[x]

Iron Henry UnzipsIt was the early hours of the morning when they arrived at the castle Ferris called home. He was glad to see it--Henry could tell from his face.

Henry was gladder still to have Ferris home. His heart was still like a sledgehammer in his chest, still painful with every beat, and he knew that as soon as he had some downtime he would have to open up and adjust his settings. Not that he expected downtime anytime soon, what with a wedding and all scheduled for the upcoming day.

Henry extended his hand to the princess first, and she shyly took it as she descended from the carriage. He made her nervous--he was used to that. He did his best to smil

The Phantom Train Martha stands nervously among the throng of onlookers, and does her best to keep her eyes pointed at her feet. Everyone is there for the same reason, but she doesn't want to have a feeling of comradeship, and she doesn't want to see anyone she knows. She comes to this place every year for one reason, much the same reason as the crowd around her, but it's not these kind of moments that make people bond. There is only a sadness here, and try as she might she can't become excited. No one has forced her to stand at the edge of the tracks, but she does it anyway. It's a sort of perverse will, she knows she couldn't stop coming even if she wanted

MurderI had a feeling my husband was going to shoot me tonight. You'd think I'd be worried, but all I could think about was how it would happen. What caliber would he choose? What make? Would it be a revolver or a pistol? Maybe it would be a shotgun. Would he sneak up on me or make me get down on my knees and suck his cock one last time with the trigger pointed at the back of my head? Would he wait until I was alone or do it to both of us as Allen was on his way out the door? Would it happen in the kitchen or the bedroom? It would be more embarrassing for us if he did it in the bathroom, although I doubt he had considered that. Would I p

a fictional storya fictional story about a fictional character doing fictional things

This story is fictional.

Chapter 1: He wakes up
He felt guilty, just like he knew he would. He stared at the white wall before him and tried to imagine something amazing. It was completely blank, save for a few cracks here and there, so he had only his own imagination to blame for the lack of amazing things.
A dragon,a unicorn? He thought to himself, Is that amazing? No. How completely utterly generic. Maybe if they were really here, maybe if I could see and touch them, but n

mn'teys wallI.

Nékti sat on the floor of his home, putting the finishing touches on his late wife's totem. He worked slowly, using a set of sticks he had been gathering since before the last full moon. He lovingly contoured the breasts, and scratched thin symmetrical patterns into the legs and body, leaving a fine spray of clay dust on the floor. His drawing-sticks were green-gray and hard, in a variety of thicknesses and oddly-shaped tips. One of the sticks had a curled tip—he had found it laying in the mud by the river to the south of town—and he hoped to use it later to draw the hair on her head. Not the way it looked at the end, he th

The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know. You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do. If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead. I won't force you. But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets. Especially not when they are about you.

You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else. Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness. Woven out of the ethe

The Girl Who Stayed HomeJane tries not to remember.  After all, she was only thirteen and much too young, and who could blame her.  In fact most of the time she pretends it was all a dream.

When they appeared in her room that night she told herself that too, that it was only a dream.  But she had never dreamed of beautiful stately women wrapped in golden robes, and never would again.

Their first words were an apology.  "We would never intrude upon you like this, Hara, if it were not the darkest of hours."

And Jane sat against her headboard, trembling, with the texture of the bedsheets clutched tightly in her hands telling h

BrandedThey took the needle to me when I was a foetus. They tried to make the prettiest design they could, but it was destined for failure. He had a large ego and wouldn't rest until some part of the design was an exact copy of his. Passing on his bloodline's coat of arms wasn't good enough for him. She agreed as long as she could design the relatively insignificant part of the design that remained.

The design was one of the first things I learned to draw.

It's you — they told me — so you must always wear it with pride.

I tried; I swear; I tried; but it was always right there on my face, staring out at the world. We held each other pris

RealiteLa réalité, ma réalité, c'est mon rapport au monde ici et maintenant. C'est la somme de ce que j'en perçois. Dès lors…

Les êtres ne sont que lorsque je les vois
Mes pas inventent l'horizon
Et dans mon dos, le monde désexiste.

Glaciation du corpsElle s'est immiscée en moi. Elle est devenue l'opium de mes entrailles ; l'objet de toutes mes convoitises. L'absinthe ne représente qu'un breuvage inoffensif face à son odeur dont la moindre inspiration m'enivre, me transporte dans les bras de Mérimin. Ô Démon, combien de temps resterai-je sous votre délicieuse emprise ? Une éternité, j'espère. Si vous m'entendez, sachez que je ne puis me détacher de ses formes anguleuses, de sa température glaciale ; le danger qu'elle représente ne cesse de m'attirer. Une attraction fatale. Ultime.

Chaque inspiration de son odeur m'asphyxie p

Flot brutJe suis l'égarement de Jack, son désespoir, ses désillusions. C'était une période de prise de conscience, un de ces moments dans la vie où rien ne nous touche directement, mais participe à nous enfoncer quand même. Plus bas que terre. Au choix, vous préférez être enfermé vivant dans un cercueil ou être mort dans un monde bien vivant ? Il en était là, plus d'espoir, l'espoir ça sert à rien, l'espoir c'est un arbre coupé du monde. C'est beau mais tout le monde s'en fout. Il est là, destiné à périr une fois qu'il aura usé tout l'oxy

Blood Flow"I can't stand you, Cora! You make her cry constantly. Sometimes I wish she would rip you out and throw you against the wall!" Orberec was furious. He and Cora were having one of their usual fights. Everyone loved Cora and thought she was so beautiful. But none of them had to live with her.

"You could always make her do it, you know," Cora said calmly.

Orberec just glared, refusing to respond.

"But of course," Cora continued, "we both know it wouldn't solve anything. And you would be the one to feel the pain, not me."

Orberec was losing this argument way too quickly. He needed to focus on being rational instead of on his anger. I

The Life and Times of Pigeon ManA man, dressed in a mask and cape, leaps from atop a building. Twenty-four hours earlier, Jonathan is rudely awoken as a glowing pigeon flies in through the window. It pecks his arm as he corners it. Twenty-four hours later, Jonathan, believing he has been gifted super powers, hits the pavement with a horrible thud.

in Fields of WaitThe thread of breezes run too dryly through the already parched acres. Arms of the Isolates hang high and twitch not, with fingertips embedded in air and noses downcast. An unheard prayer seeps from unseen lips, vented into the quiet before ascending into the blues above the crystal-promised clouds.

The fever within the rock blushes, expands, presses up and against. The fever benights, airs out, and draws lean, then coughs its fibers out. Striations are crushed underneath, twisted in their own midst, their oily fluids their only vestigial shadow. An army with no number lifts

Sunday the Fourteenth, AugustAnd then he came up and looked me in the eye and he told me that yes the universe is fundamentally superimposed, yes indeed son and that there is reality and nothingness. Spoke to me from the sharp edged whippoorwill: and thus, you may see that reality is functionally and instantaneously seasonal. And then I'd heard it spoken by the streets that yes it seemed human culture was based on the transitionality of the seasons, our comedies and tragedies. And you whispered in your fiery tongue that oh yes this could be idealized: this is the Tao, this heavenirvana, this is the sacrifice of the vernal God, this is the broken artwork and the fools mor

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Fault LineYesterday you were silhouetted against my window
Tiny clouds dotting your ears, your hands splayed
Against the dust on the sill
While cars sang melodies against the pavement.

Today,

The colors are all wrong, your voice is too high, and your
Hands feel different.

(Are they different?)

You are shame, blame, and your eyelashes touch your cheek.

(A fault line between our fingers:
Break and shudder and gone.)

We both watch your hand fall, hesitating,
Like a leaf.
It swings at your side.
But you don't notice how it glows
Orange through the cracked glass window, or
How the cars have all fallen silent,
Or how there are no clouds in

OrionThe sound of the vacuum will make the dogs
Wail and skirt themselves into the corners
Under your bed, still
Layered in stale quilts,
And the imprint of your spine on the sheets.

The cat will place herself against
The crack under your door,
And she will mewl like a baby
At three o clock in the morning
When no one hears, because
No one is listening.

Mom will wander in her
Pajamas with stars sewn into the hems,
Earrings like solar systems,
And she will spell your name out in
Pieces of cereal,
Leaves,
Forks.

And we will cry,
Because that's what people do,
And because you aren't there
To knit us sweaters
And pluck guitar st

WordsIf I were to write a poem about you,
It'd be about sighing, mouths, cheeks.
About flowers in hair, and strangers a-weeping,
And hearts twined in a line, pale and sweet.

Cupped hands, wreathed in refrains,
A girl and life and blue watching eyes.
Lips clenched and bunched, unfurling.
Standing and curious, abrupt with lies.

A boy grasping at shame and the heavens,
Breath wandering, winding, bright.
Pallid feet in pools of wrinkled poppies,
Exquisitely, with flame, and sunset light.

Old Brick WallThere is a face on the old brick wall.
Sometimes it's mouth will open up wide,
Creaking and groaning, spitting out white bricks.
The teeth spill out, collect on the dirt, on their sides.

Or so they say.

Sometimes a kid that wanders off,
Will meet the face on the old brick wall.
The maw of the wall will crumble and close,
Swallow his fingers, his eyes, his hair, his toes.

Or so they say.

Sometimes the face will watch you as you walk,
It's eyes are brown, brick, black, blue.
They've seen what you've done, what you do, what you will do.
The face will only stop watching when the lies are true.

Or so they say.

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Andrew

by ~laurnie, Feb 1, 2012, 8:31:02 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Introductions & Chapters

     Andrew knows four languages and doesn't speak a word of any. His talents are carving pumpkins, washing windows, caring. His fault is caring too much. He cares too much when I don't wear jackets and when I get my feet wet and when I don't talk. He cared when he held my hand and I let him and he cared when he kissed me and I didn't kiss him back. I don't know what he cares about now. Andrew is dead.

     He died two days ago and now his picture populates the papers, the television. It's a picture of him in the hospital, smiling at his mom. She's curled tightly in a metal chair beside him, face turned away. The doctor stands at the end of the bed, his head thrown back, a chuckle trapped in his throat. Andrew is too skinny, dark body outlined against the white sheets of the bed.

     Three days ago they told us over the announcements that Andrew was scheduled to come home within a week.

     The next morning the doctor's found an infection. Andrew left his body when we were eating breakfast in our bathrobes. I think I saw him in my milk, and that he waved at me, called me silly, and then slipped under and drowned.

Andrewby ~laurnie

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Introductions & Chapters

First paragraph for the writing done during NaNoWriMo.

~screaming-sapphire Sep 4, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is absolutely beautiful. I'll admit, I teared up a bit.

~jennedy Jun 29, 2012 Writer

Oh, my god. i wish i could say something specific but for now, all i have is i love this, and thank you.

=DailyLitDeviations Mar 17, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

~Yesterdays-Dreamer Mar 2, 2012

Beautiful. Kinda aching to read the rest of this.

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Andrewby ~laurnie

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