusty, but alive.

WondermentSome days, I find myself
counting
the s e c o n d s
and
the
thump
thump
thump
of my heart
and
pondering
quietly
what I could have
should have
would have
said
were I
better
braver
stronger
and a lot
l e s s
like
me
but all I can manage
now
is
. . . . . . .
I'

WelcomeI'm ready for a romance to ravage my heart and tear apart my
dusty limbs, I'm waiting for someone to take my breath and
never give it back; I'm prepared to sell all I was for a trip
somewhere new - beyond the paper mistakes I sailed away
down the river long ago. (even rocks and leaden thoughts
won't let the truth sink.)

I left my being somewhere under a waning summer sun
when the trees hummed melodies of moving on;
my soul still stays there, porous and pining and
lost. Dying stars don't lead home.

I suppose
it's more than just losing
your words, it's losing
you

too.

I am someone who mourns Sunday morning for another lost
w

dismantledyou're too bad, too m
u
c
h, using my heart as your
c
r
u
t
c
h. who knew human beings could
hurt each other by the softest t
o
u
c
h, so deeply
and so very, very
m
u
c
h.

Puck (Midwinter Dreaming)And what do you think he'd been thinking, when he followed the whisper of cold steel that promised an escape, alone in his own father's study in the middle of a winter night?

When they tell you, you can almost see him, limbs loose and graceful and the air around him absolutely calm; his fingers don't even tremble as he lifts heavy metal up against his temple. Through your grief and your anger and your guilt, you know (you really know, you just do) that he must have died with the same half smile he'd given you the last time you saw him alive. (When he left that night, worry and concern and feelings of wrongness dropped like bullets into your

Stories of feelings with no names i.

The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from Grandma Moses.

ii.

A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin scales and your hair is turning silver and every moment

my body is an accidentyou are a metaphor for deliberation.

all 206 bones orchestrated by your impeccable mind, telling them to flee from joints and move the way your mother wanted, the way your teachers told you not to.

your body is intentional, with lips that speak of the sea and words that make love in ocean beds. i'd swim for the casual syntax of conversation: the waters kissing the shore only to be pulled back, and return again with a tongue flicking of sinatra blue and unceasing wit.

the taste of the ache (my body already knows so well) has become so sweet. a dulcet sugar which i revisit on late friday nights, with no plans but the ones i make with memory.

Pilot HeartThe day you left the front door open the air was heavy with dishonesty, whether it was yours or mine I cannot say.
I was born in riddles - my father remains ignorant of my existence even now - so I apologize for the answer you wished to know but never received; questions find their home in my bloodstream, so like the oxygen that gives me life.
It is no wonder that between us we turned an ordinary morning into one laced with fading memories; you wanted to drive me insane just as much as I wanted to stay the way I was.

You were born into the straight and narrow cut of military life. The child of a pilot, you learnt to soar early and each summ

UntitledIt is midnight and on a coast somewhere past my typical safe zone, I leave my bones like trails to get back to something at least half-whole. Each breath feels like an icicle, hanging off my lungs like a parasite, feeding itself, consuming itself. I try to tell someone that this is not as painful as it is when one does not deserve it. But who wanders a threatened tide when they seek solace?
i think i felt one of the icicles drop, and melt in the middle of my insides, leaving my stomach not quite warm, but not quite cold. i am lukewarm and wishing that just for once i could be whole, a complete something rather than stuck in this middle ground of almost, but never quite. but i deserve it. i deserve it and that makes it okay i guess.
I think of all the hearts I wanted to caress, the cheeks that touched my temples and the smoke that filled my lungs after they left another's. My feet kick a shell and I feel it break against my skin like a fortune cookie. But tonight the ink has

blue velvet"i think it's better to be crazy and free."

she's sitting on the balcony of my apartment. her blue dress is dark against the edge of the sky and against the paleness of her thigh, against the glittering outline of the eiffel tower just outside my window. the weather is getting colder now, late autumn fading into early winter, and the wind dances through her choppy, curled hair.

i want her to close the door, for her to come inside. i want to say something to her, to say something back, but the words aren't forming in my mouth, are lodged somewhere between my tongue and my throat.

the light from my bedroom is soft gold against the edges of h

you still love himi.

the bare bulb flickers, and aurora's bones quiver, porous with constellations. she is named, she believes, for the mottled color of her skin: black, purple, green, yellow, and blue erupting on the pale night sky. when she tries to bend her arm, it hurts, and he says, "just rest. just rest. just rest."

they freeze over.

ii.

he meets daisy at the clinic. she is yellow in the cold but tans in the summer: blossoming daintily, shimmering with pollen, beautiful amongst the long wild grasses. she whispers and presses a flimsy little card onto his palm; "i can tell you're better than the others."

aurora accepts her methadone.

iii.

in the ar

He WasHe was a tad too much on the anachronistic side and I was almost rudely schizophrenic. He taught me that touch was a gift only death could bring for me. So I swam through film strips caked with silver bromide, that made my eyes red and smelled the way water does when you know you're going to drown, to leap towards this friend - this world - I was too far from to experience.

He felt my veins bulge - so transparent, so prominent - every time my fingers would mischievously curl into a fist in his luscious chocolatey locks. He would loosen and play with them as he would with stray strands of hair. When I would tell him that it hurt too much, he

i wish i was specialI.

ever since i can remember, my heart has been stolen by a big, bad wolf-boy. i had fallen prey to his big, brown puppy-dog eyes. i thought myself in a fairy tale or at least under a spell- his spell, as he could make me feel as weightless as a feather and as bright as the bluest of sunny skies. he always had me believing, day-dreaming that by the end of the dusty road, he would either transform in appearance or deed. sadly no dwarfs neither fairy godmothers nor glass or ruby slippers could be found by my side at the grand finale. there is only me left, teetering on the edge of a highway railing, acting oblivious to my own complete breakd

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Falling Sky
I'll run fingers over wrinkled paper,
feel where you pressed the pen too hard,
eager to make promises I knew you could never keep,
writing 'forever' in the way dreamers do.

Did you think that for all my realistic way of thought,
I wouldn't get intoxicated with how you tied our hands together,
held on tight and kept your head high?
(I can still feel the string wrapped around our fingers.)

And yes, I'll admit to falling,
but I've always known the ground was coming up.
I just didn't think it would be before I really had the chance
to fully close my eyes and pretend I was flying.

Perhaps you never realized how much of you I've got w

Foggy"Think you can keep up?"

He grins at her, and, suddenly, she finds she can't breathe.

"Psh, are you kidding? I can do this all day."

And he takes off past her, running down the pavement.

She woke to a slash of sunlight filtering in through the curtains, rays slowly sweeping away the cobwebs of sleep that dream-spiders had made in the night. Rolling over, she blinked, staring up at the ceiling and mentally prepared herself for another day.

"Favorite color?"
"Teal."
"…you mean blue."
"No, Teal's a specific shade of blue. That doesn't necessarily make it blue, unless you're being general."

He holds his hands up in surrender.

"Woah

OakRaw and naked, it stood,
stripped bare by the elements,
majestic in its simplicity.
Deadened arms threatened to fall,
swaying precariously with the wind,
tales of of others, lives and stories,
written in every crack on its body.
Dull, dry, diminished,
resigned to its fate of fading away,
content and at peace
with the years it weathered through.
Lonely on the hilltop,
waiting for the last chapter to close,
forgotten as the world rushed by,
and left it behind.

Early Sunday MorningsEarly Sunday mornings

has sunlight peeking through the curtains,

rays tickling my lashes and drawing me out

from underneath body-warmed sheets,

taking the sleep off my lids,

and leading me out to you.

Early Sunday mornings

see you still where you never left,

one hand wrapped around an empty mug,

Times New Roman imprinted, just-visible,

in your heavy, tired eyes,

their shine dulled by the laptop screen glow.

Early Sunday mornings

find us curled up on the couch,

with you giving me a sleepy smile

after I lean in close and quick,

stealing for myself an overdue kiss

from your lips still coffee-laced,

to taste the not-so-hidden wh

Wall
i. She's not alive.

But she's not dead yet, either. Not in the scientific sense of it. She moves and breathes and functions as normally as anyone else, but inside, inside she's anything but living.

ii. She's rotting inside.

Like all corpses, she can't do anything against deterioration. Outside, she's perfect/ohsoveryperfect/, but she's not, really. Never has been, and she doesn't believe she ever will be. She's all smiles and loud laughter, but if anyone bothered to notice, they'd see the way she'll never look into your eyes because she's terrified you'll see t

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by ~WhimsicalApocalypse, Jan 8, 2013, 6:00:23 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

_{If you were a story, you'd be several chapters long, with words that will tell of who you were, how you were and what you meant to me. Letters will paint the picture of how I remember you, and, if I flipped the pages fast enough, our tragedy will unravel and unfold fast; a motion capture of how you never came for me. And, after run-ons and paragraphs and so many full sentences, the last line would be a fragment, because that's the truth of what we became, what we are now and I don't know how to put it any other way. People will read it, read about you, and you and me, and when they reach the end, they will puzzle and ask where the missing pages are. I will take your book back (written for you, and only you, with your scent as the bookmarks, and your fragile smile as the spine), and my brittle mouth will curl as I try not to cry, and I will show them my empty pockets and tell them if only there were any.}

Overdueby ~WhimsicalApocalypse

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

#Glory-Be-Project Day #3 (posted late)

So my cousin, Ianna (

) linked me to this group: [link] and said that the challenge they propose might be a good idea to try out. I read the journal, and, needless to say (even if I'm not a part of the group

) I thought that it would be a great 2013 Resolution.

I've been faithfully keeping up on writing something everyday, starting January 1, and it's really, really nice, actually. My forte has always been more on vignettes and short stories and the actual poems that only come once in a while, so I've got a handful of lines, scattered bits of poetry and some flash fiction noted down from January 1, to January 8.

For any of you who enjoy writing, I suggest you join in, even though it's a little late.

It's a great way to take a breather, and get your mind to relax and work around creative blocks.

I'm not going to be submitting all of my Glory Be! entries, but I'll be submitting the most-okay-looking ones from the crop, so that I have some proof to show for my efforts and (hopefully) some progress.

Anyway, long comment is long, so, going to the entry:

Pretty lengthy, and I'm iffy with how many times the word 'pages' is repeated, but I'm not sure what other word fit in as well.

Feedback and reviews are very much appreciated.

`vespera Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

"our tragedy will unravel and unfold fast; a motion capture"

you mentioned maybe you said "pages" too much - what about for the first time, instead:

you'd be several chapters long

and/or on the third time you use it:

and so many full sheets

~WhimsicalApocalypse Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Oh gosh thank you so much for that suggestion! I think I'll go edit it that way.

And thank you for leaving a comment as well, glad you enjoyed it!

`vespera Jan 28, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

you're very welcome!

~Flummoxative Jan 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

It's an open group, I mean

~WhimsicalApocalypse Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Haha! Medj shy kasii. Maybe someday? XD

~Flummoxative Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

People are still welcome to catch up *pushshoveheeeeaaave*

~Flummoxative Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Gaga ka ba go go go!!

~Flummoxative Jan 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

We're related but... tangina mo.

I love this. He sucks but this is wonderful.

And the repetition of 'pages' can be easily remedied; maybe change the last two? Reword or rewrite those phrases? I'm actually a bit more iffy about how there seem to be a whole bunch of 'we's in the first half.

"Letters will paint the picture of how I remember you, and, if I flipped the pages fast enough, our tragedy will unravel and unfold fast; a motion capture of how you never came for me." --love how this flowed and that last line <//3

And that last stanza...

~WhimsicalApocalypse Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thanks a ton, hun.

I'll get around to editing this. Thanks for the feedback.

>

< Thanks so much.

Gosh, it's still strange to see my writing change. Like, I know I didn't write like this before, but at the same time, it's like "When did that happen?" XD

~Flummoxative Jan 14, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I understand and I'm happy for you.

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