Features by brennennn<da:thumb id="655172985"/>
the scarecrow's daughter [sd VI]nailed on a south-facing fence
out where horizon meets sky
her shadow follows the sun
frayed faded lips softly sigh
day by day slow years passing
the clouds and birds sailing by
bold ravens tell her wild tales
of a life living so high
her heart of straw is longing
not even saying goodbye
soon she will let it all go
on a wild wind she will fly
The Boardwalk
An old tradition
Strolling around the gift shops
Watching the arcades
T-shirts, key chains, shot glasses
For past, present, and future
Features by doughboycafeArs MateriaLeaving your country starts with getting rid of as many things as possible. You give your old CDs to your sibling’s friend. Donate your art books to a teacher. Throw out as many childhood mementoes as your mother allows. Sell your car. Swap your thick hoodies for your sibling’s t-shirts. Donate the rest of your clothes to a homeless shelter.
You pack books from your old lovers and birthday presents from your current lover. You pack art supplies because they’re expensive to replace. You pack your country’s flag. You buy power adapters.
You cross the world with everything you own in two suitcases and a messenger bag.
On the other side, you rent the first decent apartment you find. For a few days you sleep on an air mattress and eat sandwiches off paper plates. You buy a used table and chairs from an Irish couple down the road who are returning home. They give you scratched pots and pans for free. You buy a mattress new.
You get a new phone and a cheap data plan be
Mature Content
It's all over the newsIt's all over the news, bad news.
It comes and goes in heavy waves, and
your aunt has cancer.
It seems lately that all you do is lose
yourself, always seeing graves because
it's all over the news. Bad news:
this year is still ongoing. It's true
it feels unstoppable, and by the way
your aunt has cancer—
a snake-noose tightening grooves
into her neck and throat, giving it
its all. Over the news, bad news,
you have coffee and chatter moodily—
because what else can you do when told
your aunt has cancer—
Stare silent at the menus, choose
the easiest meal to stomach, because
it's all over. The news, bad news:
your aunt has cancer.
GoldschlagerTerrors fragile, tease the night, nubile and safe they allure.
Poisoned apples red with easement, fat with sweet liqueur.
A molasses prison within a dream, a sleep with no stone cast.
Whispers delusion into tired bone, pledges asylum vast.
Thicker than reason and gilded neatly at every golden seam,
wont let it grow without a mess, a mess I cannot clean.
lust maroon for pathways mild and burden a fraction lighter
Saturate us, destroy our home, the noose a fraction tighter.
The call of sleep is oh so sweet, the phalanx wilts, fatigued.
Demon lend me another drink, as I'm thoroughly intrigued.
Oh there is? Through the pass? Shelter to weather the storm?
Say its ok, it's easy and pure, but ultimately, forlorn.
No matter how twisted these ancient halls, or pathways wrapped in snow,
no matter how thick with thorn and swords this journey overflow,
ignore the lies, the trap, the swamp, the corpse soaked in Merlot,
Fight for every fucking inch: it's the only way to know.
ErrantIt started when you recovered from your illness.
Or perhaps when you got sick in the first place, or…well, really it began the day you first picked up sword and shield again. Not that you’d have changed that: life as a knight is the only thing you ever wanted. It was—it is, it still is—your honor to defend the folk of the kingdom. To hunt down the unclean things that steal through the dark. It’s a difficult task; the forces of the crown are spread thin these days, and you’re the only appointed knight in the surrounding villages. With the increasing reports of witches and night things about the borders, you’ve been overworked ever since you took the post.
How long has it been? Shit, about a decade. Too long and with too little rest.
It was no wonder that you fell ill. Three weeks were spent wracked with fever and shakes, but hey, it was the first vacation you’d had in years. Little pins and needles skittered across your muscles at n
The Third SiblingI don’t know why I assumed
it would be a boy. Intuition,
maybe. Or perhaps, little
brothers were all I knew.
My third sibling paused
in the first trimester
and never hit play: a frozen
picture on the ultrasound.
Mom came home, stole
to bed, and shut the door
with a clack soft as thunder.
My third sibling is a silence,
forgotten outside the quiet
moments alone, when I wonder
what his name was.
sudden collapse of the integersthe day becomes an hour
becomes a pomegranate moon, dangling on
before and after little oceans, the imperfect domain
of memory; vivid colored birds
singing Sunday roars of time (and a time after)
and the future rises hushed
over the edges of a mountain- it was there
before we knew it
one hell of a yeari. some friends will
help you spread your wings.
they will cheer as they
watch you soar.
never once will they see you as
icarus heading to his death.
those are the ones you keep.
others will rip out your wings to
replace them with ones of
wood, feathers, and wax.
they will shove you up -
up into the sky and
laugh as your erupt into flames.
leave them to burn themselves.
save yourself from getting scorched.
ii. the invisible girl will
force herself to be seen.
it will begin when she
strips herself down.
the vulnerabilities will shine through.
show off every scar, every crack.
she will then dye herself with
her true colors.
blend in pinks, blues, purples.
she will wrap herself in
her flag for comfort.
you will embrace your identity.
iii. you will love,
my god you will love.
how warm your heart will be!
your body, electric.
it's a beautiful feeling.
savor it.
bottle it up before
the storm clouds roll.
iv. you will break.
El Adalid de las BrumasEl manto de blancura enturbiada
se extiende sobre páramos yermos
y montes petrificados en vigilancia.
Cubre la niebla el mundo
y responde a la súplica del ocaso incierto,
envolviéndolo suavemente en su sombra pálida.
Se alzan las brumas desde arroyos y lagunas,
derramándose cual vaporoso sudario de alabastro,
vertiendo a su paso dolorosas emociones lánguidas
y mansas mareas albas de silencios opacos.
No hay sonido humano que penetre la niebla,
ni oscuridad perniciosa que emponzoñe su hálito.
No hay tribunales del odio que condenen la niebla,
ni cárceles quiméricas que detengan su avance helado.
No.
Todo es paz entre la bruma.
Todo es blanco.
No recuerdo entre sus gélidos brazos
ni alientos conspicuos descarriados,
ni amores nunca transitados,
ni siquiera los lamentos de aquéllos
que, solitarios, viajaron en vano.
No.
Todo es paz entre la bruma.
Todo es blanco.
Por eso, yo he de luchar por esa niebla
que emborrona la distancia
portrait of rosaliemy grandmother devours
photo albums
like i devour
sylvia plath anthologies,
mémoire aprés mémoire aprés
mémoire
memory after memory after
memory.
she tells me the same story
about her first job
without a car
five times over,
looking away
to another
world,
black & white to me
& full-color to her.
alzheimer's is a language.
like french, it is
just another part of her.
she does not remember
conversations from a week ago
or to turn over laundry,
but she remembers
bus rides in the south, pre-1964,
white weddings in
grey cathedrals
that are shopping malls now.
i have learned to translate
her repetition,
the ways she can tell
the same memory
again and again
like it is the first time.
this, too,
is language:
the new inflections in her voice,
new details,
the tears that frequent
her glassy eyes
like uninvited guests
she lets in anyway,
street beggars
she has already fed,
but cannot remember to stop loving
my grandmother's
alzheimer's
is a neologist,
re-inventing
Falling Spark pt.1They called him a hero, said that he was an example of the Empire, and lauded his actions for the good of the Sahalyian people. He had single-handedly brought down a great evil and saved the life of one of the Emperor's sons, a shining beacon of wisdom and justice that they all looked to for leadership in such troubling times. With war to the east and rebellion stirring in the Empire, Captain Lassiter was an inspiration to them all.
Or something like that. Frederic wasn't actually paying attention.
The orator had been going for nearly half an hour now as the noble lords and ladies in attendance looked politely interested, and the subject of their praise grew slowly more and more wooden in appearance. He was at least dressed for the occasion, but the man held to the belief that a dressmaker’s dummy would've looked more appropriate in the expensive hosiery he wore. He thought that same dummy would have made a far more interesting dinner companion among the nobility than him, but as
A Flower Blooms
Love is a mysterious thing; an undefinable, unquantifiable enigma, that could parade in plain sight and yet remain as elusive and unfathomable as the deepest of life’s unanswerable questions.
Or at least, that’s how it felt to her.
It seemed like all around her people were pairing off. Strangers reached out a hand and clasped one another, a connection made. Acquaintances altered their course, diverting so as to intercept and intermingle. The hugs of friends softened and slowed, feelings intensifying, intertwining limbs lingering tenderly…
Yet she remained an island.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her, if there was even anything wrong at all. As far as she could tell she simply didn’t seem to feel what others did, but had no idea why that would be the case. She understood the base principles, and could appreciate that people enjoyed having someone that they could rely on for comfort and warmth, but what eluded her was the actual drive itself; she felt
For --Bloom, bloom, bloom,<da:thumb id="657963538"/>
by the window, by the sun,
by the cooling shade of soft green cedar,
bloom, bloom, bloom.
When the chrysanthemums baldly raises
its heavy head to the dim-lit skies,
or cicadas shrill in train-speed rhythm
buzz and rest their wings on your shivering thighs
do not fear the world, the strangeness of Nature,
do not flip your pale small eyelids and waver.
Whenever burly oaks grow, wild-strong branches wide,
and benign barley bend and bow in a smile;
No - this too high; No - this too low,
Bloom, bloom, bloom.
Lone Gull Crying ~ cerealnovels 1Chapter One<da:thumb id="657850676"/>
Blue shadows stretched themselves across the kitchen. The sound of the waves crashing against the pilings outside was soothing. Grammy's house shoes slapped her heels as she made her way from her bedroom to the kitchen. Abby, who sat at the table braced herself. She liked silence, her grandmother liked noise. Her grandmother entered the kitchen. Her usual, "Good Morning" was not spoken. Absently she flipped on the kitchen radio. Classical music, noise to Abby, obliterated the peaceful music of the waves. Abby looked at her grandmother. Her eyes were tired and red rimmed. She asked, "Grammy are you okay?"
Without making eye contact Grammy nodded her head. "I’m fine. Just didn't sleep well." She cleared her throat and added in a strained voice, "You're daddy's coming home."
“Oh.” Abby frowned. This news was not good for her, but it should make Grammy happy. Only she wasn’t.
The van Helsing Legacy: We Shall Not Sleep - 1
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
-Lieutenant Colonel John McRae
3 May, 1915
One year earlier
Sir Hannibal eyed the boy on the table. Young man, he corrected himself. Peacefully etherised, the patient seemed younger than he really was. His hair had grown longer during his confinement, and it curled in obsidian-dark spirals behind his head, like van Gogh’s brushstrokes. Its darkness emphasized his unearthly pallor. He had been pale before, but it had been every bit of six mon
continual wanderingi'm going 80 on i-80 until i see the sun behind me
leaving the glow of
skylines and streetlights far behind
moving west towards the iowa sky
there's a stretch of the west coast
my feet have yet to roam
and it's been years since
i've filled my lungs
with pacific air
there's a cloud over i-5
passing through portland
a peaceful grey sky awaits me
i'm miles from my bed
but i've never been more awake
the ocean whips waves
in my direction
the pacific spray
rejuvenates me
i feel as young as i did
the first time around
i'm looking at the moon
from a different angle
this may not be home
but in this moment
it feels pretty damn close
Rose and IrisThey loved their garden;
Mother and Daughter would spend
Hours in the sun.
Behind their house was
Green dotted with red, yellow,
Pink and countless more.
Mother loved roses;
Daughter preferred irises.
They planted with care.
They watched the sun rise
While blowing dandelions,
And mimicked at dusk.
Their birdbaths brought in
Winged visitors who were
Greeted with bird seed.
All meals were eaten
On a polka-dot blanket;
Nothing but home-cooked.
Catching butterflies,
Looking for funny-shaped clouds,
Climbing the oak tree.
They ran, danced and sang,
Never tiring of their
Love for each other.
Daughter did not think
That her days with Mother would
Ever reach an end.
When the doorbell rang,
And Mother answered the door,
Daughter heard her scream.
"I want to see her,"
Said the angry man outside,
Firearm in hand.
Fits of drunken rage,
Screams, scars, curses and regrets
Ran through Mother's mind.
She slammed the do
Fading eyelashesIn his heart of hearts,<da:thumb id="556374873"/>
the husband knew she would always fear
the home,
would always fear
retiring from the desk in charge,
would always be
the nun who would excommunicate
all popes and priests,
-the heretical demons!-
who would grow up to gush
at her friends who married
blond, clear looking foreigners
-while she is stuck in her
cold too cold hot too hot
rainy too rainy country
He forgot to tell
his secretary
to not answer his
home phone
but at least he
lost himself in another city
in another job
other children
another time
unshackled of everything
unclouded of everything
perhaps he is lounging
in the mountains
with his new children
unpestered
to go and get some
fresh air
while my left eye
is fogging
like the eyes
of my old aunts
the rotten grandparents
or the memory
of a woman
who desperately
wants to build
a sentence in English
a life
not her own
to her whim and fancy
Something to love her backI saw Gwen for the first time in God knows how long today. She looked different. She had two new tattoos and a new piercing and her face wasn't freckly anymore. She said she couldn't live without her foundation. Couldn't show her face in public without it. Talk about fucking paranoid. What happened to the tomboy Gwen I used to know? She asked me if I wanted to go with her to vote and I said sure, even though I wasn't registered and didn't give a damn about politics.
On the way there, when she and I were in her car, she told me she'd been fucking a new guy lately. I said cool and asked if it was any good. Then she looked at me with this big grin and said, so guess what? I said, I don't know, what? And she said, in about seven months give or take a few days, I'm going to have a new name. I was confused. I asked if she was going to legally change her name. She laughed and shook her head and tried to make me guess what her new name was going to be. It's really simple, she said. How the fuc
Features by BeccaJS Mature Content
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