OverexcitedSparkling vampire mauled by ADD fangirl.
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Mourning“It’s not like that; there’s nothing wrong with mourning your wife. Everyone deals with it in their own way. But now – sometimes. . . It’s just that sometimes you get this look on your face that’s less I wish she were here, and more I wish I were with her, and that scares me a little bit.”
Yoda"Solve grammar paradox.""Have not translator."
On creating lifelike charactersYou died. But I willkeep writing your story untilyou begin to liveagain.
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
Fragments1. Your clockwork appendages were cold to the touch, the industrial complex you called your mind was grating gear against gear where the unoiled works kept clacking away; your heart was a tick-tocking machine that counted the hours while the corrosion settled in.2. "You know what you need?"No.""You need an adventure. Let's go have one."3. I wanted to hold the thunder in glass jars and write long letters on faded parchment; instead I applied to retail stores to fuel my obsessions for the easily consumed and quickly forgotten.4. He turned at the sound of my camera snapping, just in time for me to capture the expression on his face curious, unguarded.5. I believe I'm hollow inside I believe everything that comes out of my mouth is nothing more than the brontide of all the stones I've swallowed.6. She didn't want to say anything if she interrupted now, his epiphany would be lost and they really needed to get the wormhole working.All the same, the hatchet in her
I am a tiger.I am a tiger:I camouflage myself in crowdswith fingerless glovesand white headphonespumping urban melodies.I am a tiger:I don't belong to concrete citiesor country pastures,but to dark cornersand abandoned ruins.I am a tiger:I have stripes on my wristsand am hunted for sportby men with fragile egos,sated by destruction.I am a tiger,endangered,and my stripes have made me strong.
RevisionI hear each altared word;dipped in borrowedthought, encumberedas the candle's wick,my vigil lights, unlit.
The Glass BeesWatching kids going down the long slideto happiness on the spines of literary classics,fortified with university degreesand an eye for semantics;I think of a beehive populated with glass bees,buzzing endlessly in pollen thoughtsof a priori logic and feminist criticisms.This hive is transparent, a reflection of nature in glass;Better for the machine, and more efficient too.But transparency is a complaintSaved for children who can't hide their class.Instead with these kids; he's reading SalingerAnd she's reading Woolf;And they're pushing prams off the backs of broken bank-cheques.The bees never tire of their toilBecause the streets grow bottles of Bacardi,And like everything fantasticBecome a Saturday night habit-Filling their glass frames with yellows,Reds and Blues: dewy pollen drops orThe early signs of alcoholism.So kids grew tired of trivial pursuit in twenty ten,With the internet pandemic and hockey sex scandal,And I instead thought of beehives thrivin
Love: PiecesIn the dresser beside the desk, he stored the memory of her embrace.On the desk beneath the window, he kept a photo of her smile.Over the window next to his bed, he draped her tears he had stolen.And under the bed behind the door, he hid the heart he was given.
Arriving in ParisOh shit! I forgot my husband.
Six Word Story - MacabreBlood is washable with cold water.
Dispossessed Body for sale(soul not included)
...If...If we had more time,Maybe ...
Human After AllDear inner consciousness, I'm not sure this will work, but it's worth a try.I know it's hard on you. Doing what's morally right, not doing what you want, whenever you want. I'd rather procrastinate and laze my life away instead of trying these horrifically productive activities that you force me into. I'd rather throw all my responsibilities into the trash, instead of being bound by endless promises.Then I know that you get tired sometimes, restraining my wild emotions and my tendency to run into walls. (Which I'm told comes to everyone at some point in their lives) We've all heard the cliché, "I'm trying to discover myself," but broken tape or not, there's a reason why it's cliché. I get a little depressed here and there, jealous of "that girl next door," and feeling very insignificant to the universe. Then again, there are moments where my head inflates bigger than a hot air balloon, so it bala
Wax and white feathersValentin is careless and flawless and passionate, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it.He came into my creative writing class in December of my freshman year, strolling in from the frigid winter morning, his ash-blonde hair wet with melted snowflakes, laughing and talking to some unnamed friend in a language none of us understood on his phone. Though his phone was duly confiscated and his mood crushed, we never forgot that first image of him wandering in from the snow.He told the two of us sophomores that he'd be a writer someday, and both of us believed him because we were the youngest of the whole group. Even as the snow continued to fall harshly, painting the school grounds pure and white, I saw him with a black notebook and a pen, a lighted cigarette between two fingers, perched on the school's concrete fence, writing words only he would read, sometimes in a language and alphabet different from ours. Every so often he'd take a drag, but never did he stop writing.Valentin
six word storyDon't cry,we'll decorate your wheelchair.
Murderer"Artist" is code for "Pencil Killer".
Six Word Story"Don't die.""Don't kill me.""Touché."
"Maybe," was All She could SayHe proposed with an Origami ring.
don't let it see you watchingoh god, don't open that door.
Too DeepYou're too deep to rip out.
NeighborsRemove barbed fences when disasters hit.
Marquis de Sade"Thanks for the pain.""My pleasure."
Six Word StoryOnly six words?!How the hell
ApocalypseLast human.Facebooking.No new posts.