[x]

Grandfather's BirdGrandfather 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

The Architect's DaughterGrowing up, the drafting table was a strange contraption lording over the basement and over the crown of her then small head. As she slowly came to understand the table's function, it came to teach her that A) work and home are inseparable, and B) the world is flat. Skyscrapers collapse into thin piles of layered printer paper and torn, pen-marked transparency sheets. Mountains and forests reduce to stacked shapes. Fathers compile into cramped calendars.

Now the early lessons are thoroughly embedded. Art and architecture are inseparable in her mind. The easel is her own table, similar to a draughtsman's and yet completely different in

Lie to meI smile and I'm all teeth underneath,
white bones beneath bulbous lips,
careless quips and sinking ships
when something slips.

Hair of the cat that scratched you-
it's never new but always true.
I watched it stew until it grew
into something different.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder
what does the blind man see when he holds her
and tells her his heart smolders
for her face?

Honesty as a policy
is not for me;
I could never see
eye to eye with it.

You can lie to buy my affection.
I will not try to hide my affliction
and you needn't be conflicted
when we can be so happy together.

The Black Bag     The problem was simple, really. I was a little too drunk. Me and my buddy Jake though, we found it simple to walk with a stagger and laugh a little too loud, a simple problem. The day was pretty good, pretty drunk.

     The hours passed easy until Max came out of his pawnshop. Max never leaves his pawnshop. He looked so worried and strange I had to squint to be sure it was him. He got us interested, walking toward my buddy and me with trouble written all over his face. Trouble is something a man can relate to from time to time, somehow.

     Max walked right up

The Neighbors     Strange things began to happen when the Garcias moved into the ramshackle house next door. Or, at least people were implying that they were the cause of all the odd phenomena. I mainly did what I was told and stayed clear of the couple's territory.

     Rural life, as I experienced it, had its advantages and disadvantages. The good part was that we didn't have the luxuries of mobile phones or cable television and this made life more exciting. Children weren't cooped up at home watching DVDs or playing video games; we were always outside, running amok under the sun.

small talkhe doesn't do small talk; never has done in the seven-or-so years i've known him. he's a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy i met in a down-town pub. i'd been drinking – he hadn't – and he lent me an arm for the three miles home.
"irresponsible… alone… could have been hurt…” - the only snatches of his tirade i remember now.

we met again, a week later, in that same down-town pub. i bought him a drink - a thank you (soft, of course) - and basked in his approval at my own orange and lemonade. i once swore i’d never change for any man.

we got talking, there in the bar. the hum of the underage youths larki

Feeding The PigeonsThe new pills were in my pocket, probably getting all linty. Or should I say the new-new-new pills: after all, this was the third try at finding a medication I'm not allergic to. After throwing my guts up on two different meds, I'm not about to swallow another one, only to find it's coming back up too.
Why do I even have medication? It's not like I'm in horrible pain when I don't take it.
My arms are stuck straight out, and they waver as I try to balance on one metal track. If my foot touches the ground, it's "burned" by lava. Lava is pretty good incentive not to touch the middle of the train tracks: even if in real life, its not lava. It

Coffee-Stained Letter Dear Stranger,

You don't know me. And I don't know you. Maybe it's better that way. But then again, maybe we would be happier if we did know each other.

Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, with the sunlight streaming in the window, writing this letter for you. Hopefully I'll finish it by tonight, so that tomorrow I can take it to the coffee shop on the corner and drop it on the floor, or in your lap, or maybe in the lap of the person next to you so they can give it to you...because they don't seem like the type to read it, so they'll obviously just pass it on.

I like music - except terrible rap. And I love the written word more than most,

Alice of Sky and Earth [Cheshire treasure shepherd, nest, sir, chest. of.
drawers.]

I am only as real
as the teeth that spread themselves into a smile,
the eyes that wait to see the air ripple.
I fear people who call things simple.

I kneel at the hearth
and dirty my knees in the sienna-brown earth
and th

VaingloryI watched Daedalus cradle his ivory child,
melted, winged bronze crowned in seaweed:
he released his reckless child,

threw him to the winds in hopeless abandon
watched as the sea ruined him.
Decadent in ripped seashells,
he escapes into obscurity,
exalts the lamented to the point of notoriety -

Tell him I saw his face again
...in Picasso in art in war in despair,
lo, Daedalus:

he hid his face, a disgraced Eros
(still winged, still winged,
these wings bind flesh from stone,
from sea-besieged rock)
but still so naked in his shame.
"So desolate, o desolate,
O, so desolate, Daedalus?"
croons the wicked wind,
and the crooked man's back hunches

A Brief History of TimeI.
We live again
and must learn the names we have been given.

And oh, the caged bird carries the wind in her lungs.
She is a body of calm thunder.

II.
Beloved, Beloved…
I am born
with the sweet clay of Virginia in my eyes,
the bones of old Ireland in my flesh.

I am myself incarnate.
Opening a new mouth I
speak.

III.
Solomon's wife
catches the birds in flight.
Oh, that man carries the wind in his lungs,
she says,
in his lungs and under his wings.

Our drums are our thighs,
the soles of our feet against the earth,
the thick pounding rivers that rush through our veins.

IV.
We are
ripe
apples.

Motherfather Time sits

Ink VoiceWhile the other children spilled into the playground, Ren stayed inside. She sat in her beanbag and leafed through a book. Ren loved stories as much as she hated talking. This late into the year, she had read and reread every child-battered book on the shelf several times. And she loved them all.

They smelled like . . . magic.

Stories were doors and Ren used them to fall into other worlds.

Except, not really. She only pretended to do so, and it was hard to pretend when grownups decide to interrupt her quiet reading.

"Which book are you reading today, Ren?" Miss Payper asked.

Don't say a word.

Ren did not look up at her teacher. She cont

Sasha GrimTime hiccupped while Sasha was nursing a cup of coffee in the lunchroom of the office complex where she worked. It was a brief flicker but she knew what it meant all the same. She'd been gazing idly in Gary Piedmont's direction -- Gary with his perennial tan and cobra-like grace -- when suddenly in his place was a bloodied and burnt apparition with bugs caught in its smile.

She watched, wide-eyed, fingers tightening spasmodically around the cup of coffee she held as the thing walked across the room in Gary's well-tailored suit and sat down. Then she blinked and the ghastly image was gone.

Sasha took a deep

What Do You Think of Death?She stared at me.  "I don't think of it."

"Not at all?"

Her eyes crinkled, thin eyebrows meeting in casual thought.  "Well, sometimes."

"But… not often?"  I needed to know.

"No.  Not often.  Why?"  Now her eyes grew wide, eyebrows arching in provoked curiosity.

"It's not important."  But, having said the words, I found that strangely, terribly, it was.

"No.  I suppose not."  And her eyes closed.

I couldn't take it.  "But it is!"

"What is?"  Annoyance had crept into her tone, her sleepy pupils turning hard.

"Death! The et

The Epic SceneThe epic scene: I, a super hero, stanced in front of my arch-enemy, a super villain whose only intention is to make me suffer.
I, a lone hero in his white suit stained with blood of battles and triumphs over evil am staring a black dilemma in the face with every solution hidden from me.
He stares at me, his arms stretched out, like he's going to catch me if I should fall forward. His eyes are red, and glowing, and are trying to penetrate my concentration. We stand still, waiting for someone to move.

Our eyes don't budge from each other.

My true love shivers behind me, frightened,

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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.

Day FourteenMy grandmother was planning a
wedding
in her free periods during her senior year.
A picket fence, a baby on the way,
the real American Dream.

My mother rang the wedding bells
just after she tossed
her University’s graduation cap.
Why take a hop when you can leap?

My family puts a special emphasis
on the word “friend” if he’s male,
parading a ghost of a figure around
as if I have
finally
achieved the medal of adulthood to
wrap around my finger and say
“I do” because
“I won’t”
just isn’t an option.

Day ThirteenI lost you long ago—
when you looked into my eyes
and saw someone else.

Day TwelveI joked about killing myself
seven times today:
Four times in the morning,
twice in the afternoon,
and once on the bus when I
didn’t think anyone could hear.

My great-grandmother’s
funeral is on Sunday, and I
can feel the base in my
family creaking.
There are no roots to
the left of me,
and the right is
barely hanging on.
No one told me that trees
die from the bottom up.

Day ElevenI.
It amazes me that
there are parts of my body
that I don’t use.
My appendix floats between the
skin and bones
and my tonsils only keep me
from getting all the air I need.

II.
Today alone, I saw six different parents
strapping their babies to their bodies
like another appendages.
What qualifies them as
extra.

III.
My tongue can trace
the roof of my mouth and reach
the very base of my chin.
When I need it to form strains of
vowels and consonants,
it cannot be found.

Day TenThe frozen food
in my freezer
has been labeled in sharpie
because no one can tell
the brown remnants of meals
from months ago apart.
A sweet potato is likely
to be a pork chop.
We will all look the same
once we have finally
frozen over.

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The Man in the Coffee Shop

by ~xthe-eleanorx, Jun 2, 2011, 4:17:25 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

The man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.

I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.

Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hair and scream 'till my lungs burst. I scream for and at you. I ask how you could have left me here.

Sometimes I allow myself to believe that I will see you again. By chance we will run into each other in a Wal-Mart far away.

I go to the coffee shop on Tuesday afternoons. I order a small chai tea with milk.

Sometimes the man is working at the cash register. He smiles at me as he rings me up
and tells me to enjoy my day.

Sometimes the man is arranging pastries in the glass display. He looks up from the sugared doughnuts and slices of pound cake to give me a warm smile. I feel a pang in my stomach and my smile borderlines on grimace.

I take my tea and sit myself in one of those fancy armchairs.

Sometimes I bring a book and read. I send myself far away while sipping warm, spicy
tea.

Sometimes I bring a poem I've been working on. I scratch out lines and rewrite and rewrite again.

I stay until the place closes. I toss my cup in the garbage and file out of the shop with the other late night customers. He smiles and asks me to please come again.

The Man in the Coffee Shopby ~xthe-eleanorx

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

Titles are really always awful. I can't decide whether this piece is about the 'man in the coffee shop' or 'you'

1. Does the current title work?
2. Does the sometimes at the beginning of some of the paragraphs sound good or just silly?
3. Are the sentences/paragraphs too choppy?
4. Thoughts/Comments? Love/Hate?

[Daily Literature Deviation 6/15/11]

~~love 0 0~~

joy 2 2

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Lottie-Girl Apr 1, 2012 Student General Artist

I really liked the descriptions of what you were doing in the coffee shop.

You could just call it The Man, gives it a bit of mystery, I think.

~xthe-eleanorx Apr 1, 2012 Student Writer

Thank you very much!

~Lottie-Girl Apr 2, 2012 Student General Artist

You're welcome

~Ard0R0us Oct 10, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

1. It works. I also like 'It's Not You' or 'It's Never You' -- I think as it stands I like it, especially because he comes back in to the story at the end to 'tidy things up' and bring it full circle.
2. I like it but I think it's a tad excessive. The 'sometimes' works in that it serves to show that it's not always the same but when the occurance is there it's always noticed. I like it's usage sometimes.
3. I like the choppiness but I do think it might be improved if it weren't quite so consistently choppy. I also like the little details you add to make it more sensory and physical. I think if you added a touch more of those and a little fewer 'sometimes' it would be more to my personal taste. As it reads it seems like a poem which was stretched in to a good piece of prose. I still like it, I just want it off the fence.
4. Comments:
I like the physical 'scenes' (coffee shop, library, wal-mart) but think you could tighten this up by having a more clear and ever so slightly descriptive aspect to them. You could adjust it mostly with formatting and a few choice sentences. The wal-mart scene would be better with a sentence or two. It would be more balanced that way with the others.

I think the 'drive myself crazy' part needs adjustment to reflect a non-literal more library-esque feel. Maybe a 'silently' or 'quietly' or 'to myself' or something along those lines. As it stands it seems a little off and out of character -- I like the emotion it conveys though.

I enjoyed reading this and how it's laid out. I do think it could be made even better with just a few minor adjustments. I also think your character might as well just ask the new coffee guy out.

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 10, 2011 Student Writer

Thank you for the critique! I will definitely keep the things you mentioned in mind when editing.

~Ard0R0us Oct 10, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

I wasn't sure how open you'd be to the comments. I know some people once they finish a piece they really don't worry about it or want to think on it anymore.

I enjoyed reading this and think with just a touch or two it could be even better.

keep writing...

~xthe-eleanorx Oct 11, 2011 Student Writer

I'm always open to constructive criticism, particularly because I am always editing and rewriting. Thanks again!

~Ard0R0us Oct 11, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

My pleasure. If you have something else you'd like me to read let me know.

!englandrain Sep 24, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

I feel like I've read this before, but I'm not quite sure.

~xthe-eleanorx Sep 24, 2011 Student Writer

It's possible? It was a Daily Lit Deviation a few months ago.

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