[x]

because love is a lesson in trial and errorI wish I had the words to tell you what I mean. I used to store sentences between my breaths – things that I couldn’t say at the moment, but wanted to remember. Now I can barely string together enough nouns and verbs to make you understand exactly what you mean to me. And I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that if I can’t get it together fast enough I’ll lose you. It’s like your water slipping through my fingers and I’m not quick enough to chase you through the currents. I know enough to know that you’re wild and free in a way that I’ll never be and maybe I’m jealous of that. Or maybe I&r

Futuro-Mamá esa chica se parece mucho a la tía Isabella -cuando escucho decir esto a Amanda, dirigiéndose a la Candace del futuro, una sola idea salta en mi cabeza haciendo eco e inevitablemente tengo que decirla en voz alta.
-Oíste eso Candace, voy a casarme con Phineas!
-O Ferb -me responde ella dejando mi mente en blanco.
Dirijo mi vista al peliverde y este me giña un ojo mientras hace un gesto con su mano señalándome. Bueno lo que dice Candace es verdad, para ser tía de Amanda tendría que casarme con Phineas o... Ferb.
Miro fijamente al chico frente a mí y de pronto todo desa

She was distant.Her emotions sat on the ceiling.

Music Shuffle (Kyrie)Cage the Elephant – “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked”
The sun finally sank below the horizon. Under the cover of a moonless darkness, the proxies slipped stealthily between the trees. The densely packed forest offered excellent protection from peering eyes, and so familiar were they with the many pitfalls and snaring brambles that they glided along effortlessly.
Masky took the lead, guiding his two charges along toward the night’s goal. Hoodie followed at a short distance, his video camera fully charged and stocked with a fresh tape. Close beside him was Kyrie, bringing up the rear and making sure the

they marked me blue and yellow, mama.between graffitied walls and a lone, chipped sink, they watched me curl in upon myself and combust. it was the only way i knew of to stop the swirling in my hips and heels.
a week later i found emma, the smallest of the vultures, kneeling at my altar. and with her wing-bones hunching and heaving, she mimicked my combustion.
but her eyes were violet when she saw me. violet and brimming with the emptiness of her heels. and i knew. i knew that this could not hold her the way it held me.
and mama, that hurt more than anything. her heels were empty, mama. empty. empty. empty. the way mine should have been, if only you had kept papa away.
if only you had kept away the first vulture i had ever know. if only, mama. if only.

Sweet Nothings'if i could, i would devour you. i would eat you whole, consume you mind, body, and soul. because i am a selfish person. i want you all to myself. no one else may have you.' he said to her, as they lay tangled in each other.
her reply came with a sleepy smile.
'there is a part of my mind which understands the intended romance in your statement. that part is wooed by it. there is also a part which insists upon my realizing the reality, the literal. you, my dear, are a cannibal.'
he placed a kiss on her head.
'well, we'll have to work hard then, to make sure that you are only wooed. we will make you want to be eaten. we will make it so that part of your mind which is literal, is quiet, so when i whisper sweet nothings into your ears, you are completely swept away. lifted off your feet by my obvious romantic intention.'

The Cat and IA biography of myself.

Real Name: I’m not telling, but KP stands for Kev Pickering

Nickname: I refer you to the previous answer

Birthday: July 16, 1963

Current Residence: North West London, United Kingdom

Height: 5’ 8”

Weight: Trying to lose it, thank you

Hair Color: Dark brown but turning grey as it recedes.

Eye Color: Hazel

Likes: Films, musicals, fine literature, my family, and graphic novels.

Dislikes: Shellfish, Lager, “Scripted Reality” shows.

Personality: I’m very shy until someone gets to know me, but those who do tell me I can be a very kind, gentle and yet silly person.

Biog

The Blood on Our HandsBut it feels so good.

To touch the open slit is pleasurable beyond belief. Of all of my fantasies, it was never conceivable that I wanted this. It was never that I felt so satisfied drenched in the afterglow of my adrenaline-bred homicide.

The swooping curdling in my veins remains beyond the last breath of him. It feels like I need more, like the blood on my hands isn't enough to slake the drought in my bones that vengeance has brought. My fingertips touch at the open gash in the left-center of his chest, swimming there with dainty strokes in the fresh, bubbling blood.

What have I done...? And why do I need more? Why does it feel like the

RecursionRecursion

Day 12

I hate those infernal hounds.

I can hear them approaching. I regret now that I have not walled off this little corner of the forest that I have chosen to call my own. I am tired, I am hungry, and I am weak from the venom of those spiders. I fear I have just enough time to fashion a spear before they come for me.

Wilson's hands shook as he read the words in the dying firelight. The darkness pressed in against him all around, crawling inward as the fire sputtered.

Those were the last words on the page. Dark spots marred the edges of the papyrus, dried deep into the reeds. A thick swipe of brown streaked along the bottom as

Winter-childi found her in november, wrapped in a sweater.
they wheeled her away on a cart too big for her; two days old, half-dead and blue as the ocean.
i waited, her sweater held in hands that shook and shimmied.
they brought her back to me a week later; nine days old, pink-skinned and plump.
i named her in big letters on a yellow form as she slept in the crook of my arm; mavis.

From Afar, Thunder RoaredLike a bright eyed magpie, I have been scratching out and collecting pieces of Joseph for years, his indecision fuelling my already redundant habit of nest-building.
On good days, I would take the wrinkles around his eyes; filled with memories he had tried to shed, they glittered in the deepest part of the night - beacons for lost hearts and flightless souls.
On days that were just some days, I would take the mishappen, roughly jewelled scars lining his arms, hips, thighs; within their imperfections I found facts, each with one thousand facets.
On bad days, I would take the marrow from his phalanges; in the soft light of morning it turned to mallow and stuck to my own bird-bones, a constant reminder of that which you cannot shed, no matter how many years you spend trying.
But like all nest-builders know, there comes a day when the nest fussing is over and the children must come to it but instead of children, tobacco fireflies fell upon our arms and set us to screaming.

LindaI’m not what you would call a special woman - I live in a small town, with my husband, have an ordinary job and live an ordinary wife. In one way, however, I guess you could say I have an extraordinary life - because every midsummer’s day, I seem to get robbed in my own house. I don’t know what I do to deserve it, but that’s what happens.

I still remember the first year it happened - we had just moved into the house, with my daughter who was then about twelve, and she had gone to a friend’s house while my husband was out to work. I was taking the day off, doing some things around the house, and in those days

Smoke-stacked LungsLighting her cigarette, Mara watched the smoke trail up into the sky and block the last bit of blue the storm clouds couldn’t reach. She sucked in the unfiltered ash, closed her eyes, and marveled at the warmth that traveled down to her chest. The ash held her closer than anyone else she had ever known in the city. She smiled, and cracked open her eyes, but all that greeted her was the wind, blowing out the last embers of her cigarette as tar slithered down her throat. She coughed, crushing the cigarette on the dashboard. She started her black Ford’s ignition, watching for a moment at the exhaust lingering around the car before th

Don't Leave"Yeah.... this isn't doing it for me... listen Kekoa, it's time we just broke this off," Janik said as she put her hands behind her head. "Cadence and I are going to get back together, and I'll be happier with him than I am with you. It's for the best, don't worry, you'll find someone better."

"Bluebird? What the hell are you saying? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'LL BE HAPPIER WITH CADENCE?!" Kekoa yelled, grabbing Janik by the shoulders and shaking her lightly, hoping she was just kidding around, but something in the look of her eyes told him that this wasn't a joke.

"You heard what I said. You're too... pushy... and you annoy me," Janik mumbled. "

The ThunderstormI picked up the new dial phone I barely used to call her father. Thunder roared as the rain completely drenched my window. I bit my lip and my heart raced as I picked up a signal. The dial rang for awhile, and I was almost a little worried I wouldn't be able to get a hold of him. However, at the last minute, I heard a deep, cheerful voice from the other end.
"Hello?"
"Hello, sir. This is Mr. Rob MacLachlan, CEO of the Fitzpatrick Company. I'm just calling to say that your daughter might have to spend the night, here."
There was a dreadful pause on the phone.
"Pardon?"
"Have you listened to the radio, recently?"
"Nah, we can't 'ford a telephon

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Until We Sleep

by ~Black-Forty-Four, Jun 19, 2010, 11:49:32 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

"I hate you! I wish you would just die!" Rebecca snapped as she slipped in to her room of teenage angst. Rebecca was a typical sixteen year old girl. Her mind opening up to new things and the feeling as if everything was out to get her. Like all teens, she had parental problems. She'd become sick and tired of her worrisome parents; mostly her mother. Her father was never home because of his job as a Pilot for Air Canada. To her left; a small desk with a lamp. Inside of that desk, lies a razor blade she saves for a rainy day. She grabbed some sleeping pills on her computer desk, to her right. She liked taking a pill to help her sleep and forget her troublesome day. Now, Rebecca wasn't a troublesome teen. She was an honour student at her High School, and captain of her softball team. However, school pressures to hand in assignments and other commitments proved to be a burden and she slipped in to a depression when she couldn't get her assignments in on time. Her grades started to slip, so did her grip on reality.

"I don't know why I take them, to be honest. It's just... Like, when I take one, I go to sleep, right... And when I sleep, I dream." she told me.

"What do you dream about?" I asked, taking notes.

"You know.. Stuff... Like... I have this silly dream where there are no wars, no one is dying in the streets from starvation... I guess you could say that I dream about my own Heaven?"

That was one of the last conversations that I had with her. It was rare for me to talk to a teenager who didn't have visions of their death, their parents death, or worse... She was a pure, innocent girl who dreamt and believed in Heaven; who was simply growing up.

"Why do you hurt yourself?" I asked.

"I don't hurt myself..." she replied.

"Then what are those cuts on your arm from?" She looked at me and started to cry. She explained how hard life is. She's tired of constantly being burdened by school work, commitments for volunteering at the animal shelter and her softball team. She asked me what the point of life was. I looked at the black holes in her eyes and I saw her life being drained away. That would be the last time I ever saw her.

She returned home after two hours of volunteering and three hours of softball practice. Sweaty and tired, she went straight to her room. Normally, she would take a shower but she just went to her room. She laid down on her bed and opened her bottle of sleeping pills. She took a pill and put on her head phones. She tuned her ipod on and listened to Pink Floyd. She looked around her room and saw an old photo of herself in grade five. She was an adorable little brown haired girl; wearing a lovely blue dress for photo day. She reminisced her child hood. Life seems so full in the eyes of a child - so empty in the eyes of a teenager. She wondered "Where did it all go wrong?"

Laying in bed, listening to Comfortably Numb, she had another dream... Only not to wake up afterwards. Her dream of Heaven now a reality.

Until We Sleepby ~Black-Forty-Four

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

A narrative in a psychologist point of view. 'Rebecca' is a name from an old friend of mine, who took her life in the same fashion. Sadly, I've known quite a few people who took their own lives. 1988-2004

~Eve-Lang-El-Coup Jun 20, 2010

Also, I think the last sentence should be rid of the 'is'. Sounds much gloomier to me.

~Black-Forty-Four Jun 20, 2010

thank you for the comment and tips

~Eve-Lang-El-Coup Jun 20, 2010

No worries.

I hope someday you can make stuff inspired by happy emotions as well.

~Black-Forty-Four Jun 20, 2010

haha we'll see. I don't normally write literature. That can tell of how terrible I am writing stuff

~Eve-Lang-El-Coup Jun 20, 2010

I was at the shops yesterday.
There was a lady, probably in her late forties, speaking to some one on her phone, possibly a good friend or relative about her daughter. I didn't hear too much of the conversation but I heard all I needed to know what the conversation was about.
'She did it in the bathroom, blood everywhere. Yeah, she cut both her wrists"
I turned 'round at the woman, she looked back at me insisting to mind my own business with her eyes, and then walked away.
I was a little shocked. I wondered why she'd have this conversation in a shopping center. I guess it doesn't really matter though, it's not like anyone will remember.

While I was at high school there was a guy in my grade who strung himself up to washing line midway though the school year. He was a 'special' kid, but I don't remember what his condition was. I didn't know him, I knew of him of him and I witnessed one event of bullying which most likely caused/added to his depression. At the time I didn't think much of it. He seemed to brush off the name calling, even retaliating some, but maybe in retrospect that was probably due to despair and not courage.
At the announcement of his suicide at the school parade there were a bunch of kids who made light of the situation. They were removed from the complex, but it was enough for one of the friends' emotions to blow off kilter and she erupted with something like 'He died, and you're still making fun of him!'. She stormed off.

That's as close as I have been to somebody committing suicide. Not very close, but it still left an impact.

- A comment on the piece: I think where you placed 'started' and 'starting' you should should delete them.
For example: 'started listening' change to 'listened'.
It won't change much, but I think it reads better.

'She's tired of constantly being burdened of school work,'
- Change the second 'of' to 'by'.

Nice story, if I can call it 'nice'.

~Black-Forty-Four Jun 20, 2010

yep high school is a real cruel time

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