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A Love Story in Four Actsi.
I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.
Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."
Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.
My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.
Mrs. LubonekNobody knew how old the Luboneks were, but they’d lived at the top of Pecan Hill since before Cumberland was built, and the town grew up around them. Mr. Lubonek had a voice like gravel and always smelled of engine grease, sweat, and the gritty scent of someone whose friends were machines and whose family were the tools he kept in the shed. Mrs. Lubonek was airy as a bird and every bit as flighty, yet there was a sharp, witty glint in her eye that you only caught if you were looking for it.
The Luboneks lived a simple, dusty life atop Pecan Hill. Mr. Lubonek ran a small mechanic shop out of his garage and Mrs. Lubonek sold baked goods.
I buildOne day, something changed.
I had always been able to hear the sound of the servomotors beneath my skin; I had always been able to feel the shape and temperature of the deck rail beneath the sensors on my fingertips. I had always been able to infer, by vibration and heat, where in a given space a supervisor might be.
I had always known, but now I knew.
Something had been building.
Things build. The sciences build. Mathematics builds, calculus on algebra on arithmetic. Physics builds on mathematics. Chemistry builds on physics, biology builds on chemistry, psychology builds on biology.
The sciences build, becoming more diffuse as they do,
seasons' changesi. last fall
i had my heart torn apart
by a boy- one who replaced
his ripped bluish-gray jeans
(that i loved on you)
for brown corduroy pants to keep him safe
from the coming harshness of winter;
even through its irrational number
of hail and rainstorms,
i don't believe i felt
or recalled a thing about that fall;
for it was during that fall that not even the howling of the winds
could help shatter my dangling,
and our growing, cathartic distance.
i, too, had to adjust as i was forced
how to make due
without the heat of your arms
over and around my nape
i'm not sure if it w
in dark eyeethereally floating there
envying the lust of life
luridly at a rolling boil
expansive outcome of supernova
distant alluring signal
behind fine line lashes
comet trails pioneer the iris
tease of civilizations incalculable
ancient creation secrets born anew
granted before wish uttered
just a shy blink leaves me
ethereally floating there
Animal Ridges1. Nervous Moments
2. Dusk Settling
3. Meandering Landscapes
4. Lover's Alibi
5. Polka Dots
6. Starlight Echoing
7. Hopeless Dreaming
8. Summer Warnings
9. Summer Waters
10. Breaking the Veil
11. Slipping Sunbeams
12. Painting Moonlight
13. Lurking Li
Selkie There is a fisherman sitting on a rock by the shore; his forlorn grey eyes watching grey clouds rolling over apathetic grey waves, and beyond, a grey horizon.
He sits with empty hooks, empty nets, empty stomach, wrapped in layers of clothes like broken shutters that do not keep the chill out. Young and tan, he is, skin chapped by the wind, broad shouldered and well muscled from breaking his back dawn to dusk.
That must be all he knows, a grey life of work and water.
come to the shore,
and I will meet you there.
I am velvet,
I am smooth.
come down to the water.
Dead Bird HeartI never noticed the way ash looks like feathers.
I become aware of the shores where my body
folds to meet itself, doubles over so that my hair
seems to grow like roots into the ground
keeping me from ever lifting my head again.
Of all the things she told me, she missed this one:
what to do with the ashes.
Hers is a dead bird heart—
grey-haired and grey-feathered.
She is paler than she has any right to be,
But her eyes are open, and she can see the sky
where a roof once was.
Sky PebblesThe sky,
a sloped portrait,
grazes the horizon;
shooting stars skip past Scorpio's tail,
CharlieI had a stalker.
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He
my body is a funeral servicethis morning i emptied your ashes into the sky, hoping to watch them sift through my fingers like an eagle taking flight. but the wind carried them backwards and my face became an ashtray for memories. you came back to me, like you always do, like a kiss or a reoccurring dream that i can never forget. i became cloaked in black grain, the remnants of your body. your cremated smile was caught somewhere between the stinging in my eyes and the ash on my jacket.
in that moment my body became a funeral service. my lips preached your names to the trees. i forgot what it was like to feel anything but hymns pressing down on my back like the heat of t
The Power of RejectionA chasm opens between the dream of success and the fear of rejection. It can be impassible, the Grand Canyon of risk deterrents. And so many choose to never cross it, deciding it is much better to stay on the dream side than to hazard having hopes dashed against the cavern floor below.
The fear paralyzes. It rockets hearts into throats, becomes a mountain, elicits a high-pitched shriek of terror at the very thought of trying to take on the possibility of rejection. It keeps drawings secreted away in sketchbooks or songs buried five folders deep on a desktop creations labored over and loved but never given the chance to be loved by oth
Of Birds and Wings.Mr. Chuges was a man that didn't like going astray--he had never strayed from the normality of life and would never plan to, that's for sure. He was a man who would rather expect what would follow to having to deal with surprises and turbulances. Mundane prosaism was enough for him to be satisfied. His appearance gave out that much; mahogany, dull eyes which reflected no light, no life, looked through a pair of perfectly-squared, thick glasses. His lips were usually set on a hard line, their corners never lifting up to even fake a smile. A short, pointed beard covered the tip of his chin, giving him an austere look that made his students flin
Home is Where the Guns Go OffWe dwell in places no one prefers to live: rundown apartment complexes; dangerous housing projects; poorly zoned business districts with warehouses cutting through residential landscapes, most of which sit vacant from the boom that never happened.
A dozen quarter mile barrios, a single community divided amongst its self; each sector being fiercely guarded by angry, misguided youth. They protect something,worth truly nothing, for reasons hardly above reproach, where the average response time is an hour-twenty and the speed limit is eighty-five.
This is the land of concrete and graffiti; broken knuckles and bloody lips; the place where gun fi
SentientBitsy, heedless of the human directing the gentle shower at the corner garden, moved in. Her ruddy chest, falling to a smoky white, dipped repeatedly; snapping up scurrying insects with efficient precision. Her mother watched in anxious fascination from the safety of a juvenile oak some distance away. Her father was more interested in a neighbor encroaching on his territory and flew at his rival with grim determination.
The mother, the first sentient in her line indeed, in her race, remained nameless; no one proceeding her capable of such abstract processes as naming. Bitsy was the only one
JoyceHaving kicked the man in the balls and relieved him of his belongings, Joyce wasn't quite sure what to do next. She could run, but he might come after her the next minute. If she tied him up here, in the middle of nowhere, he might be eaten by wolves; or starve to death. Besides, she didn't have any rope. She could kill him... perhaps. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
'What am I to do with you?' she sighed.
'Well,' he groaned while giving her a look that sent shivers down her spine, 'You can run, but that won't help you, cause I will find you! So you just wait another few minutes until I get back up again - and I mean úp- and t
BailoutThis work of fan fiction contains characters, ideas, situations, and places found in the Hasbro Studios series "My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic". No infringement of copyright is implied by this work of satire and parody, and this work is meant as a celebration of the people involved in the creation, development, and production of the series.
Written by The Descendant
Ponyville City Hall Fixture
Sweet Apple Acres Farm and Marina
Dear Mayor Mare,
It was wit' no small amount of disappointment that we received yer' newest letter o' sympathy, madam mayor. While yer' elocution wa
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More