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Bad HabitsS.

She always rubs her mouth,
like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.

Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.
Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.
Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.
Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fall

Summer SalutationsEyes open, blooming flowers as the sun sets the sky on fire and burns away all traces of that damp, grey, world caught in between yesterday's end and today's beginning.

Shout with joy all you that are green and growing, all who shake off with gladness your pale night's wrappings and raise your selves in the most ancient salute to the beginning of long days of light and life.

Send skywards your tears, your cold nightly sweat, the sticky beads of dew still clinging to your outstretched hands, reminding you of the dead world before and keeping the hot light from pouring into your eager cupped palms and dancing across your starving skin. Let it

the butterflyYou sit down in a cornfield a golden ocean surrounds you.
When the wind blows, he creates waves and dishevels your hair.
It smells like summer. It is Julie and the sun burns, the clouds are gone.
The yesterdays rain dried already and so the nature, reborn, after the long winter feels fresh and new.
Birds are twittering.
You smile and stretch your arms as high as you can.
Suddenly something lands on your fingertip.

It is a butterfly!

With a colour like a piece of the sky.
Softly, slowly it moves his wings to tank the heat.
He did just escape his homely safe cocoon and is fragile as a new bourn baby.
You don't dare to breath.

So flawl

UntitledIn the days of old when my mind was ripe and fresh, I was a romantic whose mind lived in a far off place no physical being can go. I read books like they were the very meaning of sustenance; they and they alone could give me life and bring me comfort in the darkest of times. Intuition tells me I would’ve gone on like that forever - collapsing into odd positions and folding into worlds outside my own when I didn’t want to deal with life, as though if I read long enough, I’d disappear into those worlds - had society’s rules and school’s workload not pulled me out of my trance violently and unforgivably. I had to ma

Deadly silenceArguing?
No, silence is the killer

SkyHunterLet me get one thing out of the way right now.

I do not have a latex fetish.

Or a rubber fetish, or a vinyl fetish. Nothing like that. I had a girl ask me that the other day. I was working, bagging groceries at this little store on Beacon. She noticed my yellow-white gloves and she asked me did I have a fetish for latex. I blinked, and told her no, I didn’t, it was because of a condition. She told me that it was okay if I called it a condition, that other people liked it too and that it was a normal part of being human. She then told me that she was more of a bondage person.

Her mother’s face ran scarlet.

There were days when

Haunted"I'm sorry," she says softly. The sky is black above, speckled and marred by the bright scattered peaks of stars. An empty field stretches out from her on all sides, grass swaying softly back and forth in the breeze. The horizon is a flat plane in the distance.
She's all alone, but she doesn't feel like she is. She can feel the spirits all around her, filling up the field and then reaching up into the sky. She can hear their voices, quiet and stuttered as they are.
"--John? John, where--"
"--I just need to tell her--"
"--have you seen--"
"--Alice, can you hear me? Can you--"
All of them are looking for someone; a child, a lover, a friend.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs to them once more. "I didn't mean to bring you back. I thought it would be better for you this way."
They can't hear her.
She covers her face in her hands, weeping for the lost souls she pulled back from death.
"--I just want to see her--"
"--Is anyone here?! I can't--"
"--where are they--"
The girl beg

But Softly1.
I am an artist.
I feel the need to create.
I explore the feeling.
2.
Yet creation is impossible. The colors splashed onto a canvas are but colors; they need to be saturated, pumped with the essence of something.
Words do not add the necessary element. They only waste ink and space. They are clutter.
Even sounds and motion and dance do not breathe anything more than dimensions. How can these things ever become more than the
sluggishly industrious blood of the artist? How can they become thoughts, ideas, suspended but flapping dusty wings
gently, how can art be more than residue?
3.
I bleed.
Images, material, sex, honesty, tears, purgative, travel, touch, music, struggle, nature, fear, depression, consumption, money, rags, paint,
libraries, machines, schooling, risk

Visionary-CreepypastaI'm a visionary, you see. My ideas will save the world from an enemy, such a foul and lecherous breed. You can't even fathom the madness and depravity of these creatures... Well, I'm going off on a tangent, allow me to explain before you ignore me like all the other doomed fools.

Although they wear the mask of a civilised man, make no mistake, they are monsters born from your worst nightmares. They'll look at, no, they'll analyse you with their beady little rat eyes whilst they claw at your skin with their gnarled talons. They really are barbaric little parasites that root themselves into our society like a blasted weed, and they stick their

Midnight ramblings of an old manThe stars tonight hide behind the clouds. To think I would miss their glow as I do now. Tonight I wonder, had they even existed in the first place? I know that I have seen them for twenty-five thousand days, and their light had never faltered. Now, they were only gone for a night but why is it that I think every single star in the universe were just an illusion, that there were no such entities that burnt, fissioned to produce light and heat? Even the Sun which I cannot see in the dark night sky, one which held us so close and nurtured dearest Earth which in turn nurtured us; us who have been leeching off of our Mother.
What horrible children we are. To use Mother to our advantage through sucking her life blood. Soon enough we might not be able to see our Grandmother through the dust in our eyes. We become cold and shiver in the darkness, again using Mother's blood to keep warm and produce light, to see again and to advance further. Slowly Mother dies, painfully and sadly. Poor old Gra

The Parable of the Small Man Once upon a time, in a peaceful village, there lived a man. He was small of heart and lived by himself. He was not a learned man, only a simple farmer. In this village there also lived a nobleman who had many riches yet was very generous. In his great generosity, he invited the small man to a wondrous banquet.
Now the small man was very doubtful of himself as a person. He thought to himself, “I am but a simple farmer, and I have never been to any banquets, great or small; I would not know how to act in front of this nobleman or his other honored guests.”
As he left his home, he saw the herder of the

Ink-Drop LiesWriters lie.

They weave pretty words and sentences and paragraphs like tendrils of ivy curling around your legs. The bouquet of spring was in the air outside the window. There was a girl with road rash knees conveniently reminiscent of childhood. Everything was big, beautiful, exciting, sad, terrifying, life-changing, wonderful.

Make you care, make you hang on their every word, they have your attention now. Something normal and unexciting seen through eyes heavy with a daylong hangover becomes a crumpled green mountain spine dipping into the mouth of the ocean as the sky bleeds red and pink sunset hues.

And you believe it.

You believe eve

Timemare“I’ll start with a knight.”
“I’ll go with a bishop then.”
“And now for the pawn.”
“In the end, aren’t they all?”
Quiet chuckling from both parties.

The setting sun highlighted the sky with colors that don’t exist. The plot of earth a thousand meters below bustled with life, if it can be called that. Here today, dead tomorrow. As with all reality.
The skyscraper overlooked the city. A city of a thousand names, from a thousand eras. It suited her, she who stood at the top of the skyscraper. A figure that could not be described, an impossible voice, and sorrow inexplicable.

Momentum"today I just want to be a housewife. I guess somewhere in the French Province. My only worries are to look pretty and prepare a nice tasty dinner when he comes back home. While I can hear him approaching the entrance door, I am sitting at the balcony's window with a glass of wine, red wine, smelling the breeze. "I am back!" He shouted after he entered. I smiled. I knew he reached before his actual shout. He smiled. He knew I am at the balcony waiting for the sound of his keys. And so the day became wonderful. We both knew. Yet, those unspoken thoughts, the unspoken knowledge, triggered this unspoken wonder."

EventuallyIn the cruelty of time, memories lost to the emptiness of the ever stretching void are the unmistakable whispers of weeping. A child runs through the marbled corridor, tears streaming down her face as she runs without hesitation, not checking to see where she was heading. The thunder storms gather, the last bellowing of battle drums before the great plunge in to the dance of war. Lightning strikes the cold earth sparking vicious fires and shrouds of ash and smoke. Lungs begin to shrink, the very oxygen becoming sparser and sparser as carbon dioxide envelops the atmosphere, coating the once blue sky in misty red pigment. Volcanoes tower above

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smotheredThe past just
slapped me in the
face.
And I know you didn't mean it,
so I forgot what you said.
I decided it didn't matter.
[and now it's back
and i don't know if i'm going to cry
or just throw up]
I've been denied the chance
to prove myself against
misinformation--
you scared me into silence.
Sounds are clashing together
with lights that are too bright
and air that is too solid.
[i can't breathe]
It's been months,
but it feels so fresh.
A wound untended never
heals.

underworshipedI do think that
a hopeless, hapless martyr
jumped into my body at birth
and has been sitting, undisturbed,
in my conscious ever since.
He has no wiggle room left,
but he doesn't struggle;
no, he's delighted, playing the
puppet-master with no strings,
the artist without need of paper.
Yes, that must be the reason
I seem to care less for my own necessities
with every passing second.
He has smothered my care for selfishness;
left me with only an ideal of love.
Perhaps I will one day twist
so that he falls away with a clatter--
and what, I wonder, would I be then?
Would I stop painting, stop writing?
Would I no longer dream of death?
My martyr and I, we have an understanding.
I have to die, you see, no stopping that,
but, when I do, I do it on my terms.
I will save a life to lose my own.
There is no greater honor than sacrifice.

and so i fell in love under the willow treeYou are a
carnation.
'Hardy plants',
my mom would call them,
'Only one's that'll survive out here
in the heat. Everything else withers and
dies.'
And, oh,
she was right.
You are the last one left
out of dozens
who swore
they would never leave.
I pushed you away the most,
['i don't need this' i said
you heard 'i don't need you']
but you're still here
and I don't know why.
Half the time I just want you to leave.
And, the other half...
I dread to think what I would do
if you were gone.

poster childIf you could
write me a poem,
what part would I
play?
It would be, perhaps,
like a sign on a milk carton
being answered.
[lost myself; call if found]

Or it would be a
final resolution, saying,
there are some things
no one should understand.

Translate who I am
into stanzas and limericks;
[speak the dying language--
paint me with words]
If I am still here,
signal you have found me.

SanctuaryI take another deep inhale of smoke; my hands are shaking, and the cloud I breathe out is warm against my fingers. The air is cold and crisp, so I do it again, savoring the tingling feeling as I absorb the heat. The cigarette dangles precariously between my two fingers before I drop it to the ground.
A woman--plump with a upturned nose (I can't tell whether it's from the tilt of her head or just from the shape of it)--sneers at me as she walks by. I wave to her brightly, thinking that it's too cold to let her frigidness add onto it. I'm starting to feel the heavy weight of the park bench under me as it pushes against my weight; my jeans are soaked through with snow that isn't quite melted. I knock the heels of my worn converse together absentmindedly. (there's no place like home, Dorothy swears.)
I don't end up going home that night, though. Maybe I should've worn my red converse instead. Then again, maybe not.
When I show up at his door, stumbling and numb at the fingers, he takes one

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Submitted: February 25
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Inked Irises

by ~hgfdsasdfgh, Feb 25, 2013, 6:54:24 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

His eyes were beautiful.

When my mother tells me it's time I moved on from him and what he did to himself, I tell her she has no idea what he was like. She didn't even know him. I tell her about how he always listened to me cry and whine and rant, even though he was so sad, especially in the end. I tell her to leave me alone, and she says she's worried.

I tell her that she needn't be.

She doesn't believe me. She does leave, though, eventually. She locks the door behind herself and takes the key.

Well, technically I have a second key in my pocket. But it's not as if I plan on ever using it.

The minute she leaves, I curl back up into the couch and stop breathing once more. It's moments like that when I can almost feel his arms around me, holding me tight. I don't cry. I haven't cried in a very long time.

The image of his dead body, covered in slashes and maimed by his own design, prints itself against the inside my my tightly shut eyelids. I think of his eyes, empty and sad and lifeless. They are no longer so beautiful when there is no life behind them.

I had thought they were lifeless just once before he died; when he was so sad that he crawled inside of himself. But, even then, his eyes were gorgeous.

His eyes were beautiful because he was reflected inside them.

But the hollow irises inked on the inside of my eyelids are cold and glassy, no longer beautiful.

Maybe I should move on, I think after a few hours of silence in myself.

I know I will never move on, though. Not until his eyes are beautiful once more.

I want him back. I would do everything different if only it meant his eyes were looking into mine right now, happy and gorgeous.

Inked Irisesby ~hgfdsasdfgh

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

~Contradictory55 Feb 26, 2013 Student Writer

"hallow"... did you mean "hollow"?
The last word, after "and", is it supposed to be "alive"? If intentional, that's really amazing. If unintentional, what word is it supposed to be?

~hgfdsasdfgh Mar 1, 2013 Student General Artist

Woww... I was tired.

That's all I have to say.

I think that I'm usually better at that.

~Contradictory55 Mar 1, 2013 Student Writer

It's alright!

~hgfdsasdfgh Mar 1, 2013 Student General Artist

XD Kay. It's fixed up now. (Sorry I've been distant the last few days; I've been working on a bigger project. It's really good so far.

I've got my fingers crossed)

~Contradictory55 Mar 1, 2013 Student Writer

I wish you luck!

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Inked Irises

Inked Irisesby ~hgfdsasdfgh

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