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Will You Marry MeYour face is smooth
like the edge of a freshly wiped blade
Your skin is warm
like teardrops in a steel morgue
Your hands are soft
like linen sheets over pale, cool remains
Your hair falls to your shoulders
with the accuracy of a weighty noose
Your stride is as confident
as a blood-spattered Gladiator
Your legs send my heart
into a state of hysteria with an assassin's efficiency
Never have I wanted so badly
something so fearsome
Now tell me, my darling,
She'd heard the word from Theodore Rhodes first.
Age eleven at the time, he'd been deeply engrossed in one of his more barbaric videogames when something odd happened: an object, not one of any obvious importance or appeal, had somehow wound up in the middle of his digital path. The brawny thug under his control had inspected the object, jumped on it, punched it, and finally shot at it several times before Theodore decided that the object was just an error, a mistake. A glitch.
And Glitch fancied herself just that.
But even now, as the approximate seventeen-year-old sat at the end of the table two years later, it was clear to her still that something was indeed wrong. For although the girl should have been obvious with her brightly-colored clothing and her friendly demeanor, the people with whom she sat seemed hardly aware of her presence.
There was an odd quiet that hung over the family of five as they a
Death of a Queen The Queen of Olomar had always been a stunning beauty, but in death her loveliness was magnified. Her face was white and pristine like a porcelain doll, framed by the golden, perfect tangles of her hair. Her crystal eyes were closed, peaceful, as if dreams, not death, had taken her, and her pink lips were parted, a permanent mold of her calm and final breath. But it was her warmth more than anything that made her so lovely in death, for although life had slipped from her ethereal form, the warmth of her heart remained, and her body could not grow cold.
This was the tale that the people of Olomar would tell in the months following, amongst each other and to curious foreigners passing through. In a few years many would actually convince themselves that the tale was true. But no one who had been there would ever be able to forget the horror that was the true death of Queen Emma.
King Hadrian had not been there in the moment of her passing, having been sent fro
No Turning Back "You're sure you know what you're doing, young lady?"
"And you're certain you want to go through with this?"
I take a deep breath. "Yes."
A sly grin. "Right this way."
The tall, wiry man steps out from behind his desk and motions me to the back of his dark, musty antique shop. I'm only slightly hesitant in following, wondering suddenly if this isn't the kind of situation in which a girl might be taken advantage of. But amongst the shop's many ancient items, I catch a glimpse of a thin-bladed samurai sword to my right, and reassure myself that, were Mr. Beanpole here to try anything funny, I could simply lunge for the sword and wield it for all its worth. I nod, pleased with if not proud of my plan of attack.
The shop keeper ducks to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling fan as we move farther and farther back. He looks back to make sure I do the same. I don't; I'm only five foot three.
"Come along, come along, you haven't much time!"
The Peers (draft 1) - Ch 1
"How are you this morning, Mr. Borrows?"
"None of your business. Now eat your breakfast so I can eat mine."
It was as typical a conversation as ever there was between the Hansom cab driver and nine-year-old Lark Midgley. Frank Borrows, all bark and no bite at seven feet, was doing his best to keep the meal a quiet one. Lark, on the other hand, was doing her best to do exactly the opposite. She adored Mr. Borrows as one might adore a grouchy old dog, and was certain that all the man needed was a mother figure to look after hima task she had taken on herself since the day he'd come to live with her and her parents three months before.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like some of my breakfast?" She held up a bowl of greyish mush, lumpy and wet and in great need of stirring. Borrows wrinkled his large nose and opened his mouth to say something unpleasant, but thou
I Let A Stranger InWhen I was unoccupied, I was flawless,
a thing of immaculate charm, an unblemished structure.
When I was empty, I was at peace.
But I was naïve and left my doors unlocked,
and one silent morning,
I let a stranger in.
He was a broken man,
wounded. I pitied him.
So I sheltered him and began to share his pain.
A medley of panic and curiosity
coursed through the depths of me
as his feeble sobs resonated through my interior.
The voice rattled my windows,
shook dust from the woodwork.
My floor boards moaned like an old man dying.
His fingers raked across my walls, then,
uprooting paper flowers in their wake.
His acid tears scorched black-rimmed holes in my carpets.
A sharp and sudden cry exploded
in broken beams and bathed us both
in hazy sunlight.
Glistening threads draped across my long, long table,
its limbs withering with each hateful sigh.
Paint and paper wore away.
I wept, useless.
Why must I rot with him?
Where is my promised strength?
Finally, the wounded stranger escaped,
Obsessions Are Like Restaurants
For months on end you hear about how good the restaurant is. From EVERYone. You avoid it cause you're so sick of hearing about it.
Then finally, when the hype dies down a little, you go in secret. You sit down. You're given the menu--which only lists desserts--and you order.
Then, brought to you on a gigantic silver platter, you are given the best, most sinfully delicious cakes, cookies, pastries, etc. you have ever tasted in your ENTIRE LIFE. You eat and you eat and you eat and you eat. You're up all night on a sugar high.
Days pass. Weeks pass. Suddenly, ordinary food doesn't taste good anymore. Meat? No thanks. Veggies? Bleh. Fruit? Not unless it's strawberry shortcake. Your pride forgotten, you rush to the restaurant every single day for every single meal. You talk, think, breathe, Deviantart/Pinterest/Youtube/Facebook/Twitter it CONSTANTLY. How have you lived without this glorious place for so long?!?
Eventually, however, your start to notice that the highs are no longer as high-i
Fixing the Bulb I finally admit it as l'm trying to nap in the hallway outside my Creative Writing class: the last two hours have been no fun.
I’d set the time aside and labeled it “Free Time” as opposed to “Writing Time”, which would have made writing feel more like a must-do instead of a fun, voluntary activity. But even after finding the comfiest-looking chair in the library, sitting in it, and pulling up a blank Word document (as appealing as blank Word documents are), I found that three versions of the same stupid paragraph were all I could cough out before my self-confidence flickered out like a dead bulb and I wound up going for a walk instead.
I really, really tried to enjoy the walk. I listened to cheerful music (Hans Zimmer’s “The Holiday”), kicked up some of the dead leaves that had gathered in crunchy piles around the bike racks, and smiled, as if my emotions would get the idea sooner or later. But not even the most seasone
The Peers (draft 1) - Ch 2
She'd seen him, she was sure of it. Amidst the crowd of savage faces, amidst the hundreds of marchers as they'd emerged from the end of the hazy street, Lark knew she'd seen her father's face. He needed her help. She needed to find him, to take him far, far away from these terrifying people before it was too late.
But Lark's quest was cut short when she was swiftly and suddenly swept off of her feet and flung over someone's shoulder.
The nine-year-old shrieked in protest, kicking and struggling with all of her little girl might. But from the height at which she'd suddenly found herself, there was no doubt as to who her captor was.
"Mr. Borrows!" Lark cried, pounding on the cabby's vast shoulder with tiny hands. "I saw Papa! He's here! Let me go!"
But Borrows had other things to w
FeverI like pretending I mean something to the ghosts
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.
& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.
Writers BlockThere is a heart in a ribcage
And a brain sitting in a skull
There is a history that is void
And potential which is null
Just puddles of inspiration
Where the vast ocean once sprayed
An endless tide of moonshine
Swelled upon my parchment page
There's a brain sitting in a skull
There is a heart in a ribcage
There is ink in my fountain pen
But still no words on my page
Just embers of inspiration
Where a great fire once roared
I'll stoke it with those memories
I've been afraid of and ignored
queen of nothing.what I've learned:
I still remember singing in my room when I was six, and having my mother come down the hall and slam the door so hard that the windows shook.
Her nails hurt when she scraped the tears off my face. "It doesn't matter what you want," she'd always tell me.
Like, when that drunk driver swerved and hit her car I didn't want her to leave me, and it didn't matter.
Once on vacation I bought a pair of fuzzy leather heels for two hundred dollars, and when I wore them to dinner, I found out that
1. "Suede" is a fancy word for "fuzzy leather."
And 2. Good things don't last: That night my cousin told me that she thought 135 pounds was a little too big for five foot eight. So I tore my tights up to the thigh and threw those new suede heels in the garbage.
It felt good later, to know that they couldn't hate me more than I hate myself.
My six-word story from ninth grade reads, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry."
When I read that treating people like trash to gets them to nee
She's Not Your ToyShe's Not Your Toy:
Mmm, it's okay sweetie
Just stay quiet
It'll all be over soon...
Creaking springs and quiet eyes
Cold without emotion
The smell of fear is mixed with sweat
Breath like a churning ocean
The waves and tide will push and pull
as water fills the cave
The heart longs to stop itself
when there is nothing left to save
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Jenna
Happy birthday to you...
A shock of pain brings her back to the present
The muscular form above her contracting in the dark
She remembers now that her limbs are pinned
but she would not move them anyway...
Happy birthday sweetheart, you're older now
You've grown up well haven't you...
A single shuddering thrust means that everything has ended
and once again a wet worm is pressed to her lips
The weight lifts from her body, leaving red marks around the wrists
limbs denied blood begin to buzz softly as the silence suffocates
She will not move from here, because i
The Last Lie of SummerQuiet days, the overcast sky keeps
to itself, ignoring the living for weeks
at a time.
From half a state away-
you could hear trains roll through
towns like mine.
There is peace
and it can't be trusted
given to the first
This was the calm before the calm.
The man that is seen, but
"Tomorrow I will say hello to him."
But we are all too busy dressing healed wounds.
GluttonHis caramel covered fingers caress my coffee skin
An epiphany aged in its own beautiful winery,
A honeyed breath drawn in a moment so heated,
Its oven like intensity roasting any kind of chastity.
Irreverently juicy, pleasingly sinful,
Succulently divine in its every form
Lovemaking at its most beautiful
Moans that echo sheer gluttony.
I never knew passion was edible,
nor lust so delicious in its impassioned call
Until he showed me why chocolate
is the most deadly sin of them all.
MaskHave you ever worn a mask for so long
That you're afraid to take it off,
And breathe in the purity
Of the unfiltered world outside?
Would your lungs be able to take it?
Or burst trying?
Have you ever worn a mask for so long
That you're afraid to take it off
Because no one might recognize you?
Would you recognize yourself?
Have you ever worn a mask for so long
That you're afraid to take it off,
Because you don't know anymore
If there's anything underneath?
The Intelligent Are So SadA cascade of words parade around,
with thoughts of atoms and connotation.
She is brilliant, they say,
but she knows she is lost.
Numbers are her companion,
she understands their mean, average.
Words can twist her brain,
she loves the wonder they bring.
She is intelligent, they say,
she doesn't feel clever enough.
Sometimes she feels clever too much.
Excusez-moi, in perfect French,
but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.
She is clever, they say.
But she is not clever the way they know.
She sees things as they are,
and she prefers her thoughts to the world.
She knows she loves them more than they in return,
and her friends will be there until they wont.
Friends reassure her, you'll be okay,
she puts a smile on her face.
She loves them as much as any,
even though there aren't many.
They bring out the best in her,
the happy girl,
not swamped by words.
The one who isn't drowning in formula.
Test scores and numbers don't mark you smart,
she knows this now,
engraved in her
MyiagrosYou went quietly
Like granite with finesse
Days and nights
The come down monster
I had a drink
Six, seven, eight more
Always and sometimes
The weeks of illness
Before it pulled your eyes shut
No small talk
Just plain, empty time
I walked to the store for smokes
Struggled not to howl
There was fly paper nailed to the register
Legs still moving
And I knew what they were buzzing for
Hell had found you first
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More