Note: there is a link to a spoken version of this poem in the description. I recommend listening to it as you read.
They talk about fight, and flight,
and freeze, but what's to be done
when nothing can be done, when the wolf
is there, stronger and faster, and you
firmly in his sights, I'll tell you—
the body shakes and shakes.
You were not a wolf,
I didn't see you and think
animal. You were human,
then later, inhumane.
I never learned your human name,
what others call you
when they believe your skin. The right word
may be alien. After all, I was
abducted.
They say I should find comfort
where I can. The constancy of ocean.
Sunrise
So small, so scrawny, this man pup. His stubby legs, his tiny hands with no strength in his grip. All wrinkly skin and no fur in sight. Yet this warmth in my chest! My own pups – bold and strong – then him, so shy, so slight.
But so bright. His wit a star for them all. No-fur and fur; pink, black, brown and tan; a right pack of scamps.
The trash can? The work top? No high spot past his grasp. No child lock past his skill and my pups’ claws. Then tasty crumbs for all. The band of imps at play.
Many months on. Most of my pups far from me in new lands with new folks now. Only black pup for me. Black pup, and
“Bite me,” his sister whispered. “Come here and bite me…”
The boy put his finger to his lips. “Hush! You’ll scare it off! Besides, it’s my turn to get bitten.”
We’ll see about that, the glimmer in her eyes said. His mouth curled into a smile: challenge accepted.
The two children crept forward. Their suntanned arms were stretched out to a tiny dot on the wall, like compass needles pointing north. Their ‘north pole’ however had legs and wings, so flimsy they almost disappeared against the backdrop of flowery, yellowed wallpaper. It was a miracle he had s
We’re sick enough to spill someone else’s blood,
paint a picture of ourselves with it, and call it love.
I guess that’s what the ego does
when it forgets the bodies we’ve become will eventually turn back to dust.
We’ve held onto the worst parts of our nature,
tried to survive on rotten fruits of our labor—
maggot filled and mangled flesh, should’ve seen it as a sign,
but lately we’ve been complaining that the apple hasn’t been tasting right.
Taste buds blossom and reach up for the taste of death,
spit spilling out our lips, smoke collecting in our chests,
hands erecting effigies
tWR's A Storm of Stories: Week 1! by doughboycafe, journal
tWR's A Storm of Stories: Week 1!
tWR Storm of Stories: Week 1
This year we will be running a slalom event for genre fiction. Three weeks. Three stories. There will be prizes at the end of each round for the best story of the round, and then, a mega prize at the end for the first place winner who completes all three rounds. Go here for the full logistics and rules!
Week 1's Genres are:
Fantasy or Mystery
What to do this week:
Write a story in one of the two genres above, 1,500 words or less, prose only.
You will have one week to do this.
No fanfiction, no non-fiction.
To submit your entry, link it to the journal with the current week’s prompt.
But remember!:
Y
Don’t much remember the warm these days. Warm went way-away, with the birds, the cars, and the man who sold papers. Used to buy papers. Now I sleep in ‘em. Mags sleeps in ‘em too. She’s a good girl.
Went looking for food again today. Walked the big road, ash-snow falling down. Mags don’t like the ash-snow. She tries to hide in burnt-out dead-cars. I call her back. Other things hide there too.
Not much food on the big road. Most of it nicked long-back. Found some candy bars. Stuffed the wrappers in my gloves, plug some holes over these old gnarled hands. Gave the candy to Mags. She needs it more. Can see her ribs
The apparition raised its translucent arms and began to wail.
“I come from Hell! From Hell! From— Bloody hell.”
The spirit of Edmund Aspinall grabbed at his shroud as it headed downwards. He pulled it up round his shoulders again and wrapped it around his body.
“You don’t half feel the chill once you’re away from the flames of eternal damnation.”
Miss Amelia Gould, medium-slash-estate agent, nodded sympathetically and entered ‘Hell’ into the address box on the form.
She looked up to see Mr. Aspinall still rearranging his shroud. He smiled weakly.
“I apologise for the rather rev
How a Grandmother Leaves You by LeftUnfinished, literature
Literature
How a Grandmother Leaves You
He does not look at the loosened light,
murdered, sprayed on the walls in a temporary graffiti, rotting lumps of it swept under her bed
along with nine pairs of slippers, papery sheets of it tearing thinner than a yellowed wedding veil
across her blankets.
I hold her skin that smells like decomposing paper and fuzz,
that turns to milk to cinnamon to coffee grounds
beneath an entangled net of veins zigzagging up the wispy bones of her arms.
I do not know how many times I have mistaken the feeling of marble for her hands,
or the dumb slapping of flip flops on sidewalks for the snapping of wings.
I can hear charred pots that look like trash