[x]

SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.

It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki

another notch on the wall. 1.
a while now,
a while now has passed
with bruises crying jagged from your voice
and pretty little nicks upon
your memory.

( tricky partners dancing
stiffly
within your hands cupped around a flame,

for artists draw and
writers scream

another curse at the bleeding night
snipping stitches and
weaving nightmares into weary minds.
)

dragging bottles of paint behind you
like they were clanging and
swishing the secrets of life into
your ears,
oh, your ears bled with screams

TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.

It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.

In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door.

The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtains—the arithmetic of her childhood.

"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on each—sixty-four. I counted."

The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.

And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense

etch-a-sketch
he wrote his suicide note on an etch-a-sketch board.
elmo-red frame, golden paint drawing out the classy cursive logo, white bottle-cap knobs, and a fake digital screen.
a child's dream.

it took him six hours to revisit his childhood for the last time.
[it didn't take that long because he didn't know what to say, but because he wanted to finally do something right.]

he carefully turned each knob, forming darkened pixels into letters, letters into words, and words into spider-silk-thin sentences that would rip and fade, just as spider webs did.

his words faded a bit when you accidentally knocked it off his dresser so you could take it

a long awaited return.It was raining when we landed.
A shock
to our sun-drenched systems,
stumbling with snatched-
away sleep.

Another bus, another train
whirring upon endless tracks.
We run, we flee through foreign streets –
disdainful eyes stare on,
watching fugitive

outsiders -
desperate for a taste
of home.

The Cartographer's DaughterEvery night, he would fold her into his arms before she slept. Creases grew into her, turning brown with wear, and she loved them. When she woke up in the night, dreaming of darkness, he would take her to his desk and draw for her a map of her face, turning it into another world. Tracing the contours of her smile, he would scrawl a warning, "Here be monsters", whispering to her that she was a dragon when angry.

As she grew older, she populated his maps with creatures and peoples from the books she read, or her own creations. He taught her to draw, and to write with an old inkpen, in a cursive script her teacher could make neither head nor ta

THAT Woman     First they said, "No wind chimes outside the cottages. Three warnings will be given, then you are subject to eviction."
     My Granny said, "Humph. I like my old bamboo windchime. I can't even reach it no more to take it down. It's gonna stay, dammit, and I will too."
     I told Granny, "Not if they evict you, you won't. I can take it down."
     She looked at me over her reading glasses, with that Look she has.
     "If anyone's evicted, you can go with em, Sonny. I'm stayin put. Me and that damn windchim

To Us- Synesthesiai.

every sound
excites a burst
of color; an
exploding
firework,
dancing and
twirling.

ii.

your voice
tastes of mangoes;
sticky
and sweet,
caressing my senses.
your flavor is
personal.

iii.

the letters
all become a
different personality.
"T" is crabby
and "I" worries.
"J" is strong
and mighty.

iv.

closer and
farther away;
each number becomes
its own plane
and point
in space;
perfect details.

v.

all the numbers
form lines
becoming an army
of curvy rows,
swirling round
and round.
a perfect pattern.

vi.

letters take
on colors,
each and every one
a different hue,
a different shade,
forming rainbo

earth circuitAnd when the sun sinks, the earth's skin crawls:

I.
I wonder if this awkward creature would notice me the way I notice him.
He's so tragic at his throne
I stare after him longingly.
And yet,
He never realizes that I'm the one
Who forever basks in his brilliant beams.
If only he knew how much brighter he could burn
[with me]
He'd light up the universe.

II.
I heard him speak of thirst, once.
The quenching lust of the stars had run dry.
So that night, I brought along a jar of acid.
(And how it gleamed in his glow).
I handed it to him, wrapped in taffeta ribbons,
screaming
I wish curdling joy
On my gurgling boy

Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
   r
     i
      f
        t
          i
            n
                g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.

Working ClassSmoking is a working class disease
They said; he smiled at this.
Lean in body and broad of mind
With shirtsleeves rolled,
A modern man's philosopher
Who stuttered over the words
Like his fingers did over her chassis
Detroit rolling iron beneath his palms
Grease and lubricant under the nails.
The cigarette cherry glows in the dark
Giving him a hard edge aura
The gloaming settling into the lines
Of his work-worn face

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

in the seams(a) when I was young I was a robin that stole the eggs from another's nest.
fitted upon my stare there was a warning –
personal's too personal for me, well i
would not use wings if i had 'em.

a child of rye with a silhouette spoiled by the sun, I was, I am.

and sometimes I see some vengeful sparrows still under my fingernails;
their glistening beaks snap melodies that rib a hundred bird-bone cages,
so light you could blow 'em away with a twist of your lungs.

and there are still words jailed between my teeth and my tongue and I do not speak of,
do not think of
them,
but they rattle between bone and flesh and I
drown them s

Whale Songs of the PacificListen, the girls swallowed by whales are the ones that grow up lucky.

Listen, no one will warn you about the little boys with the magpie eyes and the fists swinging splinters of glass. No one will warn you that their smiles are sweeter than their words are sweeter than their souls are sweeter than their intentions. No one will warn you of the sheer weight of the world.

Listen, sometimes girls are fragile. Sometimes girls are frothy. Sometimes girls let boys nuzzle "I love you"s into their necks and sometimes girls drink the wine of believing them.

Listen, sometimes the boys really are sweet, and little girls' tart puckered mouths can't ta

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Through the LensSunlight cascades across the hardwood floor in golden puddles, each so deep and pure I swear if I could just shrug out of my skin, I could slip into it and disappear. Fall backwards into a sea of light--deconstruct my bones and muscles and break myself down to atoms and the spaces between them.

A smile no one else understands tugs at my lips--I never told them this is the only time I am happy. When I am slipping, scrambling, tripping on the sharp edge of madness.

I'm still not sure if it is what keeps me up at night, or what keeps me alive.

--

I am better.

The words turn themselves over and over again in my mind, echoing against the deep

One Thousand Whispered NothingsEven words cannot heal the cracks in her skin,
Paper thin memories, where fire smolders just beneath the surface,
A fallen star burning itself out within the oh-so-fragile cavity of her chest.

On her arms she writes promises in the language of ink and blood and indelible sin,
And tomorrow will be better, she whispers to her reflection,
But the cold glass is unforgiving and Alice refuses to return from Wonderland.

01Half-filled bottles lay scattered around me, their orange skins glinting in the dying afternoon light. Pills--blue, yellow, white--dot the floor, a sick mimicry of the candies I used to love as a child. They sit, mocking, on the hard wood.

Some scream salvation, others ruin.

An all too familiar ache grips my heart, and I chew the inside of my lip to keep from screaming.

Screaming does no good anyway. I've tried.

I can't scream, and I won't cry, so I bite the inside of my cheek till a warm, coppery tang coats my tongue and continue to watch those pills.

Sitting there, glinting in the amber light streaming in through the kitchen windows, t

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Submitted: May 7, 2012
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the things they should have told us

by ~CoffeeStainedMemory, May 7, 2012, 2:24:39 PM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / General Non-Fiction / Stories & Vignettes

see, no one really warns us about growing up.
they leave out things like heartbreak and gossip and broken people you could have saved but didn't.

it is this: the girl who holds her wrists and sits alone and tells me no child should ever grow up being afraid of someone who should love them. Her eyes are fierce, and something inside me is screaming but the clock ticks and the moment is past. i pretend i can't hear the pieces of her shatter as they hit the floor.

the next time we speak there are new shadows beneath her eyes and her shoulders hunch as if somehow she could fold into herself and disappear. maybe it would be better for us both if she did. but she doesn't. she can't and i can't and outside the sky is robins egg blue but inside a storm is brewing and the hallways smell of regret.

then, she is gone.

murmurs, rumors follow in her wake like dark ripples over stormy water.

she is gone, lost, taken, stolen, dead. in the halls, her name is whispered, softly, fervently, like a prayer for her safe return.

but days pass into weeks and the trees turn gold and red and explode in showers of kamikaze leaves, and still the girl with haunted eyes does not return.

time passes. people forget. soon, she is little more than the ghost of a memory, all but forgotten by those who once mourned her absence.

i pretend i forget her too.

but i can't. i don't. i won't.

because it is my fault the girl with fierce eyes and fragile hands is gone.

the things they should have told usby ~CoffeeStainedMemory

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / General Non-Fiction / Stories & Vignettes

i'm sorry.

--

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-06-01

the things they should have told us by *CoffeeStainedMemory Suggester Writes:Short, provocative, and a pertinent reminder that sometimes the hero has to be you or no one at all. ( Suggested by `Kneeling-Glory and Featured by ^Beccalicious )

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 1 1

~~mad 0 0~~

sad 4 4

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~Lacewinged-Beauty Jan 7, 2013 Writer

^{I simply adore this}

=SilverInkblot Dec 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Hi there! Just a note to let you know I've featured this piece in my 2012 showcase of 100 pieces of literature: [link]

~Adagiobunny Aug 13, 2012 Student Writer

you've flicked wands and conjured these wispy images that i try to grasp in the palm of my hand, but they slip right by and seep under my skin... waterlogged veins carry those regret-filled hallways, those haunting eyes (who knew ghosts could weigh so heavy on the heart...?)

congratulations on the DD - you deserve it.

*0hgravity Jul 7, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

some wonderful images scattered throughout.

the tone is sad but refreshingly honest.

~Clouded-Rachel Jul 6, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow....beautifully written with wonderful description.

~jas08 Jul 6, 2012

They dont tell us because, really, if they did, who would want to grow up?
The world is a scary place, filled with fear, pain and regret- a much different place than we imagine.

Beautifully written. Poignant and sad, there will always be those that cannot be saved no matter how hard we try or not.

~CoffeeStainedMemory Jul 6, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is so true. When we're kids, we see growing up completely differently than we do looking back, after having already experienced some of it. If I had known when I was a kid what I do now, I never would have wanted to grow up.

Still, our experiences--both good and bad--are what shape us and make us who we are. Despite the hardships of growing up, I'm not really sure I would want to go back and be a child again either...

And thank you.

~jas08 Jul 7, 2012

"our experiences--both good and bad--are what shape us and make us who we are"- Well said. I completely agree.

Being an adult sucks.

And you are most welcome. It was a pleasure to read.

*TouchedBy-AnAngel Jul 1, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Wow, I really love this! So hauntingly beautiful.

+ fave

~CoffeeStainedMemory Jul 5, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

Thank you.

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