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MorticianCarefully, he peels back age-stiffened skin
the last skirt a lady has to be lifted
and knows her little grievances, the aches,
the smoker's lungs, the ribs broken years ago,
the little scratches on the leg where she picked
and picked, when nervous.
He takes the too-large heart in his hands
her heart in his hands!
He knows her, although never acquainted formally,
her calling-card affixed to bluish toes
still coated with clear polish.
Amidst smells of formaldehyde, stiffness in the air,
he adds color to worry-bleached cheeks
and tells her not to fret, reassuring
that she'll look lovely, regardless of tobacco teeth.
Outside"[Poetry is] honest, raw, unapologetic."
Unapologetic? My every word
is apology, in some context; an apology to myself
or to the reader, to everything else, to the mewling thing in my guts
that cries and cries and
Stop. Is this free verse? Is this blank verse?
Does my psychodynamic stanza have a rhyme
that can be identified not once, but all the time?
If this is my honesty, my rawness, why
does it have order at all? If I am honest
I am a scrabbling thing in the dirt and my thoughts
my thoughts are like moles in the sunlight
squealing and blind, flailing for cover.
But that's not the case; my thoughts are clean
and cold, produced by the mechanical pulsing
of the light in the bones in my head, collected,
and for that I must apologize. I don't have
the rawness, the honesty
to pry bittersweet beauty
from seventeen years of crusty cloth
without a pattern, without a pattern.
exists as trap-lines in sand
I lay mine carefully
never to be broken
pulled, they break
back, contingency cracks in veneer
in bulletproof glass
in my parlor
in my Oval Office
in my back-alleys
in my boardrooms
And You Will Lead Me ToIt has been one thousand eight hundred forty-nine days since the beginning of my sentence began. This is the one hundred eighty-fifth time that I have been placed into extended segregation for the good of the general population following dangerous and uncooperative behavior.
I have been in here for two days four hours, excepting thirty minutes for a shower and sweep of the solitary confinement cell. Three thousand ninety minutes. The room is dark. One hundred eighty-five thousand four hundred seconds, three seconds ago. Time progresses, as it always does; I have been placed here following a confrontation with the prison psychiatrist. They are calling it a confrontation. I am calling it survival.
Square peg, nonexistent hole. They ask me why I chose to do this. Why I chose to do that. Why I chose to be the "villain" in all of this, as if the world is a shape with definite sides. They continue to demand an explanation for my crimes. For my justices.
Animals, filthy animals, all of them.
Advanced Science ResearchAdvanced Science Research
I have a problem.
I have surveys to solve the problem.
The problem, though, is that I have surveys
to solve the problem.
One hundred twenty-two surveys
and, so far, none of them have any solutions.
To get my solution, I have to state my problem,
except I can't state my problem in the surveys to solve the problem
because that's biased.
Likewise, I can't wait until I'm done with the surveys to state the problem
because that's biased.
I'm biased against surveys, I think, but that doesn't solve the problem
because I still haven't clearly defined the problem I'm
trying to solve because the surveys aren't evaluated.
I should evaluate the surveys
to define the problem
to use the surveys
to solve the problem,
but to evaluate the surveys, I need a problem to solve.
The only problem I have at the moment
is the problem of having surveys,
but that's biased.
Advice to a CaterpillarMy dear, what they told you is true:
everything will be alright, in the end,
but what they didn't tell you
is that the means will be terrible.
The world will be cold when you escape yourself,
and when you
the cucoon, when you
the skin, when you crawl free? You'll be doomed.
That's the truth of the matter, plain
You'll be soft, little crawling thing; you'll be naïve,
and the wings they promised you
will be limp, and wet.
They will not work when you need them most,
clinging horrified to the gnarled edges of the world.
Every breeze will remind you
of what you thought you could do,
of what you must do,
of what you cannot even hope to do,
and hanging there, bedraggled and raw,
you will stare out unblinking
and know that you won't make it if the rain comes too soon,
Re: ModernTo the urns, to mirages that hover close
with talk of Dickenson, and Hughes, and Kerouac
Be quiet. They cannot hear your loosening screws.
For what would you want the breakup of all wondrous things,
the fractioning of personage?
Be quiet. None are listening, but
for the guttering of a candle flickering,
no audience is audience all the same, having lived at both ends,
The world shrinks, and I am not
the child of ghosts, of powdered glass reflecting
brightness and green glowing things, immaterial
and sickly. The ozone stink of burning cord,
the tired plague of heavy gold, of lead,
are me. My alchemy has run dry, and, brittle,
I resign myself to analysis
and am disassembled.
I am The PragmatistI am The Pragmatist, criminal mastermind, nemesis of the League of Crimefighters, supervillain, genius, monster, prisoner. This tale I pen is not for my own benefit. I stand only to lose from telling my story, and I know that I will lose terribly. I am writing this because I am compelled to, and I can only hope with what remains of my faith, and of my sanity, that some good will come of it.
I remember the first time that the true nature of my world was revealed to me. I was in prison; I had been apprehended once again by Apex and his league of masked heroes and left to rot in a cell identical to ones I had been in before. Fool that I was, I thought that it was due to my error, a flaw in my plans, and as I lay on my cot I reviewed my actions, vowed to finally realize my goals as soon as I escaped. Then I set to work, crafting an escape route out of the prison; materials came to me as they always did, unknowingly gifted to me in the furnishings of my cell and the implausible technologi
Reminiscence of a Postmodern CriticOh yeah. Preach it
We are the children of a thousand racketeers
with wheels strapped to our feet
and wings to our backs
and stars burning the palms of our hands
so that we let go and fall, whooping, back to the ground.
I can't forget the smell
of ozone and bones, like a gasoline fireplace
and the sound they made when they hit the dirt
like birds against windows:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Political refugees from the stratosphere
we failed our road tests
and had our heels revoked for being too round
even though they were really too flat, like busted tires.
I can't forget the look
on their faces, like a lightbulb burning out
and the sound they made when they tried to walk
like cars without chassis:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Crazy scribblers, trying to write the billion names of God
we traded feathers for dollars
and dollars for feathers
so we could pen our tales with politically-correct quills
although our words fell heavy on the pages
like acid raindrops, bitter:
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Rotting Man (Part 4) "Man, what's taking him so long?" I complained, looking up towards the stairwell we came from earlier.
"I don't know," Seth replied, looking at his watch. "Let's go upstairs and tell him to hurry up."
"Right," Alaina said, "let's go then."
But as soon as we stepped on the first steps on the stairwell, Alaina heard something that made her stop. "Hold up, guys," she whispered,
her hand blocking us from proceeding. "Hear that?"
"Heheheheheheheheheheheheh," a faint cackling voice came from upstairs, followed by a faint skittering noise, and we stood there, numb with shock and surprise, until the noise became inaudible.
"Oh my god," I whispered. "He's real."
"Did you guys hear that?" Seth spoke up, his face clearly excited by the turn of events. "I knew it! I knew the Rotting Man's real! Guys, this is so cool!"
"You idiot!" Alaina exclaimed. "If he's real, that means Jamal's in dan
Halloween Hell - Part 2A shriek echoed as the front door was ripped open from the inside. James yelled and jumped back from the door, bumping into Heather and sending both of them tumbling down the steps. Still squinting from the flash, Tess caught a glimpse of a misshapen creature dart out from inside the house. A high pitched squeal that sounded a lot like a laugh emerged from its throat, and it seized Tess by the arm and yanked her over the threshold.
"No!" Rob roared, reaching for her, but the door slammed shut. "Tess!"
The inside of the house was pitch black, and the creature released her arm. Tess opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a startled yelp when she felt a sharp pain in her thigh.
"What's happening?!" she cried. "What do you want?!"
Then the drug kicked in, and she crumpled to the floor.
The creature grunted excitedly and began to drag her through the house, down to the basement where his master was waiting.
"What the hell?! Where's Tess?!" Heather looked around wild
All gone part onePrologue: The end, over and over again.
I write these notes in hopes that someone will find these and understand what it was like for us...to know what the days before the infection. The focus of my last few notes have been the infection and the time in between the first cases and the time of writing...all that time…
It was ten years...it’s really been ten years. It gets hard to keep track when everyday blends into a mixture of fear and hunger. It could have been longer for all I know, but my case is that it’s been a long time. I live in a world that many people define as either hell on earth, or simply the apocalypse. People died in the thousands on day one, the millions in a week. In a month it was easier to keep track of those alive and then...nothing. No broadcasts, no notices from the quarantine zones...nothing. Just silence.
The military left us to die, abandoning us to the hoards of undead coming at the walls. First stage was
Capitulo 16. Para mi querido AlexisNinguno de los dos dijo palabra alguna. Alexis se sintió culpable y creyó que haber mantenido ese secreto era motivo de molestia para Daniel, o eso es lo que le hacía creer el silencio en que se había sumergido el cocodrilo, quien no era capaz ni de dirigirle la mirada al cachorro. Pero lo que realmente mantenía cerrados sus labios era la sorpresa. En su mente revivía la escena de una madre desconsolada que extrañaba al hijo que la odiaba, y con quien no había hablado en todo ese tiempo. De repente, ella no ha dejado de estar al pendiente de él. Estaba claro que la leona había mentido, ahora necesitaba saber porque. Todas las dudas que tenía con respecto a su esposa desaparecieron en ese momento de su mente.
No fue hasta que iban de camino a casa de Alexis que Daniel finalmente decidió que era momento de hablar. Pero no sabía si hacerlo como una figura de autoridad o como la pareja que era del le
The Rotting Man (Part 5) An hour had passed since we had ran away from both Seth and the Rotting Man itself.
"Alaina?" I whispered slowly.
"Yeah?" she whispered back. "What's up?"
"Do you think we'll make out of it alive?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied grimly, "but I know I'm sick and tired of sitting here waiting for the sun to come up."
I rested my head on the door. "Yeah, I know what you mean," I said. "I just want to book it, crawl into the bedsheets, and never come back. Hell, I'd even move away to get away from Seth. But Jamal...man, Jamal. I just met that guy. I could've done something, you know? It's just not fair."
"Stop beating up yourself," she said, as she sat back up. "No one...well, except for Seth, that piece of..." she growled between gnashed teeth, but as she was about to finish her sentence, we heard the door thump from behind us.
"Oh shit," I whispered, "stand up, we need to hold off this
Asylum Life - ScarsScars
Katherine blinked, staring at herself in the mirror. She examined all of the scars on her body, the places where she cut her arms and wrists, the choke bruises on her throat, the wounds where she stitched her left eye and cheeks shut. Her vision flickered across her own face, taking in every feature, every flaw. She silently counted the small blotches of pigment on her face, smiling at the old memory of how each freckle was a kiss from an angel. "Pfft, more like scars from the devil." She snickered, sitting down on the bed in her room. She felt a slight chill as a presence drifted through the wall behind the headboard, settling beside the murderess and draping a corporeal arm over her shoulders. "Hey Sadie." Katherine sighed, looking down. The translucent ghost frowned a bit, her face echoing concern for a friend. "What's wrong Kat? You're not normally this down." The illusionist sighed again, turning her head toward her phantasmic comrade. She eyed all of Sadie's scars, the deep
Lust: Pt.2"So Brian." I spoke up, turning to the relatively tall man next to me.
He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.
"You think if we blare a little bit of sex songs you think our target will come after it?" I set down my drink I had cupped in my hands.
"That's not its mating call, Matt." He huffed, rolling his chocolate-colored eyes.
"Bro, you never know. I mean, what do ya think gets it fired up and ready for some mad porn action?" I gave him a light jab in the ribs with my elbow, a retarded grin stuck to my face.
"Vampires have hormones too. I guess it just gets hungry while having fun." He flipped the paper he had in his hands to the back side, eyes squinting as he read the small font on the page.
"I know I don't. Have you ever eaten anything while having sex? That junk is weird. Who gets hungry while doing that."
"Okay A.) I'm still a virgin so no I haven't even had sex. B.) Vampires are twisted and drink blood for God's sake and C.) Could you go start up the car? I'm pretty
The Trials of Ravon: IntroAn overweight man sat on a crate, alone in a room decorated with colored strings running from a bulletin board on the wall to photographs on the others. He tapped his foot impatiently, thinking while toying with his beard. Samuel Rand had an obsession, or at least that's what his friends called it, with a masked murderer. His eyes drifted to one of the few unblurred photographs of the young woman, taking in each curve and detail of her body. He wanted her, oh how he wanted her. He wanted his fingers entwined in her luxurious black and blue hair. He wanted his hands on her flawless tan skin. He wanted, he obsessed over her. Every picture had all the other people in it scratched or blacked out. He didn't give a shit about the tall, faceless man or the blonde woman in white. He laughed at the hooded teenager and the one in the goggles. But one of them, one of the other murderers, stood out. She was nothing compared to HIS 'Masked one', but she was with his desire. Protecting her from a ga
Dance Of The Dead Faeries (One)The soft sound of a music box was heard. A blurred figure was twirling slowly, a sparkling white flowing. The music was calming, and yet, at the same time, it frightened her. She wanted it to go away, and then it distorted, and became faint. The figure stopped twirling, the image becoming even blurrier than it already was. And then she snapped back to reality.
Fiona blinked, and stared at the road in front of her. She chuckled, as it was amusing to her how lucky she was. She had been drifting into strange dreams like that often recently, but this was the first time it had happened while she was driving. Though this road kept going straight, and felt like it was leading nowhere.
She sighed. Perhaps it was a mistake coming all the way out here. She thought about it, and could not actually remember why she decided to come all the way out here.
Because you needed to get away. "...Oh, I did, didn't I?" she sighed. Yes, she had to get away, far away. Her sister, Victoria, died only a
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More