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
Yoda"Solve grammar paradox.""Have not translator."
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.”
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.
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.
GreyI like the color grey;it's not black and it's not white,but sometimes it's a little blue.
On creating lifelike charactersYou died. But I willkeep writing your story untilyou begin to liveagain.
Arriving in ParisOh shit! I forgot my husband.
Six Word Story - MacabreBlood is washable with cold water.
Dispossessed Body for sale(soul not included)
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
...If...If we had more time,Maybe ...
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
Apocalyptic GenocideMy feet stumbled over the ground as I moved slowly along the dirt road. My feverish eyes searching for anybody else but ever since the invasion of those...things there hasn't been another in sight for what seemed like ages. I looked around as I began to gasp for the unreachable air surrounding me. Damn. It seemed like the invasion took everything, including the air from my lungs. It makes me wonder if I have any organs left since I haven't felt hungry or tired from all this walking. Or maybe I've gotten used to it.I leaned over and let out a groan as my body popped wickedly then gave out under me. I crashed into the ground, left there to stare at the infertile ground and to wonder if those things would kill me fast or slow. With a shake of my head and a pop leaving my neck, I struggled to stand back up onto my feet. The rags of my clothes gave no protection to the everlasting sunlight that bore down onto my head. This filled me with an unbearable rage but I kept it to myself.Two step
AsleepAsleepAugust 4, 2011Never restingMy weary eyesThere's too much flowingIn my mind.The world;It slumbers,While I ponder-Days worth livingCould be my shelter.To live againFirst I must fall.And I've fallen hardI'll build up my wall-Hide from the world.I'm hurting myselfWake up past thisConstant disdain(c)Michael Joseph DeCosta
Something Like OptimismHe loved the city most at night.Not midnight midnight was cliché, passé; midnight was for Cinderella, and he was never leaving this ball. The fog rolled into the San Francisco bay on a gentle wind, the slightest touch of cold ruffling through his hair. The golden bridge shone on clear nights but tonight it glowed, softened by the natural blanket and cast a smoldering warmth in the black.He cast one leg out, dangling over the lip of an abandoned, rather Victorian looking house. From here, his unobstructed view could take in the massive expanse of water on three sides and the distant gleam of a delirious nightlife, choking on its own heady essence. Somewhere, always in the background, the constant hush of lapping waves beckoned, rushing in and out, in and out, like a softer version of the fault quakes. The tang of salt on the breeze tickled his nose and mingled with distant aroma of Dungeness crab boiling on the Wharf.He leaned back, arms behind his head, resting on t
six word storyDon't cry,we'll decorate your wheelchair.
Murderer"Artist" is code for "Pencil Killer".
"Maybe," was All She could SayHe proposed with an Origami ring.
Too DeepYou're too deep to rip out.
Six Word StoryOnly six words?!How the hell
Marquis de Sade"Thanks for the pain.""My pleasure."
Fairy TalesYou're a Fairy? What's your tale?
Life in six wordsCries, laughing, hoping, searching, finding, silence.
Six word StoryOnce upon a time, they lived.
ApocalypseLast human.Facebooking.No new posts.
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