[x]

I'm Just Waiting for the RainHe keeps his umbrella close, but never opened. Storm clouds roll in and out of his life, but they never stop to even wet the ground.

He wakes up every morning at 6:15, stays in bed for another five minutes, and takes a shower that lasts eight and a half minutes. He eats two slices of buttered toast and a small tumbler of orange juice. He dresses himself in a blue button-down with a striped tie and shines his shoes so that he can see his face. If it's cold out, he wears his black trench coat and if it isn't, he just wears his sport coat. He carries his briefcase every day, along with his umbrella. He can't forget his umbrella. The train leave

Sunday Dinners Every Sunday at dinnertime, Mother and Father and Brother and I sit down at the dining room and play house for an evening. We pass around the bowl of pasta salad while exchanging stories about our day, written on the scripts laid out for us.

Father plays a man named Dad, who specializes in doesn't. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't swear, doesn't steal. In fact, the only thing Dad does do is offer us second helpings.

Mother, ever the actress, plays Mom. She is always saysing. She says she likes my hair, says she likes Brother's new shoes, says she noticed Father got a new haircut. She says she loves us, and the one thing she does

Fieldswe braided stalks of wheat with our teeth
and bloodied our knuckles on old twigs
she tried vainly to heal them with her kisses
i pushed pebbles with my toes
and we existed together
for the first and last time
in the spaces of the silence

ImpressionableYou left impressions in her skin and they sank straight down to her heart. You always told her that she was impressionable, but she never took it quite so literally.

She was holding memories so tightly that her hands started to burn. Each day a layer of skin would char and crumble. She swept the ash off and carried on.

Sometimes when she felt lonely, she would take old blankets and wrap herself in them. They smelled like the people who used them before her. They have absorbed their dreams, their feelings, their hearts. She liked to hear other peoples' dreams because she never had one herself.

She never felt quite at home. She worried about

metamorphic rock n' rollthere's this fly circling my bedroom,
this massive green-chromed thing like the world's smallest space-ship.

i've been counting and every four minutes thirty seconds it dive-bombs my head,
strafing airplanes and helicopter drug-raid spots through boarded-up cracks
& it's all in my head,
headlights and streetlights and not drug-
raids at all.

i'm a demon,
he said,
a speed demon.
i'm not, i said, and
i don't think we're going to get along.

i'm more of a mosquito than
a housefly or a blowfly,
that forensic larval life cycle
[determine time of death,
police setting sequences of events]

i'm a mosquito,
needle fingers &
red-strea

war zone.
there is a war zone
running ruthless
in our veins

(you are the cartridge
and i the bullet).

it's a wasteland out there
but we're reckless
and restless
and anarchy
still has its charisma
though i've forgotten what
we're fighting for.

we are the young guns and
broken guns
and
the acrid scent of ammunition
clings to our skin

(i pluck at my shrapnel fingernails
though you tell me to stop
"everything's jagged now,"
and i swallow down
the taste of iron
lingering heavy like empty shells
on my tongue).

sometimes i imagine
we never shot the sun out of the sky
in a burst of misguided ambition

because when it's dark outsid

oxygenate.breathe.

she smells like mint and floral perfume, and when he buries his face into her hair, he catches a whiff of honey-scented shampoo.

he inhales, lets the mix of scents overpower his senses before breathing out with a soft, drawn-out sigh.

her scent lingers in his nose even hours after.

his lungs are on the verge of exploding.

she smells like sweat, heady and potent and he reels back for a moment, overwhelmed.

moving forward, he wraps his arms around her thin waist and presses their bodies together, relishing the soft gasp that falls from her lips.

he takes a deep breath, and the taste of salt bursts forth on the tip of his tongue.

ThrillShe felt it every time. The rush. The adrenaline.

The thrill.

It was an accidental discovery. She hadn't meant to... it just sort of worked itself out. There she was, cramped up on the tube with everyone else, when Jane noticed the neck of the girl in front of her. It was beautiful. Such clean, soft skin, lightly peppered with hairs, snaking down to the secrets held underneath her pinkish collar.

No-one was looking. And they were all packed in so close together. So she just gave it a little lick.

Just a light brush with the tongue. A dab. She barely even made contact - just the faintest of pecks.

And it was beautiful.

The lady barely ev

FFM IShe balances her laptop on her knees and drums her fingers along the keys.

It's four in the morning, ninety-six degrees in this room, her shirt is sticking to her back, and she feels cold.

The night air is dense, the humidity is oppressive, her computer base burning into her legs and the screen is burning into her eyes.

In the top right-hand corner of the screen, she has typed in the name, all fifteen letters. The links provided by the search engine are all purple.

Except one.

She taps her fingers along the keyboard and hovers her mouse over the remaining blue link.

A Fire Consumes a Local Restaurant Leaving Two Injured and One Dead.

S

Staying for the Seasonyou were born
of a broken cradle
where no one taught you
how to breathe

you need the stars
like nourishment, but
they just don't feel
the same

you live like a heart attack,
an insufferable shuddering,
a socially aware illness without
the will to pull through

it's a sad truth when we
look up in the mirror, and
only see ourselves-

but it's okay.
write it on the walls, it's
okay, you just need a
little more sleep.

(wake up. it's nearly
December and you're
already dead.)

i fold paper for a livingpeople think it's weird - that i fold paper for a living.

i sit by a park bench, chant numbers under my breath and bend each fiber of light, fragile paper just the way i want.
because it makes you feel powerful? you ask. and i sit there and smile at the words that twitch the sides of your lips.

i sit here and watch that simple square turn into a crane right before my eyes - with my hands - because i can make it happen. i imagine my next move, anticipate an outlook and create beauty out of the simplicity of what the bark of the tree next to the bench twisted into from the paper in front of me. because you've been ugly your whole life? you as

a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crash
that almost killed her,
through whitewhite walls
and dreams
where her lover dies
nobody thought she'd make it
but she woke up a few months later
with flowers in her hair
and ash in her airway
trying to remember how to start all over
but forgetting to remember how to live.
fall slipped from her open eyes
and winter crawled in for a long hibernation
of not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow
to her the clouds looked sick
and pale like they might
let everything inside them out,
but she opened up wide instead,
spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.
her heart slipped down the street
and with unsteady hands
she stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.

zeroi swore
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;

i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises

colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,

but i was born into a colorless world--

no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but

all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered he

Little Thoughts, CompiledApril 1st, 2013

dust on the counter
(an inch thick)
a broken chandelier lying
on the chipped tile floor
knocked over chairs and
scattered pillows
glasses lying abandoned
on a bar stool

April 2nd, 2013

it is sunny outside
today
and i see couples walking past
my window
i sit on the couch
desperately holding
to your picture
the only thing
i have left
of
you

April 3rd, 2013

I pick up an old, dog-eared book
at the "Pick-A-Book-er" used book store
The book was worn like an old pair of clothes
and in the front cover was an
illegibly written name: "La---n P-f--"
I open the book (M--y -ick) and
instead of being enveloped by dust
memories flash be

Stockholm SyndromeThis morning tastes dry and dusty and alive and
the Australian sun is already pouring
on to my back, a thousand lashes for your crimes
girl.

I run, and run, and run, and the hot sand
burns my soft bare feet, shaping calluses
on my Scottish soles. My knees have dirt on
them. Every rushing breath from my lungs
sings of love.

This is not my country, and it never will be, no
matter how many fistfuls of red sand I grab and sift
through my dirty-nailed fingers, no matter how many
thorny little plants I tear up and press to the white
bone-ridged skin of my chest.

The sand will slip away, the thorns will rip wincing-red
holes in me and I'll love

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Day TwentyPerhaps I should
take a hint from
you
and go to bed
so that for once,
I am not drowning
in the dark pools
beneath my eyes,
but there is just
so much to see
while everyone is
dreaming.

Day NineteenI.
This building will always
remind me of you.
You left your presence
in its walls and
it creaks like a
perverse lullaby.

II.
I hear you have a
baby now.
I’ll never know if
it’s a he or she,
and that is surprisingly okay.

III.
You are every cyclist
wearing aviator sunglasses,
which means that I see you,
on average,
six times on my way home.
Coincidentally,
that is the same number
of times that my heart stops
daily.

IV.
I have a friend with
the same name as you, it
feels weird saying it
aloud.

V.
I’ve written you
pages of poems,
hoping that your memory
will bleed from my fingers
like a pen
running out of ink.
The r

Day EighteenMy great-grandmother had
44 grandkids
and in her obituary
I didn’t recognize
33 of the names.
I would be lucky
to know 44 people
in my life
let alone touch
each one of theirs.

Day SeventeenI think my cat
has done more this week
than you, and
she sleeps fifteen
hours each day.

Day SixteenA woman played with her baby
across the street from a policeman
holding the biggest gun I
have seen in my life.
Today, I played tourist in
my own city
and I saw that grass grows
the same way
on any side.

Day FifteenIt’s funny the way the
darkness
can swallow up a tragedy,
silencing it just enough to
let us believe that when we
open our eyes
it will all be over.

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The Balloon

by ~xthe-eleanorx, Jun 19, 2012, 9:46:02 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

She hated him so much that she wanted to love him. She wanted to love him more than anything in her life. She wanted to wrap him up in her arms and promise to keep him forever.

But they tell her to leave him. "We know his type," they say. "The minute you begin to care about him, he leaves you forever and you'll be left to pick up the pieces."

She knows that they're right. She holds him by a string while he's miles above her. She loathes him, but her heart races every time she thinks of letting go of the string. She closes her eyes and the minute she opens them, she has to frantically reach for him.

Purple shadows grow beneath her eyes and blisters form where she has him tied at her wrist.

"Let him go," they whisper as they try to loosen him from her arm.

She shuffles, sleepy-eyed through the park, dragging him along behind her. A woman runs up behind her and points to the string.

"He is absolutely lovely. You're very lucky to have him miss," the woman says.

She begins to remove him from her wrist and places the string in the woman's hand.

"I really didn't deserve it. Here, you keep him."

The Balloonby ~xthe-eleanorx

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Just a bit of flash fiction because feelings are a thing.

(critique: [link])

Questions:
-Do you understand the metaphor?
-Does the plot move along too quickly?
-Any comments on diction?
-Other thoughts/comments?

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

=OHiNeedTea May 17, 2013 Student Writer

I featured this in my journal, here: [link]

~xthe-eleanorx 4 days ago Student Writer

Thanks so much!

=OHiNeedTea 3 days ago Student Writer

No problem

=OHiNeedTea May 16, 2013 Student Writer

I understand the metaphor and i think it's really interesting and original to associate her pain with the balloon and the ability to eventually give it away and accept that she didn't deserve it.
I think you could've developed more on the plot so that it was easier to understand. The story flows well though, and it has a great impact for a piece that's so short.

I really enjoyed it, well done

*thomasbisbee Nov 11, 2012 Writer

Critque: I enjoy this because throughout the text you continue to maintain a movement for the reader. You never lapse into a description that drags the whole piece.

The idea is interesting, that you compare the heavy emotions of love with something that ultimately is just a balloon. The transitions are very strong. You maintain the link between the balloon and love, I believe, very well because of the connections between the balloon and blood. The balloon or it's string is always associated with blood or love or some emotion. It works.

My criticisms (since this is critique) would be that I really wonder if you are pushing yourself here? This seems like a text that was written while eating muffins or drinking coffee but thinking about someone or something else too. I don't know how familiar you are with poetry in an academic sense but I feel you could really push some boundaries. I'll have to check out some of your other stuff, please bear in mind this is the only thing I've read from you.

That's it. Have a good one!

~xthe-eleanorx Nov 11, 2012 Student Writer

Thanks so much for the critique! I would agree that this is most definitely not among my strongest pieces, and maybe it is because I was writing about someone I know, and didn't want her to recognize herself in the story. I've always found it hard to stay balanced on that line between fictional characters and semi-real ones.

Once again, I really do appreciate the feedback!

=slowslicksnails Aug 23, 2012 Student Writer

I'm not good at critiquing things other than poetry but I will definitely try!!

1. The ballon and the boy?
2. No, I think it's great the way it is.
3. No, because I forget what diction means, haha, sorry

4. it's a tad bit strange but not in a bad way, I like it! I'm so glad I couldn't find any punucation in this piece (normally I can).

Hm, as a suggestion maybe add more descriptive words? But not too many more, just a bit. Also, last sentence - didn't deserve what?

Overall this piece is very cool, I give it 4 stars

:icon-lacoterie:

~xthe-eleanorx Aug 25, 2012 Student Writer

Thanks for the critique!

The "it" at the end is the grief and anxiety that this girl suffered due to her balloon, and she realizes that she didn't actually deserve all the pain.

=slowslicksnails Aug 25, 2012 Student Writer

Ohhh ok, I get it now, thanks for the explanation!!

And you're welcome!!

=slowslicksnails Aug 23, 2012 Student Writer

I mean

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