The movie credits rolled and I handed her another tissue. It wasn’t a sad movie. I chose a funny one to cheer her up. It must have been the wrong kind of humour then. I didn’t know her that well. Guess I should’ve asked her. She was like thirty something, so she probably didn’t care for this stupid stuff.
“Do you have anything you wanted to see? For next time? Anything. I’ll get you anything.”
With her mouth behind the tissue, she coughed a sob. I’m never going to do this again. He can’t make me do this again.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You can have stuff that&
One day, we’ll worship rust
and marvel how it claimed
the world of industrious metal,
leaving nothing but slowing
reddening struts, half-hearted
angles reaching outward.
We’ll dive into the wrecks
looking for half-sparking wonders
that, when properly restored, gleam
into sputtering song or splitting
pictures of different worlds
and the faces of old Gods.
Who will perform the autopsy? by HugQueen, literature
Literature
Who will perform the autopsy?
There is a forest painted in
scorching red, fire blooming
beneath its dirt-caked skin,
smoke skimming leaves
as plumes of flame snicker
behind the tail of a doe.
Coals coating tree-trunks,
hungry for life, it devours
the same way they ravaged her
when she said 'no'.
Bright eyes morph into murkiness
as the inferno marches.
When rust washed down
her throat, she did not scream,
only begged for them to stop.
They do.
Beneath the ash,
they find her body.
The apparition raised its translucent arms and began to wail.
“I come from Hell! From Hell! From— Bloody hell.”
The spirit of Edmund Aspinall grabbed at his shroud as it headed downwards. He pulled it up round his shoulders again and wrapped it around his body.
“You don’t half feel the chill once you’re away from the flames of eternal damnation.”
Miss Amelia Gould, medium-slash-estate agent, nodded sympathetically and entered ‘Hell’ into the address box on the form.
She looked up to see Mr. Aspinall still rearranging his shroud. He smiled weakly.
“I apologise for the rather rev
Vaas Montenegro - Let It Happen by BrookeCPhotography, literature
Literature
Vaas Montenegro - Let It Happen
Let it happen.
One dose, two, three, four.
I can’t take it anymore.
Five, six, seven, eight.
This I can appreciate.
I’ve lost it,
have I lost you?
Maybe I have.
Come back, come back,
Please, I have changed.
Where did you go?
Why did you leave?
Weren’t we a bond?
Let it happen.
I will change.
I will show you that I care.
One dose, two, three, four.
I can’t take it anymore.
Five, six, seven, eight.
This I can appreciate.
You’re my little sister.
You and I are all that we have left.
Where did you go?
Why are you hurt?
I killed them,
you’re okay now.
That is all that matters.
Why are you not accepting your sur
Jasmine left the house and tucked her chin into her winter coat. This was good as it hid her insane mutterings both visibly and audibly. It was also very comfy.
“Um, okay,” she said to herself as she made her way down the street. “Everything’s okay. This morning is okay.” She manoeuvred around smeared dog-shit. “Gross. But gross. Everything’s okay but gross.” A man turned onto the street she was walking on. “Okaaay. Everything’s okay and gross and I’m going to die.” She made fists in her pockets, remembering to keep her thumb on the outside like Toby said. “I’
The rosary beads were cold on his fingertips. The old bricks of the church smelled of mold, corroded by the decades of winds breezing up from the Loch.
“Oh, my God, I am heartfully sorry for having offended Thee," he began reciting. He rolled the bead along the edge of his finger. The words spilled from his lips, memorized but still genuine. He lifted the stick until the votive candle finally breathed flame.
“- and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishment, but most of all because I have offended Thee, my God…”
“Garrett,” a voice called from behind him.
“- Who is all good and deserving o
the doctor asked me if i felt positively
about myself as a person and i bit his hand,
said send me to Seattle
so i can learn what these scars mean.
the rain baptized only my hair: my entire body
stayed dry but i felt like a mermaid,
a drop of sky turned summer soul. years ago,
a boy came to me from Seattle and dug his nails
into my palms to name me crescent moon.
i followed that crooked smile across state borders,
let it lead me to the widest horizon you can imagine.
our love was Thales’ wet dream: all water,
endless ocean to swim and swim and drown in.
i’ve got strong legs and a weak head,
never knew the meaning of
A Story of How a Horde of Elephants Saved My Butt by FieryDownpour479, literature
Literature
A Story of How a Horde of Elephants Saved My Butt
The problem about wearing a dress is that it gets in the way of everything. The problem about wearing pants is that people yell at you claiming you’re a disgusting witch and should be burned to death before men walk up to you and just shrivel up and die from the sight.
Okay, so the witch thing wasn’t completely wrong. I mean, it’s not even my fault. It’s not like I wanted to have magic powers that just randomly conjure up a hoard of elephants. I mean, having magic powers is cool and all, but not when you live in the late 1600’s and everyone wants to kill you because you’re wearing pants.
And like the wors
Happy Birthday
Lizzie woke up at dawn. She was too excited to sleep. Normally Saturdays were her sleep in day, but today was special. Today was her mommy’s birthday.
Her daddy was going to be so proud of her as he didn’t have to tell her to wake up, to not sleep the day away. Today she was a big girl, able to do for herself. She was now 8 years old, no longer a baby, daddy told her so. With that in mind, she was going to dress herself and do her own hair.
Even though Lizzie had not seen her mommy in a long time, she could still remember how beautiful she was. She remembered how her mommy smelled, always of vanilla.