[x]

Libra 2This amorphous sphere of percolated water
kept me in a chorus of gurgles
and endless pleads
so obstreperous and inescapable
that my organs pressed firmly against my sternum
seeking a voice full of felicity;
seeking you.

The light penetrated three-fold layers
and sealed my eyelashes together,
filling my pores with illusions
and my liquid cell became
the epitome of an alternate heaven
in an obvious hell.

And the corruption ceased
long enough for a gulp of tasteless air
and a confirmation that I was, indeed,
alone.

Please Don't Leave MeShe flutters her fingers over her skin, she smiles as she thinks of him. He only touched her once, and it was when she brushed up against him on the train. She smiles as she remembers the way he muttered an apology. Her heart feels light as her memories play though her mind, changing bit by bit as they pass through.

Please don't leave me.

She rides the train on Tuesday afternoons, because she ran into him once, several Tuesdays ago. She waits patiently at the station, hoping, praying that he will see him. She has the lines worked out in her head, hoping she will have the occasion to use them. She rides the bus day in, day out sitting in the

Homeostasis For the past two weeks, she has wanted a bottle of bright red nail polish, so, one rainy afternoon, she sets out to procure one.

"Want" is an odd word to use with her – when it comes to material things, she rarely wants. She is merely curious about them, as in, "I wonder what it would be like if I had this object." And, in her desire to discover, she will consent to obtaining it.

There is a drugstore within a seven-minute walk from her house, so she grabs ten dollars and a jacket and slips into her worn shoes. They are old, but she does not want to take the trouble of putting on socks.

She steps out into the rain, which is only sl

Epiphany"Epiphany"

Impact rattles my core,
Bringing me to my knees.
I need to reflect on this.
I need to think.
Speak slowly.
Read slowly.
Pause and think.

S-l-o-w-l-y.
Deep breath.
Inhale.
Pause and think.
Enunciate.
Saying something is
Better than silence.

You were a gift.
From God?
For me?
A treasure maybe.
A blessing.
A positive thought.
Now a vanishing ghost.

Everything is difficult.
Memories that appear
Are quickly written down
Before they melt
To water and vapor.
Events and words
Buried by time.

I cannot remember when we first met,
Although I am sure you do.
Do I even want to?
As it may hurt more knowing

Faithi.

I must have lost myself
in the distance between
what was and what is

trying to look towards the future
and towards the past
and instead just getting
confused about forwards and back

ii.

I must have taken
a wrong turn between
almost and already there

because this distance is
supposed to be short,
but I've been walking
for miles and miles

and my destination
is nowhere in sight

iii.

I must have the knack
for falling into pit holes in the
roads that separate the beginning
and the end

because I never seem to finish anything.
And maybe I'm just too good at quitting,
but I've walked this walk four times too ma

There Was a Flower in the RoomThere was a flower in the room,
Never mind what sort.
Each day, a petal would fall off the flower.
I didn't notice at first,
One day, there were 5 petals left
(I was still oblivious to the flower at this point)
There was a note on the desk
Five Days.
And there was nothing I could do,
Except to watch the petals fall.

crystalline opiatesometimes your face is so clearly engraved
in my memory that i can almost feel
the butterflies make their way to my eyes
as you look at me through yours.

in an out-of-focus world i could not
ask for a view more crisp than this - standing
at the chandellier peak of the new ground
we have softly broken.

your coldplay-lyric tongue sillhouetted
against my fingertips of charcoal blurs
and smudges and creases and scratches on
the curves in your name,

i can't remember when last i craved to
etch a word so deeply on my lips - do
you recall the last time blood tasted like
something surreal?

it's in the glow of the surface of the
wate

Inspiring a Teenage BoyIt was late morning when I got to my friend's place and knocked on her door.  She opened it, smiled, and then let me in.  I looked around and saw that no one else was in the apartment.  I asked her where everyone was at and she replied that her younger and older sisters were out shopping, while her parents were still at work.

"Oh…"

After some idle chitchat, she invited me into her room to listen to some music.  I shook my head and said, "Didn't your mom say you weren't allowed to have boys in your room?"

She laughed and replied, "Don't worry!  She won't be home for at least a couple of

CalamityI keep expectations
in my back jean pocket

and i tuck disappointment
into the folds of my shirts

they stay with me always
while confidence makes friends
with the dust bunnies under my bed

I store empty promises
under the weight of my spine

crushed by back bone shoulder blades
turned from fragile bones to wings that will never fly

and there is always anger
hidden beneath my fingernails
flooding my lungs until I can no longer breathe

while pleasure and pride
become the lost love child
of closets and old shoe boxes

frustration sleeps in my veins
accumulating like blood clots

incompetence makes itself at home
in the spaces bet

perpetual decemberwould you give me your december?
i am holding out my frail plywood wrists
and begging you for something
too heavy for either of us to hold

[though you are somehow cradling it
in your fractured celestial mind].

would you sing december to me?
would you play it in thirds
and mold it into something i can see?
i would give the dying bamboo
on my window sill to feel you again

[like when you cut your hands on raw selenite
but they don't bleed].

december is slipping out of our reach.
she is slipping quietly out the door
and i have my hands held high
like sentinels of the sky
and my eyes closed in patient rapture.

but you

Hollow SuicideI love this world.

I love it even when it's so beautifully achingly lonely that I can feel the drum of my pulse throbbing just under my skin, a constant reminder of the hollow center the veins connect back to.

Sometimes I think I want to build my future in the forest because the trees are so lovely – but then I realize that I would be missing out on the vast, limitless blue expanses of oceanwater and the sound of the waves lapping at the shoreline. And then I think of the view from the mountains, or the honey-golden tones of the desert at sunset, the neon lights of the great cities, all the beautiful places in the world I have to choos

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Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.

We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)

Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.

Insid

Porch Swingi. It's December,
the warm part of winter
snow is a blanket
and the fireplace crackles.

We eye the elephant-package
covered in crumpled birthday paper.
The paper flies
beneath it we gasp,
and the boys and girls
smile and take our picture.

ii. We're safe
from the April showers
beneath the roof of our porch.

We swing back and forth
for the first time.
I place my head
in the crevice
between your shoulder
and your neck.

We talk for two hours
about the azaleas.

iii. Our daughter's
daughter
runs through the sprinkler
watering the dry August grass.

She sits in the middle
planting sticky
strawberry-flavored kisses
on our c

PersephoneI fed her
pomegranate kisses

and she cried
at every frozen sunrise
for 180 days.

With cracks in my heart
and souls
caught in my hair
I counted 180 more.

MoonburntCarelessly,
she sleeps with the window opened
and the nighttime's sun,
that isn't quite a star,
paints her face and neck
with a strange,
silver glow,
and deposits a burning desire
to absorb it all.

When Growing Up Becomes Growing OldShe thinks it hits at 35. She watches her husband blow out the candles on his birthday cake, the smoke tendrils hovering in the air before they are swallowed up by the fan in the window of their new home.

By 35 you have settled down and started your family, and if you haven't, it's the year your mother begins to tell you that it's "now or never" and that if you chose the latter, you're going to regret it.

Their friends all sing an off-key version of Happy Birthday, holding long-stemmed glasses of red wine, except for Marie, since she's six months pregnant. She cuts her husband's cake into sizable pieces only to have three of the women decli

FFM XXXIHe was a story of teenage angst, the battle between good and evil, and the power of love.

He had been made out to be this great hero. Rumors circulated. They said that he had crossed the world and back, that he had trained with Merlin himself, and Merlin has been dead for centuries. He had been made out to be a giant, but he only stood five and a half feet tall.

He fought the battle, and he won. The world cheered, and girls wore his face on T-shirts.
He made a plan to travel the world once the glory wore off.

Years later, he found himself in a Parisian café, reading emails on his smartphone. Through the piles of spam, he found a str

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Grandfather's Bird

by ~xthe-eleanorx, May 7, 2011, 6:50:28 PM
Scraps

Grandfather had a pet bird. Just a small, yellow and white parakeet; he named it Georgie, after Grandmother. Every morning, he would wake up at 6 o'clock, make a pot of coffee, grab the newspaper, and feed the small bird a small pile of birdseed. And he would gently carry the birdcage, and place it on the table and talk to her as he drank his coffee and read the newspaper.

"Gas prices are up again Georgie, geez, remember when we could pay 20¢ to fill up our car?"

And sometimes the bird almost chirped in response. Years and years went by, and Grandfather grew older, and he could no longer carry the bird off the shelf, but he would still feed and talk to her at 6 o'clock.

One morning, Grandfather found himself barely able to make it out of bed. He still made his way into the kitchen to feed his dear bird. His hand shook and some birdseed fell to the floor as he carefully moved into the tray into the cage. He slowly made his way to the table so that he could sit down.

"…I think… this is… it Georgie.
I... I… love… you."

Grandfather rested his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes. The bird sat in her cage, waiting for Grandfather to speak to her, to tell her what he was thinking, but he didn't.

26 Comments

Grandfather's Birdby ~xthe-eleanorx

Scraps

Because when I say that I'm going to write something pretty, I actually write about old people and dying.

Is there enough of a plot?
What do you think of the ending?
Would the story work better if "Grandfather" is "Grandmother"?
Thoughts? Comments?
Love? Hate?

~~love 0 0~~

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

sad 2 2

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Ahalteke Feb 10, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

-cries- this is so, so sad D:

~xthe-eleanorx Feb 10, 2012 Student Writer

Don't be sad! It's just a story, don't worry.

~Ahalteke Feb 10, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

awwww

okay a very good story though. Just thinking about it is sad :C

!englandrain Sep 24, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

I'm tearing up right now. Though the story had such a sad ending, I loved it so much and it made me very happy to find a nice piece of literature. Grandfather seems like such a sweet man, by the way.

~xthe-eleanorx Sep 24, 2011 Student Writer

Thank you very much!
The character was kinda-sorta based on my great-grandfather who, unfortunately I don't remember all that well since he passed away when I was a child, but I still have little snippets of his memory, so I tried to use them.

!Emmings Jun 30, 2011

It's fairly simple and the diction is simple, and I really like this because of that. It's moving, it's touching, it's gripping.

The story plot is...wow.

I liked it as Grandfather. The dialogue shows how he goes on his life as if Georgie is still with him. I absolutely adore this piece, and I come back to re-read it now and then again.

I'm moved. Great piece.

~xthe-eleanorx Jun 30, 2011 Student Writer

Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked it

~i-RaiNy-i May 21, 2011 Student General Artist

Lols birdseed.

~xthe-eleanorx May 21, 2011 Student Writer

Birdseed.

~WaKip May 18, 2011 Writer

-I believe this wasn't meant to have a deep rooted, set up polt, and I like it for the small, but moving plot you put here.
-I like the grandfather concept more, guys tend to be a lot less emotional and its great to read them conveying more than we often see.
-This was quite thought provoking as well as profound. For a short story this made me express emotion, and feel just a little sad.
Love. Most definatly Love.

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