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Will-o'-the-WispWhat brought you here to my window?
Go away. My father is home.
I'll place my lips here, here on the glass
And you can kiss the cold night air over it, just
(Can you hear me? The glass is closed. I cannot speak over the wind. Read my lips, please.)
Yesterday, I was walking through the woods
And in the depths I found a house made of living trees.
It glowed warm through its twisted window eyes
And I thought it was a flame, someone there;
I entered the door. The house was empty,
Loud with life but only in the walls.
The flame was a faerie flame. I reached my hands out
To touch it, but it was not warm enough; my fingers curled,
And I pulled it from the hearth whole.
The house died. The leaves fell like soft black snow.
Beneath my feet, roots wept, and then went still.
I held the faerie flame to my chest in fear,
And into my heart the flame went.
(It beats like a drum, and flutters whenever you are near. What can I do? Let me spit it out.)
What brings you here, like
angel dusttiny bird bones
are his ribs, delicate flower arrangement, hands splayed, or
two beautiful white wings behind a stranger’s grave
-- we can see lines of purple river coiling his fingers,
tap his knuckles, and hear faint guitar picks strum pasty flesh
like an anthem to stupidity -- his bones are hollow.
his ribs are my favorite thing about him, i used to think, said
“your ribs, they are angels meant to fly” -- “you don’t make sense”
he replied, but nothing made sense back then
or makes sense now, everyone is standing face to the mud
and we close our eyes and hold hands and jump when the next person jumps, down
means nothing, neither does ground
or angels, for that matter. he counts his white hairs
stranded in clouds, plucks feathers from doves and makes a nest with them
calls it home -- wondering, all the while, what wind might feel like
singing around his spine if he jumps, and whether i would bury
his bones behind a white grave when he does?
As Are Moth-Eaten Clothes Jack says I’ve always got to carry around this machine, big as a TV, with loopy wires coming out of it and wriggling around in my stomach. Sometimes if I’m tired he carries it, or sets it on some wheeler, but most days I’ve got it settled in the crook of my arm or against my hip. It’s hard to play football with the other kids when I’ve got to hold it, and can’t drop it neither. Jack says I oughta be grateful I can run around at all.
It’s not too heavy, the machine, it’s just a box with some gooey slush in it and a place on top that flashes numbers in red. Jack checks the numbers every sixty minutes, on the dot, even at night when I’m asleep. He’s awful smart. He says the numbers are my blood pressure and glucose and oxygen and stuff, and there’s one number that’s the estimation numeration of months I’m still functional, and I don’t understand any of it. I
Tsunami There was a tsunami on the northern shores of Israel. It was a tsunami made of a million grievances accumulated in the earth for a million years, and with the power of a million sharks it let loose its impersonal fury upon the beach. There was a terrific storm of wind and rain that day, and the earth shook at the force of its enormity.
But this is not the story of a tsunami.
This is the story of a raindrop. A single droplet of clear dew, shimmering in the sky. In the clouds, the air became pregnant with the weight of the water in its belly, and the raindrop escaped from the atmosphere's tight embrace and let itself fall. Down the raindrop went, down through ice, down through sunrays, down through thunder, down through dust, gathering speed until it was as sleek and thin and sharp as the sharpest needle. And then at last it struck its point against the eye of a man, where like a needle of glass it shattered into a million pieces and sent its fin
Yes, They Can Drown Lucila stared at the twenty thousand leagues of sea water on top of her. It didn't feel nice. It felt like twenty thousand elephants were sitting on top of her chest and trying to squeeze out her brains. It also felt like their tusks - all forty thousand of them - were trying to stab her.
Deep sea fish swam leisurely over her, a few of them giving her hair some experimental nibbles. Lucila summoned up the strength to hiss at them. They darted away, all long tails and grotesque jaws. Aesthetics weren't very important at the bottom of the sea. Up on the surface, of course, it had been crucially important to look good, what with the bright sun bleeding golden light everywhere, and her husband - the sweet little fool - always taking her to every important occasion. Apparently the life's work of a human queen was to show her face around a lot and act pretty. It was very tiring work. Lucila only put up with it because her husband was a sweet little fool, and also
Lost Have you ever been lost? And I don’t mean you're in the supermarket and you can’t find your mum. I mean really, really proper lost. You’re walking down the hallway of your school, heading on your normal route to your next normal class running your hand normally along the lockers as you normally do when you suddenly realize, you’re lost. You realize that these people all around you, while you recognize their faces, and could probably even list off some of their names, are total strangers. You notice that these halls that you’ve walked a thousand times and will very well probably walk a thousand more are completely foreign to you. You can feel the cold metal of the lockers and while you know that you’ve felt it before, it seems brand new. You know that it is your hand touching the lockers and while you know that it is there, you also know that you did not put it there. Have you ever been lost? So lost that you can stare into the fac
The RavenThere’s a raven that flies past every day. It lives in the tree across the road. He knows because sometimes, late at night, when he’s lying still and awake in bed, it flies to his windowsill and raps its beak against the glass, gently. It doesn’t have a nest. It just lives in the tree across the road.
There’s a gun in his drawer. He cleans it every day. He tells himself it’s just old habits, years of military service forged into his subconscious. He doesn’t tell himself that he should no longer have it. He doesn’t tell himself that the nightmares will stop eventually, either.
His therapist says they will. She asks him questions he doesn’t want to answer, but has to. He lies to her, because there’s nothing else to do. She tells him he needs to leave the house more. She says he needs to at least try to adjust to civilian life. He tells her he is trying.
He doesn’t have a job. Not anymore. His only income is his woeful army pensi
This personThis person
Sighing over and over, this boy never had fun. This boy had wanted to be an artist and was taking a drawing class, but having been plagued by that person, the boy's hands were broken and he could not lift a pencil. And because the boy was bad with healing, he had begun to think he might never be able to draw again. The boy couldn't do much now, everything was difficult. Putting on clothes, eating, doing schoolwork. It just hurt the boy's hands even more. Luckily drawing was the last class of the day, so the boy slipped on his backpack and headed home. The boy hoped no one would chase him again. For some reason not many people liked the boy. Luckily, the boy made it safe and sound home, struggling to unlock the door with a small key, hurting his hands in the process.
Once inside, the boy put all his stuff down and flicked on the television. The boy was scared, there was someone else in the house. That person was in the house, ready to torment the boy. It would come an
The VoidI sit here with a ledge before me.
As I stare into it, my stomach lurches, but I cannot tear my eyes from it.
I feel the winds coming up from it and wonder if they are not nicer or cleaner than the air I have been breathing, forced to breath here in this desert for so long. The void loves to call, to taunt, to tease, even, to lull.
I do not like depths.
Unknown depths which must scare me for some reason, yet I am at my reason's end. The air up here is rare and thin, pulling at my lungs and harrowing my nerves for the taste of at least one more drop of what my bare existence drives me to need.
But no hope comes.
No hope nor help will ever come.
There are many, and yet there re none.
No one hears the cries.
No one can over the noise of their own.
And yet the continuation is this.
And the air becomes more and more rare.
Clawing at my sides, choking me from inside.
I feel sleepy, powerless and would like to just end it.&
When it Rains...When it Rains…
How can you sit listening to the melancholy of the rain? Yet, would you argue that the rain does not convey grief? I cannot understand the reasons you give for this state of mind. The rain is anything but sorrow, you say, the rain is comfort and cleansing. Those wretched lies of past wears can no longer burden those hearts who listen to the rain.
The pounding rhythm of the rain clouds my ears, while your heart is in sync with its melody. I cannot know what you mean by the cleansing power of the rain but I want to understand. Dear child, tell me, how does the rain purify? Think of the rain as similar to the river; as you are beneath the water, the river washes away your faults. Likewise, as the rain falls onto you, it cleanses you from your worries—one drop at a time…Your response leaves me with wonder. How deep you feel towards the rain and the elements. Little one, who teaches you these ideas? Of course, your answer is myself.
I can no longer wait to h
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More