I don't have anything to do for the next four days soooo, I'm going to do a feature or two, as suggested by introverted-ghost In my usual weekend features, I make an effort to showcase lesser-known pieces or authors, so this is a good excuse to show off the stuff I either wouldn't otherwise, or that I've featured before and feel deserves another look. With a few pictures to break up the monotony

Features!

bad timing.you sat next to me on a crowded bus. you told me you were in love with a girl three thousand miles away but she didn't love you back. you told me she could of but you had bad timing and told her you loved her too late. you were a stranger then and you are still a stranger now. i told you one time i was in love and now because of it i cant listen to certain songs and i cry myself to sleep some nights. you told me that i should find a new person to love because it eases the pain.
you asked for a phone number to call me at. then you asked me to be your friend. i told you i wasn't good at that. you told me you would call me despite the fact.
you called me three days later at six oh three in the morning. my alarm clock had just gone off and i answered the phone to a voice i hardly recognized from our ten minute conversation. you said 'hi, my name is andrew and we met on a bus.' i told you that my name was stella and asked you why you were calling so early. 'i thought of something funny, a j  leavingleaving is a can that you
kick around in the street
because it's been a long day
& it makes you feel better.
some days you kick it
harder, longer than others,
& some days there just
aren't enough cans or streets.
but the thing about leaving
is that when the
street lights come on,
you always end up going home.  wrists that roarmama says
pull down your sleeves
they'll see, they'll see
but no-one's even looking
i say mama
tigers are proud and strong
and tigers show their stripes
so today i'm a tiger
and who says
i can't be a tiger
when razors made me fierce
and secrets kept me lonely
who says
i can't tiger-roar
when everything unsaid
ripped my throat raw
i made my stripes
with tiger-claws and tiger-teeth
so damned if i'm not a tiger
and damned if i won't roar
mama, i'm a tiger
mama, hear me roar

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Out of ThymeIt wasn't until after she died that Trevor realized he couldn't cook.
The realization came six months after the funeral, when all the casseroles and baked goods were eaten and when all the flowers had long wilted, but before the critical time when he knew that it was time to box all her things away and donate them. He had started to do that, but when he got to her clothing, he couldn't take it anymore and the job was left unfinished.
There was no sudden moment of epiphany for him. He was able to cook simple things-spaghetti, soup from a can, microwave dinners, pasta and sausages, things like that. But as he stood over the stove, stirring his noodles, his eyes fell on the spice rack by the oven. It was made from wood and carved with whorls and loops-a unique piece which she had chosen from a craft fair and likely overpaid for the honour of owning. It was too small for her collection of spices; they were crammed in and had to be stacked two jars high.
The spice jars were covered in a lig  intersectionMy father's hair is gray now.
I'm not sure if it was the elevator
or that realization that caused
the lurch in my belly.
There's a little plastic container
on the bathroom counter, housing
blue, yellow, beige pills, designed
to slow the body's inevitable breakdown.
There are lines around my father's eyes now -
I feel his loneliness echoed in my chest,
in the mirror as I prepare for bed.
A blurry, half-remembered moment,
smudged with time, of sitting on his strong
shoulders, laughing in the sun,
so sure that he would always be able
to hold me up to touch the sky.
We live this half-baked life now,
circling each other, moments intersecting,
brief, our real lives hours away, with our
other families, and his silver hair,
little pills, sad eyes make me terrified
that we missed our chance, started
too late, and I will never be
daddy's little girl again.  quiet'horricos' was the first word to pass her lips. she wrote long before she could speak and her parents were afraid she was mute. they didn't care that at a young age she was able to write- simply that their child was different; wrong. after she spoke her first word they inquired to what it meant. she looked at them with wonder and a sadness not to be felt by such a young little soul and did not say a word. they got angry at her and stormed off, spewing hurtful words that meant little to her. after she spoke her first word she did not speak again for a long time.
'horricos' was the only word she spoke at her fathers funeral. she was now in her teens and the fact that she never spoke put people off more than before. as a little girl her parents brushed it off as a phase to all their friends. brushing her off. however, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that she was different; wrong. her writing was now polished and eloquent and her teachers wondered how it was possibl
love is coming home--i don't write about God.
i don't write about God because it's writing about love, it's writing about faith, it's writing about trust and hope and belief and pain, the kind of gut-wrenching betrayal you feel when you've given up and you're waiting for someone to save you, only nobody ever does.
and who else are you going to blame?
it's easy to write about a God you don't believe in. it's easy to pour out all your hate and anger and hurt and deepest, darkest broken fears and fling them from your fingertips and scream, this is not God! it's easy to believe in nothing.
it's not easy to believe.
believing is opening yourself to the pain. it's letting go and falling back with your eyes closed, your heart in your throat because you can't see whether there's anyone waiting to catch you. and what if you hit the ground? what if there are no hands waiting to embrace you? what if there's nobody waiting at the beginning, when you finally turn around ready to try again; what if there's  Paradise by the Toilet LightOf all the places she anticipates finding it, it's not on the toilet. Technically she muses, it isn't on the toilet though. She is. It's in the roof. It makes sense, she supposes, that you'd hide it somewhere that people wouldn't look for it. But still, it's a little unexpected.
She's just noticed that Heaven is in the skylight in her bathroom.
She's not sure how long it's been there, but she counts herself lucky that she decided not to hose it out recently. Typical, though, that she let Steven borrow her ladder. She flicks the light switch on and off, checking to see if it's a trick of the light, but it makes no difference. She waves timidly up at the foot-square hole. Sorry.
She closes the toilet lid and sits heavily, looking up. It's kind of pearly, she thinks. It sure had the white light, and the swirling mist. It seeps out of the far left corner and fades to nothing in front of her nose. Maybe she's having a Xanadu flashback. That would explain the fluff on the toilet seat, and th  BeliefBelief
She tells him the child is not his.
The old women mutter and cluck
as they slap wet cloth against river stones.
He wraps his arms around his chest as though he fears
he will also sprout with child. "A dove,"
he quietly asks? She points to a blood spot
on her cheek. "He pecked me here." It still hurts
when she touches it. It always hurts.
He loves the child, the cuckold's hatchling. He loves his lying wife.
But he knows she lies. When the old men stumble
into the stable, beards matted, coarse as grain,
he simply mutters, "Drunks," bad wine, betrayal.
One afternoon as he saws cedar planks, sawdust thick as pollen,
an angel catches his hatchling as he falls from a branch.
"I shaped the angel out of air," he thinks, so desperate
to believe that a dove pecked his wife, and she swelled with child.

Bitlets 12If hitchhikers were any younger
they'd skip hopscotch across
states and provinces; instead
they play four-square
in the same four counties
close to their home town
because they lost their sense of wanderlust
when they bought a map of North America
and drew stars on where they wanted to go,
but never made the effort to take it
out of the glove compartment.   The Great FrancusSee, now, a house.  It’s a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage.  A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle.  It’s spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawn’s looking fairly green.
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design.  Go further.  A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, it’s in the budget.  There’s a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that morning’s paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it.  A dining room with a nice chandelier that’s there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class.  There’s a drawing room, too, with ni
FFM 7I don't approve of your new lifestyle.  I know they say couples need separate interests, but you like opera and I like pop - that's enough.  I know you're a strong, independent woman.   I don't even object to the serial killing, really; just the vital organs in Tupperware containers in the fridge.  It's not hygenic.   Cutthroat KidI learned the word first from a song; my English teacher later defined it unintentionally in a lesson. And the word consumed me. I wrote it on the bathroom walls of my godforsaken school. I whispered it into the darkness of my room while I laid in bed, plagued with insomnia. I carved it into my windowsill on a particularly dry and chilled Sunday morning. And I remembered how good it felt...to write it and speak it and carve it. Somehow I felt more alive afterward.
Cutthroat.
To anyone else, just a simple word. But to me...this word in a sense kept me sane. Because it was me. And until this word, I didn't know who the fuck I was. I don't think I could've survived high school without it. The word gave me a sense of power, perhaps even entitlement. And above all, it gave me a reason.
I bought a switchblade.
I didn't set out to buy one; it wasn't my intention. My eyes just kind've settled on it, and everything around me sort of got tuned out. And then there it was, in my hand. And I was ha

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<da:thumb id="216207192"/>  MarigoldsI.
She braved the marigold patch
once a week
a decision all claimed was wise
You're lost
this will set things straight
he will be your guide
II.
There was a narrow path
less marigolds grew there
the apartment awaited
at the end of the path
its owner grew to be a friend
Over lemonade
they discussed possibilities
new beginnings
how lovely
how wonderful
it is to trust each other
as friends (except deeper)
as equals (except closer)
against the backdrop
of such a chaotic world
III.
Some weeks later
blinded by the harsh sun
she dared not look down
a hand skimmed her thigh
On her way home
the marigolds burned her eyes
like fire
as an odd feeling swept over
worm-like
it crawled through
It's just the sun in my eyes
just the fog in my head
that made time stop
and voices disappear
IV.
Marigolds again.
She picked one
mindlessly ripping
each petal
Familiar doors opened
his blond hair created a halo
lit just so
smiling
I'm so glad you came
The worms slithered further
fingers crossed
silent prayers w  Process of eliminationLungs.  Underdeveloped at birth. Asthmatic.  But some strong exercise in formative years. Played in the brass section. Took preventative and relieving asthma medication. Non-smoker.  Never had pneumonia.  No exposure to asbestos.  Safe enough.
Skin.  Some defined tanning, damage to the skin's pigments by the strong sun.  Plenty of moles dotted all over.  But never went shirtless, did not have the body for it.  Wore hats, wore sunscreen, sought shelter.  Twice-yearly skin checks with advanced equipment by an African doctor whose own black skin was much better suited to Queensland living. Still some well-minimised risk remained.  Remembering Bob Marley.
Heart.  Always thought that would be the thing to give out before my time, like Joe Strummer's, like my grandmother's.  Strong family history.  But with technology improving all the time and changes i