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A Poem Anent EvilTo balance such dissymmetry
Was fated here soliloquy
(as pigeon is by name a dove,
and philters that by altar wine )
His mingling with this verse, thereof
Makes dissonant polyphony.
Love-pinkened cheek and petal’d prose
(chemical by Bodenstein)
By bloom-robbed breast Hegemone’s
O, mercy for the compass rose !
For East of Here lies Valentine.
Shattered Stories: Lovesick On that fateful night, Fitzwilliam donned his hat of tinfoil, which threw a becoming shadow over his mild features; fixed it at a rakish angle, and stepped outside. Wheatley, the butler, opened a Chinese umbrella to shelter his master, though it was not raining. The waning sun, which stained the landscape port wine, was still quite in danger of ruining Fitzwilliam’s peaches-and-cream complexion. Fitzwilliam was led to his stallion by the butler, all parties presently looking blue as bottles cast beneath the tinted light of the parasol. Wheatley mounted the saddle with style and offered his unemployed hand to Fitzwilliam. The smartly-dressed youth squirmed his way up the horse’s great side, struggling not to get the horse’s horsiness all over his dinner jacket. Nothing spoiled a party quite like the perfume of topical flea medicine layered with laudanum, of which the latter Fitzwilliam dabbed behind his ears for special occasions.
As the noble
Ann Won't EatEmbracing your cello, you take up less space
Than the hollow-boned spruce, bow firm and melodic,
Your hair falling out
All over the strings.
Happy concertos hang on the rafters
Just as you yearned for yourself
A less-permanent proxy for you;
Watching and smiling,
The wooden beams modelling
What we pine for, and though you decline
A ticket to the theater,
Maybe it's possible you can
Find laughter here on the ground-
Because it's funny, like we say all the time
We can't even feed ourselves
How were you supposed to feed the baby?
And maybe it was rape,
But how pure were you to begin with?
You still love him, and
You can't undo that like
He undid you.
It's becoming clearer to me these days
That I won't see you again
Just as I said
Though you didn't really believe that,
It hurts when you're wrong.
So carve your arm up, I love you,
I dare you.
And callous your
Because maybe it's not so flawed
Because wrong can be measured in degrees
Like the cold of your
Winter SweetEyes aglaze; digits icing over
With death in the periphery
An avalanche of downy notes
Flutter by on paper motes
We make snow angels in the dusk
And cake ourselves with frosting coats
AnorexiaOpaque as ocean
Heavy as feather-
Tied to the tether.
Veins that chain
Rip at the wrist!
Bones that bind
Fingers in fist.
For what I can't be-
A soul that can love
What eyes cannot see!
Beast in the KingdomMy watch, a testament to Time, ticks tenaciously. The delicate click of teeth meeting tooth; the beat of a miniature heart. A resonance I recognize from elsewhere-
The mouse lay shivering in the warmth of my palm
The miniscule vessels, chambers, and veins; struggling to pump the precious fluid that slows with every life-shattering breath.
Yes, it is-undoubtedly-the insignificant vibrations of the mouse's beating heart that sound so alike to the timepiece that touches my very veins- both ticking down the time they have left; becoming unwound.
Finding"I wanted nothing more than to grab the envelope and tear it open violently. Nothing has been more excruciating, in my sixty-odd years of existence, than watching Irene unhurriedly study the translucent cerulean envelope, black ink penetrating the waxy paper in places, adorned with stamps of faces marred by the Postal Service. Upon opening the letter, we understand we'd been nothing more than naïve children. We were pawns, utterly disposable."
Helena"I used to wonder, with childlike curiosity, if her hair burned her ears and neck if it were to go unwashed too long. Only on Sunday night, when she bathed, I was convinced the fire was quenched. When she thought no-one was looking, she'd pull out her tortoiseshell hairpins and let her auburn hair flicker in the dimming summer light; we watched, fascinated, through the age-warped windowpanes as they silhouetted a widow aflame."
AblazeThe August heat suffers us equally
Hot, alive, awake
Oh, how infernal flame awakens the senses!
A cancer, a welcome plague, eating flesh and charring bone
Too proud to fight, I embrace the heat
Consent to its wavering ashen arms that wrap us in Summer's soma
Do not struggle or protest
When she fills my stinging eyes with tears of brackish ocean sweat
My Summer is a phoenix singing through the ashes of Winter
A scorching paramour, a blazing god
Wrathful and searing-sweet, feathers against my breast
Stay with me, and scar with me
Disfigure yourself; bond your flesh to mine
Melt and be melted, let go and fall
Together we'll pit Fire against Fire
And, because we are still among the Living
Watch the world we set ablaze
back then. | antonio fernandez carriedo
The Spaniard let out heavy sigh of distress. Two hours. He's been waiting for his date for two hours. Maybe more, but he doesn't really know — he lost track of time. What he was confident, however, was that he has waited for a long time. Otherwise his ass wouldn't be so sore right now. Antonio picked up his glass of water and sipped it, and then leaning back to his chair.
Maybe he wasn't ready for a relationship yet.
Maybe commitments.. aren't his thing.
A light buzz came off from his phone and sighing once more, he dug into his pocket and unlocked the screen to see a message from his date. The person who he hoped to share his future with — unfortunately not. Then again, was he even ready to be in a serious relationship? Was he even ready to share his story with someone else? He doesn't know anymore.
[Text] 11:39 PM: Hello! I'm so sorry that I couldn't come. I had work to do.
He frowned at the text. Antonio was conflicted whether he should beli
Valley's End RoadDo you ever wish you could un-see something?
It lay in pieces on the indigo pavement. Rain had washed away most of the blood, but what was left was brown and purple, and the exposed flesh, that rich interior muscle and ligature, was all pink and silver striation and shining through the varied grays of fur and fabric. A smell like dead fish wafted beneath everything.
My mind tried to reassemble it, like a grotesque jigsaw puzzle. That part of me was not working very well, being over-ridden by surging adrenaline, my thoughts drowned out by the hormonal roar in my ears. What I was looking at, what I wished I could un-see, made no sense. And it made me feel as though there were others, its brethren, its masters, some thing or things lurking behind the curtain of forest lining this isolated road.
I ran it often. Rarely after dark though. But I’d been certain my flashlight and my reflective armbands would see me home safely. I looked around and tried to get my beari
Why?"Why do you hang out with children so much? Doesn't it get annoying?"
"No, not really"
"Why? Why do you like them so much?"
"What's the reason most people tell you?"
"What's the answer you usually hear when you ask other people that question?"
"That they're small and adorable."
"That's a funny answer... puppies are small and adorable, kittens are small and adorable, even hedgehogs are small and adorable. So why hang out with loud kids when you can hang out with a small and adorable animal?"
"You're not answering my question."
"What do you think innocence is?"
"Innocent people don't know about the bad things in the world."
"Innocent people don't -act- on the bad things of the world. Whether they know about them or not. Children have a sort of forced innocence."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Have you ever seen a young child double-cross someone? Or lie and then not feel a single
The Game Player Challenges...Magic shows are not as popular on the television now as they used to be – not unless your name is David Blaine or Dynamo – but at one time they were the stalwarts of midweek television, and escape acts were a firm favourite. Nowadays, you find them on shows like Britain’s Got Talent, or in holiday parks, but on a recent show I saw a husband and wife act called The Carlisles – very good they were too.
And I should know – a few weeks previously I had visited them. Mister Carlisle is a successful writer, and my researches had suggested they were worth calling on. Those same researches had shown me, through the power of YouTube, just how good they were as well, so I made sure I went fully equipped.
It was a Sunday afternoon when I let myself into their house, and heard Mum and daughter talking. As I listened, it was clear that the ten year old was trying to persuade her mother she could be part of the act, if she learned her tricks, and
The Pyramid [17/100]A young girl trudges through the dust worn sand and clambers over the bricks of white stone, with pieces of its history flaking off. Higher she tries to climb the Great Pyramid but after a while, she can no longer go further and that is when she realizes that she is too high to make the climb back down.
Maybe it’s fear or maybe it’s just reluctance, but that girl sits down and decides instead to admire the view, hoping someone would save her.
Wooden stick clacks on stone and the girl turns to find an old man standing next to her, smiling softly.
“Do you mind if I join you?” the old man asks, tender and gruff.
The girl nods and the old man sits, his bones creaking into eternity.
“Sometimes,” the old man starts, “you just think you can achieve anything but half-way there, you run into problems. Ah, like you, I seem to not be able to continue any higher.”
“It’s too high,” the girl complains.
“Yes. Sometimes its
Off to Somewhere My mom seems to think that I have no worries at all. That I am supposed to be complacent. That I am supposed to be content. What more could she give me? She asks me this question everyday.
She asks me what I want to be when I grow up and tells me what to be in the same sentence. I'm not sure what answer to give her. The one she has given herself or the one I want to allow myself to say. Always, I give in. Arguments like these should be avoided.
Instead, I tell her I want to grow up first. I want to grow up fast. She says I would regret saying that because being a kid is so easy. You don't have to make important choices or be responsible for anything. Things are laid out for you. What she doesn't understand is I want the supposed difficulties. Then, I can be responsible for my own happiness. I want to choose my own happiness.
My aunts seem to think that I am taking everything for granted. That I should work harder. That I should ma
IThis battle... It wasn't started by me, and it won't be won by me. My existence will merely be remembered as a name; a name like any other, recorded in a book filled with many other names who have fought just like I have and who have died just like I will. My importance is only a number; my actions are only a victory; my life is only a time that the darkness was kept at bay.
My fate has been sealed; my destiny has been decided. My entire existence is meant for one thing and one thing alone: To keep this world in balance and to protect those of light from the creatures of darkness. This is what I was born to do; this is what I am meant to do.
So, what would one such as I do if the balance of this world is thrown into disarray? I would try to correct it, of course, but what if the cause of the chaos is by one creature- not a creature of darkness, but one of light? What if that single creat
Georgia, 1946"Damp night air and hot summer fear. Looking through the crosshairs while my face caught fire. Flex, shudder, pull, fall. Dust, moonlight, blood. The walk home though the long grass is unbearably uneventful. No serpent to bite or scorpion to sting. Just guilt, silence, dread. Hiss, hiss, the grass screams and clings to your ankles."
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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