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to yearn for a mythI am not afraid of the Grim Reaper,
the hollow-eyed bone man in the night black cloak
come to collect me with his scythe
and let me, without the burden of my flesh,
twist myself around his gnarled fingers
or press my face against his ribs and inhale the ashes
the empty odor of an autumn chill.
But I am afraid of the absence of a Reaper,
the fact that there is no man like him,
no one that will hold me close
and take me where I need to be; there is
only a tall pine box and dirt and the Conquerer Worm
and the fact that I will become in body
what I have always been in mind:
nobody and nothing at all
to be like this to be like this is
to walk a living death;
or to die again with every inadvertent breath
while rigor mortis petrifies the bones,
useless muscles under pallid flesh,
every breath is slow, is w e a k,
digesting rotten air in
and I can't s p e a k with you
any more than satan speaks with God
I'm too - -
too tired to maintain this
He decorates graves with stolen flowersI watched from nearby.
He was here again, and he was sad. Flowers of all kinds wilted in his grasp. Tighter, tighter he clutched them as tears prickled his eyes.
"You're choking them," I told him, but he didn't listen. He hadn't listened to me in years (though he certainly spoke to me a lot). The flowers' frayed stems told me he hadn't bought these. He never had the money to spare, anyway. I wanted to tell him not to waste his time ripping flowers from the neighbor's garden on my behalf, but it probably wouldn't have stopped him.
He kneeled in the grass. I smiled, though I wanted to cry (and would have, if I could have).
"I'm right here," I whispered. (All he heard was a fluttering leaf in the gentle breeze.)
"These are for you," he said. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and gently placed the suffocated flowers by my head.
"You crushed them again," I laughed. (All he heard was the creak of the black gate.)
Just as the wind began to pick up, he leaned over and ki
The Traveler and the PoetThere was a poet on the train that evening. At that hour, he was the only one in this car. Only one train ran this late into the night.
(On occasion, it would thunderstorm, and the raindrops pelted the train like a drum. Drrrum, drrrrrrrrum. Accented by the thunder, it was practically a symphony. The poet did like those nights.)
There was a time when the poet could sit alone, gaze out the window, contemplate the darkness. He could dream. He could nightmare.
(His eyes never stopped wandering. In the daytime, they ran to the horizon and back; they skipped among flowers, climbed trees, met new people, greeted old friends, and then returned to their owner on the train. At night, they plunged fearlessly into the abyss, not really looking for anything. And the poet saw everything.)
His alone days came to an end when the words began to overflow. They practically oozed from his pores. They ran from his lips every time he spoke. They graced his ears when he listened. They lived in secret places
My Tin SoldiersIt was a raindrop symphony
Performed on roof shingles,
Accompanied by thunder
And sweet wind chime jingles.
Plagued by monsters behind
Tip-tapping tree fingers,
I fled from my nightmares
Where the real beast lingers.
I ran to my toy chest that
Lay off in the distance
And sought the tin soldiers'
Defense and assistance.
With their tin hands and rifles
They fought off the noises;
The tip-tapping and splish-splashing
And whispering voices.
Battling on the windowsill,
I bundled up with a sigh,
So glad my tin soldiers
Are much braver than I.
MadnessI handed him the "Help Wanted" poster with quivering hands. I needed this job. I screwed up everything, and this was my chance to get back on track. In the silence, my mind wandered, dragging my thoughts to hope for the best. I peered over my glasses at the old man who was scanning my résumé.
At last, he looked up at me and laughed. "No experience?" he asked with his white moustache waggling as he spoke.
I shook my head. "Sorry," I said, a sheepish smile pasted across my face. I couldn't have wiped it away if I tried.
"Good!" cried the old man Alfred.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Tanith!" I exclaimed, reaching out to shake his trembling hand.
"Not quite yet," Alfred Tanit
The Bear Girls
If I told you this story happened once upon a time, would you believe it then?
Perhaps, perhaps not.
Whether you believe me or choose not to, it happened. There were two little girls, and a bear.
And that is all I know.
At least, it is all I know for certain.
You were expecting more, weren't you? Very well.
One little girl was blonde, with skin white as snow, the other rosy and raven-tressed, so they say, but that doesn't seem very likely unless they weren't sisters at all, and I have always assumed they were sisters. It is almost inevitable that they were sisters. No story ever says much about the father. He was dead, or abandoned them. Perhaps they had two different ones. It's impossible to say.
I could tell you the girls were beautiful princesses who ran into the great dark forest to escape their wicked stepmother. Or perhaps they were abandoned by their poor woodcutter father who could no longer afford to feed them but could not stand to see them starve. Or were they just two ordin
GirlBarely under the shallow waters, she remained and surveyed the hillsides on the outer reaches, among the cool breezes, under a mild sun. Young girl noticed the circulation was on, undulations fluttered passed her, making light hills and valleys on the surface. She lowered her sight, thinking then of the texture of the bright blue pavement at her feet. All her range of feeling tuned to some mild volume, Girl remembered the pale afternoon shine, just a moment before a dark ingredient mixed with it, filling the light ripples with grayness. Girl’s eyes, still upon the area of her feet, observed the light blue pavement under the shallow pool reshuffle, quietly as the waters, into the pavement approaching the Funeral House.
Girl stood in the shadow of its front roofing, between the columns. Not far in the direction of her shoulder, the grasses weaving in and out of the burial stones rose and fell, faintly. She extended her gaze out this way, a
[Tarot vs. Kenny] Preventative Lesson"Oh KEN~NY!"
Oh this was going to be good. Tarot was a lot of things, but tolerant of threats he was not. Of course, Kenny MIGHT have been simply teasing when he said 'Hmm, well, lemme tell you a little secret....I live by a very strict code to never, ever eat humans, under any circumstances. However....I do like the occasional monkey every now and then.' Of course, the look had implied that Kenny wasn't talking about any of Tarot's underlings but rather Tarot himself. And naturally, threatening the self-proclaimed Monkey King with being made into a meal didn't sit well with Tarot. In fact, he'd lost some sleep over it. His paranoia was one thing when it came to day to day interactions with folks but Kenny was different. Kenny was one of the few people Tarot was sure could follow through on that threat--and while the roguish Monkey King couldn't deny that Kenny's tummy was more than pleasant to look at on the outside he wasn't sure he wanted to see it from the inside
Don't Miff the Monkey King"See, now, Kenny, this is why you don't ever want do stupid things. You do stupid things and I have to reciprocate by doing something clever to teach you the difference."
Tarot sat on the naga's back, legs crossed and his balance perfectly even as he looked down at the struggling naga under him. On one end, Kenny's tail was wrapped around the post, only barely clinging to the hold he had on it. On the other end, Kenny's finger tips clutched at the edge of the stone floor. And beneath him, yawning open into the darkness below was the trap that Tarot had laid for the naga...
It had been simple enough. Tarot, leading Kenny into the 'Monkey King's' so-called palace and temple under the guise of goodwill, had led the naga through the various pathways, explaining that since he was now the King of Monkeys (and a handsome one at that), that he wanted to give Kenny the grand tour of the hidden temple that had up until now been a home for many of the primates in the jungle, with the promise to e
Snow KittensSomeone is prodding him insistently. A nose, or maybe a paw, digging uncomfortably into his soft side. In his ear, a voice registers. "Belly! Belly, wake up!" He is not awake. He doesn't understand at all what's going on. Confused and groggy, he feebly kicks his legs. The voice - Dove's voice - hisses quietly in annoyance. "Get UP!"
The prickle of nubby milk teeth and drool collecting on his ear is still not enough to get the kit up. Sounding a little resigned, another voice comments, "He's really out. I don't think he's waking up." There's a response from Dove, but the words are muffled by her mouthful of Belly's ear. He tries to flick it away, but she retains her grip, and starts gnawing.
He's slowly starting to take note of what's going on. As he wriggles and furrows his brow, Zuzu pipes up. "Let him be, Dove. We're missing it!" The impatient thump of her paws on the packed dirt towards the entrance to the den. "And be quiet, guys, or you'll wake Papa and Mamas!" Dove, still
ArrivalThe forest was covered in a thick, white blanket. The soft rustling of the falling snow muffled the scrunching of the lone wanderer's footsteps. Her hair had the same colour as the snow around her and her worn down parka was hard to see against the confers around her. The imprint of her feet were quickly filled by freshly fallen snow. The lone wanderer was on her way down the mountain. In a long forgotten time ago, her father's court had been up there, but now, there were only rock and snow left for her. Staying up there alone would not help her and she knew it. The way down would be exhausting for a human, but the wanderer wasn't one. She wasn't even mortal, as she had discovered to her own surprise. But that didn't make her careless. It would be a shame if she would get caught by an avalanche. This was her home and her domain, after all. It had been way too long since her last visit. It was good to be back, even though things had changed. The air was differently and glaciers had retr
Snow In A Moonlight RoomWallpaper pealed itself from walls, cracks raced each other across the ceiling. The broken window of the far wall let in snow, which rode in upon each passing gust of freezing air. Floorboards creaked underfoot as i took a step inside the dilapidated room, searching for anything out of the ordinary, all clear. Once i had checked again to make sure nothing was going to blow my heart out of my chest i made my way into the room and carried on walking until i reached the far wall. I took a quick peek out of what was left of the window, turned to face the door and then...well and then i sat down on my ass cross-legged and waited.
Okay, okay you don't need to shout. I already know how anti-climatic this all sounds, you wanted me to come blasting through the door with fire spouting from one hand, a witty comment on the tip of my tongue and have me reeking of bad-assery.
I apologize for that, but in my defense there is one hell of a long list as to why none of those things happened
Seasell meets Kei Seasell disliked being teased about not having a boyfriend. She hated when Aslin and Travis mentioned it.
"I'm waiting for Blackie!"
Seasell frowned, shoving her hands into her pockets. Aslin shook her head and Travis smiled, innocently rolling an empty soda can across the floor to where Seasell's tail rested on the carpet.
"Seasell, we understand that you have a history with this guy, but you haven't spoken to him in months," Aslin sighed.
"Fuuu! You don't understand. I know you care and everything . . . but I need you to leave me alone. I'm visiting the hospital on the weekend"
"Sea," yawned Travis "you said that last week. But you didn't go"
"I worked overtime"
"And the week before"
"I had a stomach ache!"
Seasell bit her lip and angrily slashed through the pop can.
"I'm . . . going for a walk"
Seasell slammed the apartment door without meaning to, and walked Aslin's bike down the narrow hall.
How're ya feeling?
No, thank you
Pottery TGPottery class dragged on. Darryl stared at the lump of clay spinning around on his wheel. He placed his hands on the top, compressing the clay. A wash of cold swept over him, and if you looked closely you could see him shortening just a bit. He smoothed out the clay and centered it, and his skin smoothed and his fingers slimmed. As he dropped the hole, he shifted in his seat as his hips expanded.
Darryl began to raise the walls, thinning the clay. His legs lengthened and slimmed as his waist grew thinner. Darryl moved clay up the walls, two mounds began to grow on his chest and his body slimmed. He put some final touches on the rim of his vase, flaring the lips out. His lips puff and redden, and his face softens. He finds an odd lump at the base of his vase, and pushes it in. He begins to trim the pot, smoothing hard edges. Red hair began to stream from the top of his head, and his form solidified. Her
That Christmas EveThere was snow blanketing every inch before us, white and soft while it crunched softly beneath our boots. We sniffled while our noses turned red from the chill, and suddenly everyone could sympathize with Rudolph. Rosy-cheeked children slid past on anything from brand new sledges to garbage can lids, laughing while they spun in the cleanest mess of ice, dodging trees and rocks and patches of dead weeds. It was not a pretty place, and yet it was beautiful, for the evening was beautiful, and the faces were beautiful, and the laughter was Christmas itself.
Father Christmas watched closely by, and a million tongues uttered his name while the sun touched the horizon, and its all-encompassing rays were blotted out by treetops and sticky snowflakes.
You may have caught the sound of bells, had you been standing where I stood on that Christmas Eve. You may have seen a flourish of red in the sky, carried by winter winds and reindeer of fantastic majesty. And you may have, for a moment, believed
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More