[x]

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.”

Hardback TextbooksIn retrospect, Gender Studies wasn't the best class for a non-confrontational student. But it was too late to drop now; there was no way she'd get her deposit back. She pretended to study her textbook very hard, trying to filter out the class discussion going on around her. Why did the professor have to use discussion circles?

"I'm just saying, if a chick is, you know, wearing fishnets and a halter top, mini-skirt halfway up her knee, slinking around all skanky, you can't really blame a guy. She obviously wants it - if she looks like she wants it – "

The book snapped shut. That was enough. She gripped the textbook in one hand and threw

Wildflowers, Imperfect BirdsI breathed your name like wildflowers under vast broken skies, in wide-open spaces. The wind blowing through them spoke of dew and dirt and petrichor, and there was sunlight on the ground like a mosaic patterned by god's own hands.

I said it like a monarch claiming new land: a declaration, a butterfly breath over old earth; like it was coffee on a warm morning with the sun in my eyes, interlacing with my lashes; like it was a dream; like it was a prayer like it was a miracle wrought of air and bone and body: you, in, out, in, out, in and in and in.

I cried it out like an earthquake between lip and lip, continents that don't quite fit: 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

SandcastlesI want to know your hands like I want your hands to know the wrecked coastline of my body, knotted kelp hair and driftwood spine, shell pink skin and sea glass eyes. Your hands are made for building sandcastles from leftovers; I have all the materials you’ll ever need if you’ll just make me beautiful.

GreyI like the color grey;
it's not black and it's not white,
but sometimes it's a little blue.

Waiting for YouI don’t mind waiting for you. When you’re lonely, any meaningful conversation is worthwhile. Even the kind you have to wait an hour or two for. Maybe especially that kind. The kind you stay up late for, reading to pass the time, or constantly glancing at the clock, hoping. The kind you walk around the block a few times for, even in the cold. The kind you would have over tea if you could but you can’t because you’re both going home and you’re tired of the day but not of each other and, you know, one cup wouldn’t hurt.

A suicide saved.I found her in the bathtub, once,
and as I hauled her out by her shivering
arms all I said was

"you look beautiful in red."

As though a compliment could somehow
lighten the mood.

Escape VelocityF = G(m1m2)/r2

Black – true black – is the absence of light. Darkness is defined by what it is not, by the lack of something else. When we say a black hole, we truly mean that; black. Blacker than black. An absence of not only light, but of time, distance, anything.

The night was scary when I was little. I hated the dark, but couldn’t bear to sleep so long as the light was on, any light, burning on the other side of my eyelids. I used to have nightmares about dark things in dark corners, shadowy figures with shadowy fingers trailing along my spine. I always woke up cold and fumbling frantically for the lamp, but the aura o

lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.
i have always loved words as you love the sea
but i have grown to hate
prepositions
because i have always had words
about you
with you
to you--
but never for you.
words for everything
except you.
but i have words for this, so
i'll take them
one by one.
about.
the ocean was your first love and
i could always see it in your eyes.
most would call them blue--just
blue
like a swell over a sandbar
blue like the spring sky over a poppy field.
but i don't think anyone
got as close as i did and they're not blue
not shorebound and
safe--
they're gray like the steelbellied sea itself
like the horizon at dawn as it
encircles you
hems you into an impossibly vast canvas
like a demarcation line
or a promise.
one you always chased.
with.
maybe i had a streak of ocea

Euros' InfernoIn a smoke blanket
mistaken for overcast, he
wraps us –
the wind, undoing –

and the old gum tree writhes
against him, but
we sit inside
with our homes on fire.

He's Not Heavy1.
Sometimes,
I don't want to be
a mother.
Sometimes, his big blue eyes
are just barely enough
to ground me.

There are nights,
I want to pack a suitcase,
walk out the door,
and never ever look back.

There are mornings,
I want to throw the baby
monitor against the wall,
watch it shatter,
and pull the covers back
up over my head.

2.
Sometimes,
I see him watching me,
silently, in the corner
of my eye,
and when I finally turn
to face him,
he smiles.

Sometimes, he climbs into
my lap, rests his head on
my breast and pats the arm
I've draped across his
legs-

without words, he teaches
me how to forgive.

For the love of birdsThree little birds pitch on my doorstep.
I keep them in a jar
because
nothing I have is truly mine.

I am only the lonely,
waiting for it to come back to me.

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

the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebbles
and my veins are thick with ink
so i'll bleed out all my lovesongs
wash them down the kitchen sink
and i'll tell you that i'm leaving
and i'll flee this soulless town
for the silent sea is calling
and i'm not afraid to drown
and i'll search out quiet islands
let the blank horizons be
drench my soul in every ocean
sink my heart in every sea.

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The Dying Season IIHazel cider eyes
like a pumpkin light
glance out the empty window.
No crunching footsteps chart the driveway;
no cast away candy wrappers decorate the weeds.
The table is set with ginger snaps
and cinnamon rolls sticky with glaze.

Melancholy
is two caramel apples,
a mug of spiced tea,
and no one to share with.
The candy apple red stains on her wrists
fade and return, dependent on the ratio
of bitter to sweet. She nearly
trips over the cat in her distraction.

Her lips are frosted with dark chocolate.
She re-lights the candle on her porch,
snuffed out by the wind.
Distant laughter from bedsheet ghosts
and cardboard wing angel

A Song DeferredWhat happens to a song deferred?

Does it die in the throat
like a sentence unheard?
Or stutter like a car engine dying
and then fade away before even trying?
Does it trip over itself like a first-time performer?
Or choke on the notes
like a poorly cooked order?

Maybe it just falters and dies
like a newborn fawn wounded.

Or does it continue, boldly but muted?

Fragments - Nostalgia Edition1. I wrote it a thousand times on my 1940's typewriter, practiced the words mentally a million times, mouthed the sentence into my pillow every night for years – but only said it once, aloud, to your casket.

2. Every tea party with my eight year old little sister was a very civil war. I wore my sunhats like helmets and my lace gloves like gauntlets, my tablecloth was my battle flag, and the first (and last) battle began with the final cookie and ended with time out on opposite sides of the house.

3. He used to build birdhouses and hand-size coffins in woodshop class. Never clocks or derby cars, nor trinket boxes or small bookshelves. O

The Dying SeasonHazel cider eyes
and bone-deep, soul-deep shadows
haunt her dusty footsteps.
Earthy whispers and the crackle
of decayed foliage
gorge a hollow grave for themselves,
taking possession of the bittersweet
core in her chest.

Melancholy
is two caramel apples,
a mug of spiced tea,
and no one to share with. The lingering
hex he left is a permanent solstice;
she waits for the equinox
dance where ghosts become tangible
and the candy apple red stains
on her wrists aren't so noticeable.

Her lips are frosted
shut like wrought iron gates
creaky with disuse. Distant
church bells toll the midnight
hour; she tastes ash

The number you have reached is Divine.The last payphone in the world was located on the corner of Rose and Hernandez somewhere in the southwestern United States. It was oddly well-maintained for such an outdated piece of technology, complete with corkscrew style silver cord. But this wasn't what made it special.

No, what made it special was that the last payphone in the world, on the corner of Rose and Hernandez, was a direct connection to God.

Miguel didn't know this when he picked up the receiver of course, fumbling about in one pocket for the right amount of change. He inserted his quarters and held the phone to his ear as he punched for the operator, drumming his fingers on

Relative ValueI wasn't going to write this letter. I saw it as part of an online challenge to write a letter to a teacher and you were the first person I thought of, but I was going to pass on it. I was reading the book you let me check out, "Creative Nonfiction," and I was on the bit about lyric and reflective essays at the time and I used the packet you gave us at the start of the year as a bookmark and remembered that I was going to be writing a lot of reflective things this year. Maybe the universe really wanted me to try my hand at this prompt.

I still wasn't going to write this letter, but then I remembered that I never did write the first essay of

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voiceless

by =SilverInkblot, Jan 21, 2013, 12:05:26 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

_{i.
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.}

voicelessby =SilverInkblot

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

This was one 55 word story, but sometimes not even I can compress that much

There was clearly too much material, so I split it into two stories; one about losing your voice and one about finding it. 55 words each.

I like this one a lot

#Glory-Be-Project Day 21

~ghearradh May 11, 2013 Student Writer

_{your lovely poem has been featured here: [link]}

=SilverInkblot May 11, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

~ghearradh May 11, 2013 Student Writer

_{you deserve it. c:}

~ghearradh May 8, 2013 Student Writer

_{this is so lovely.}

=SilverInkblot May 8, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

~skybirdshadows May 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

wow this is really fantastic

=SilverInkblot May 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

~skybirdshadows May 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

you are most welcome

~Flummoxative Feb 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

I love the concept. This is lovely.

=SilverInkblot Feb 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you

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voicelessby =SilverInkblot

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