[x]

Believe.Inspire Equality. Imagine a boundless society.

Lord, Send Me an AngelOne smiled, one appreciated, both lived.

waitinghe spends his days chasing seagulls and singing to the songs in his headphones. he dances when he should be working and works when he should be laughing, but his eyes are the same shade as his hair in the morning and he knows who he is. he knows that rain is cliched but he doesn't want it for love or dancing or sorrow, he wants it for the way it flattens the clothes to his skin and the way it makes the leaves vibrant against withered clouds. he thinks in poetry and dreams in black and white, but he speaks of hope even though he knows how messed up the world is. he is still waiting for his second chance; he is still waiting for a reason; he is

martyrhe lost his sanity
so i gave him mine.

made you a world but it endedi ran to the backyard to break a chair and write on its legs. no one told me we were getting rid of the swingset but someone collapsed it across the gravel, spilled over weeds. the lights were all on in my house and at dinner i didn't mention it
i didn't mention it at all.

epiphany #587: i'm seventeen and i'm not ready to grow up

chemo bellissimothe chemo makes quick work of your shaggy, espresso-brown hair and eyebrows, leaving you with areas of skin slightly paler than your already wintry cream complexion.

the hair, you tell me, does not bother you too much (a lovely quote straight from your cracking lips: "ha, i look like justin timberlake"); it's the lack of eyebrows that makes you self-conscious. to cheer you up, i bring in some of my brow-filler on my next visit (autumn ash, 146). i had expected you to complain about your masculinity being endangered, but you do not argue, and smiling softly, you allow me access to your face with a serene, al

A New Species

          Fighting
             in any direction
  seems to be a glorious mix-up

                                    in which the
guerrilla
                                 &

vicarious lust beyond page 287Cassie was an artist. With charcoal pastels, she painted masterpieces on last year’s newspapers; every Sunday night she watched film noir cartoons on her vintage television; every Monday morning, she stressed over the unfinished projects due that day. She found disgrace in beauty and believed color was only for the shallow. When it rained, she'd stare at the nimbus clouds and trace her grey sunset in the gloomy sky. Rain was her muse, her inspiration, her best friend. And melancholy weather was her lover. To settle her depression, she went to the library; she closed her ey

pretty words, dead flowers CLBi want a boy that makes me weak in the elbows.

i want him to drive a red camaro and put pens behind his ear because he’s scared he’ll think of something he needs to say when there’s no one around. i want him to never hesitate to hug me from behind or throw me over his shoulder and spin me until i swallow my spine. i want him to mess up my hair and pinch my cheek and then kiss me until my teeth are shaking and my nerves are smoking. i don’t know where he is yet, but i know i’ll find him.

--

well, i won't make you weak in the elbows, but i can make you weak in your ribcage; i can tame the struggling butterflies and t

an autopsy report for traitors...with trace amounts of heroin}
Oh! you're just in time for the analysis,

Spoiler Alert: You die!
Plot Twist: the coroner is the crook
Moral: never leave a crime scene without making sure the body's really dead
Piece of Advice (for next time): romance is a deadlier poison than cyanide
Oh, and for the record: learn the difference between a whorl and a whore

Corpse: covered in blood spatter; skinned of its artless 'beauty'
Intestines: signed with a kiss
Spinal Cord: stabbed, twenty-two times; how fucking ironic
Hipbones: the better to carve you with, darling
Eyes: blind now, thank god
Faci

the orange treei.
you liked to recount stories of my childhood
of days spent under apple trees
in the fall-coloured forest
of orange popsicles
melting in the summer sun
and the juices dripping down my chin
into your wife’s garden

once, i asked you why
and you said that you thought they were our happiest times together

i told you i didn’t remember them

iii.
people said you read me too many bedtime stories
of electric hands
and pens with no ink
of crowns made of keys
in emerald glades
and little girls
who never fall in love

you used to ask why i wrote them down
i always said that i could keep my crown of keys and remain yours

bringing her back homei wanted her to leave an almost empty soap bottle behind,
or a sock.
i have
places between
couch cushions for
things like those to get lost in.
she was supposed to misplace them when packing her things.

at largeat birth, we are starving artists
an open pot, a new room
elbow deep in sand and paint
praying for a masterpiece but
losing hair off brushes

at concerts, we are cities
a waving roar in time
calls to action, calls to
greatness no one follows
we are a meeting in lungs
and arms and song.

at friendship we are two a.m.
whispers on the phone
a danger, a place
of protection, a warmth
to our cold bones. we are
advice. we are
not always right.

at work we are chants, rattles
moving mouths to an un-sound
each arm a lifted weight, each
verb a heavy machine. we are
drowsy, and sometimes-
we are forgotten.

at age we are homes, cook

FrequencyTell me why we keep repeating these useless clichés, like
if a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to hear it,
we want to hope for that tree's sake
as it's dying, at least it's making a noise;
but it's just sound waves,
like the waves of an ocean,
or anything, really, because everything is built on tides.
Even mathematical worlds like chemistry and electricity have this.
It's all come and go and light and energy and color,
and it's all got waves.
Even the science of fingertips is just touch and go.

We live on a planet pushed and pulled by it's own pet rock of a moon,
rolling around the gravitational leash of orbit.
Th

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He loves her not

by ~SeCl4, Apr 27, 2010, 4:50:08 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

Floorboards creak; betrayal consumes the sleepless.

He loves her notby ~SeCl4

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

An attempt at an entry for DailyLitDeviation's Six Word Story contest. Meh, I was bored. (Not an uncommon occurrence, but, well, whatever.)

I kind of failed at expressing the idea I had for this; I really can't brain today. Oh well. As long as people can't sue for bad literature, I think I'm safe.

[link]

Update: Thank you so much for the honourable mention! I was having a pretty down-in-the-dumps kind of day so far, so when I saw that, it really brightened it up. I'm more than a bit stunned, to be honest, but at the same time, I'm truly honoured. (No pun intended.) So, um, yeah... At the risk of repeating myself, thanks a bundle!

(Grr, I really can't organise my thoughts in a coherent manner right now... Sorry! :S)

~mreid973 Nov 7, 2010

I like this. It is interesting and personal -- and the mood lingers. It would make a good start to a short story.

~SeCl4 Nov 7, 2010

Aww, thanks! I totally cheated with the title, but there you go.

^3wyl Nov 6, 2010 Hobbyist Photographer

I think it's the way you went about the main subject matter / concept that made it more... I don't know, original?

The words fit together very well and it feels quite true as well, you know? I like how it can be so realistic and that... yeah, we ask ourselves the question of why this person feels sleepless, what they've done and so on.

Profound stuff, either way.

~SeCl4 Nov 7, 2010

Hey, thanks for the lovely comment. I'm glad that this piece made you feel something, because, to be honest, six words really isn't that big of a canvas to paint on, and I found it much more difficult than I'd thought it would be to try and express something in the space allotted.

I think I must have changed just about every word in it a dozen times without changing the actual meaning by much, if anything, just because nothing seemed to fit, and, honestly, I'm still not sure if I'm entirely happy with the result. This was a really cool exercise, though, and I'm glad that your group gave me the motivation to try it, because reading some of the other entries really helped me get just how important every word should be in a literary piece, and that six words can pack as much of a punch as pages of excessive prose.

Urgh. Sorry, I really can't organise my thoughts into a coherent and adequate answer to your comment. I guess I should probably stick to the simple "Thank you, and thank you again" that's been amply proven sufficient in the past. >.<