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
Perfect ImperfectionsThis world is a NIGHTMARE
To search for perfection
in an imperfect world is
nothing but mere MADNESS
in the eternity, where
No one fights against time
Who wants a life...
without any madness in it?
At least the world is...
keep fighting for perfection
Because in the end it'll worth something
you have never imagined before
FreakshowFor years, my friends and I worked for the carnival. Max would hammer nails into various orifices, Gabriel would exhibit his tertiary nipple, Adam would blow beverages from his eyes, Alice would sit and comb her beard, and I would dislocate the majority of bones in my body. In our years, we found amusement between shows; we would delight in the thrilling rides, devour corndog after funnel cake after corndog, and partake in the clearly rigged games around us.
The patrons of our performance would jeer at us, scowl in disgust, call us fake, or even throw old refreshments at us. By the end of the day we’d have to mop up the stage. We were sometimes told we belonged in cages, like animals. On several occasions, people left rides when we got on. Not long after the very first performance, we were branded as abominations by a soft news journalist and threatened with violence by a gang of young adults.
Some days were more difficult than others. As I recall, the stage was occasionally litt
Era uma vezEra uma vez. Era pois já não é, e uma vez pois foi um momento singular. Nesse momento singular, um homem, do gênero humano, que surgiu desse imperativo de que surgisse, dessa força inexorável que guiou tudo que havia até então até ele. Ele pensou em sua origem e a chamou de Deus.
E Deus deu-lhe olhos. Ele viu um mundo muito maior que ele mesmo e percebeu o tamanho de sua insignificância, olhou ao redor e percebeu que era só. Deus deu-lhe consciência. Ele viu a centelha da criação em todas as coisas e percebeu como Deus era grande, ele viu a beleza. Deus deu-lhe ouvidos. Ele ouviu o mundo e o achou vazio, ouviu a si mesmo e achou-se mágico. Deus deu-lhe tato e olfato. Ele sentiu frio, calor, cheiros bons e outros nem tanto.
Então, como se fosse de sua natureza, para bem ou para mal, transformar o singular em plural, o único em corriqueiro, já não era um, mas mais e mais ainda. Como se fosse se
A Discourse on DiscordSome of you ponies may be wondering why Discord, a spirit of disagreement and disharmony, has been given a second chance. Why would Princess Celestia see Discord as being used for good, worthy of being reformed? What purpose does disagreement and disharmony serve? I mean should there not be peace? Should there not be harmony? What most ponies fail to realize is that not all peace is good. There is peace with being content and peace in being complacent. Peace that is found in being complacent is not a good thing. It is not being content but just accepting things are because they have always been that way. What if something has always been a way but it was not good? Should we be complacent with something that is not good? I would think that my little ponies would say no to something like that. It is through chaos that shows us what is true and what it not.
How do you think new discoveries are made? It is either
Walking on Air “Asia Air has been a great success.” Said CEO Koichi Fujioka.
His smile was warm. His face relaxed and calm, not a single drop of sweat hanged from his once stressed brow. His teeth were clean and shining. His suit, well kempt and appealing to the eye, as he always had it.
He waved a hand upwards, attracting attention to the large “Asia Air” sign above the boardroom.
“We are the most successful airline in all of Asia, the Middle East, and Oceania. Soon to be the most successful worldwide, I might add.” He said with a laugh. The other members of the meeting chuckled loudly along with their superior.
“Now that the Iraqi No-Fly Zone conflict has ended we can move forward with g
A Poem Turned to ProseA Poem Turned to Prose
Once upon a time there was a young woman who always seemed to be waiting. But for what, she didn't quite know. Perhaps it was a hope for that seed inside to finally germinate and begin to grow. An anticipation for it to be sparked, one day, by something…something intangible…something balancing on the very edge of reality.
The seed stored the essence of her dreams, you see. Dreams that maturity stole away and changed the games she always thought she wanted to play. And years passed. Things were forgotten. Lost in the cycle of time. She was happy, happier than most, but she felt there was always something missing. Because the seed remained. Still remains. Like a tiny shard of glass piercing her heart. Every day. Every second. In its persistent, nagging way. Not a torment. Not painful. Just there.
Sometimes she fears she will