In Preparation for the Great Robot WarsThe sun which glints off steel and chrome
Refracted by the superdome
Constricts the pupils of professor
Who teaches bolts and volts and ohm
Through their masks the students wonder
of grassy knolls, ravines asunder
Geology’s of no import
While skies are loud with robot thunder
Gerund and interabang?
Of utile ore there lies the gangue
We learn the language of the drill
and iron claw with copper tang
We train our students by the score
to make scrap of the auto-corps
and extirpate our android fate
In measures for the robot war
A Poem Anent EvilTo balance such dissymmetry
Was fated here soliloquy
(as pigeon is by name a dove,
and philters that by altar wine )
His mingling with this verse, thereof
Makes dissonant polyphony.
Love-pinkened cheek and petal’d prose
(chemical by Bodenstein)
By bloom-robbed breast Hegemone’s
O, mercy for the compass rose !
For East of Here lies Valentine.
Shattered Stories: Lovesick On that fateful night, Fitzwilliam donned his hat of tinfoil, which threw a becoming shadow over his mild features; fixed it at a rakish angle, and stepped outside. Wheatley, the butler, opened a Chinese umbrella to shelter his master, though it was not raining. The waning sun, which stained the landscape port wine, was still quite in danger of ruining Fitzwilliam’s peaches-and-cream complexion. Fitzwilliam was led to his stallion by the butler, all parties presently looking blue as bottles cast beneath the tinted light of the parasol. Wheatley mounted the saddle with style and offered his unemployed hand to Fitzwilliam. The smartly-dressed youth squirmed his way up the horse’s great side, struggling not to get the horse’s horsiness all over his dinner jacket. Nothing spoiled a party quite like the perfume of topical flea medicine layered with laudanum, of which the latter Fitzwilliam dabbed behind his ears for special occasions.
As the noble
Ann Won't EatEmbracing your cello, you take up less space
Than the hollow-boned spruce, bow firm and melodic,
Your hair falling out
All over the strings.
Happy concertos hang on the rafters
Just as you yearned for yourself
A less-permanent proxy for you;
Watching and smiling,
The wooden beams modelling
What we pine for, and though you decline
A ticket to the theater,
Maybe it's possible you can
Find laughter here on the ground-
Because it's funny, like we say all the time
We can't even feed ourselves
How were you supposed to feed the baby?
And maybe it was rape,
But how pure were you to begin with?
You still love him, and
You can't undo that like
He undid you.
It's becoming clearer to me these days
That I won't see you again
Just as I said
Though you didn't really believe that,
It hurts when you're wrong.
So carve your arm up, I love you,
I dare you.
And callous your
Because maybe it's not so flawed
Because wrong can be measured in degrees
Like the cold of your
Winter SweetEyes aglaze; digits icing over
With death in the periphery
An avalanche of downy notes
Flutter by on paper motes
We make snow angels in the dusk
And cake ourselves with frosting coats
AnorexiaOpaque as ocean
Heavy as feather-
Tied to the tether.
Veins that chain
Rip at the wrist!
Bones that bind
Fingers in fist.
For what I can't be-
A soul that can love
What eyes cannot see!
Beast in the KingdomMy watch, a testament to Time, ticks tenaciously. The delicate click of teeth meeting tooth; the beat of a miniature heart. A resonance I recognize from elsewhere-
The mouse lay shivering in the warmth of my palm
The miniscule vessels, chambers, and veins; struggling to pump the precious fluid that slows with every life-shattering breath.
Yes, it is-undoubtedly-the insignificant vibrations of the mouse's beating heart that sound so alike to the timepiece that touches my very veins- both ticking down the time they have left; becoming unwound.
Finding"I wanted nothing more than to grab the envelope and tear it open violently. Nothing has been more excruciating, in my sixty-odd years of existence, than watching Irene unhurriedly study the translucent cerulean envelope, black ink penetrating the waxy paper in places, adorned with stamps of faces marred by the Postal Service. Upon opening the letter, we understand we'd been nothing more than naïve children. We were pawns, utterly disposable."
Helena"I used to wonder, with childlike curiosity, if her hair burned her ears and neck if it were to go unwashed too long. Only on Sunday night, when she bathed, I was convinced the fire was quenched. When she thought no-one was looking, she'd pull out her tortoiseshell hairpins and let her auburn hair flicker in the dimming summer light; we watched, fascinated, through the age-warped windowpanes as they silhouetted a widow aflame."
Angelaa Dimension 258 short story
Rosie picked up her clock again and stared at the numbers. When the big blue hand reached the 12, her daddy would come home. She furrowed her brow and squinted at the tip of the blue hand. Once, she had seen it move. But now it was stuck by the 10.
“Rosie, why do you keep watching the clock?” Leo asked. “Are you not having any fun building?”
Rosie set the clock next to her pile of toy bricks. “Today’s special day,” she announced. “Daddy’s bringing home a lady.”
“Ohh.” Leo raised his eyebrows. “He’s got a new girlfriend?”
“Yep! He says, he’s been seeing her for a while, he says he likes her a lot. He says she’s super nice.” Rosie paused to spit some hair out of her mouth.
“Here. Scoot over here and I’ll braid your hair,” Leo said. Rosie scooted and he began pulling her hair away from her face. “My hair us
i've got your back. | nishinoya yuu
"Where else does it hurt?"
Nishinoya proceeded to point at the area where he had gotten a bruise. You clicked your tongue, but you didn't say anything. Instead, you took out the ointment and carefully applied it gently, your fingers delicately moving across his bruise. It hurt. It hurt a little bit, and Nishinoya had to bite his lip so he wouldn't make any noise. But at the same time, it was comforting. Your touch—you were so cautious not to hurt him, treating him like a delicate glass that could break any moment. After you had finished applying the ointment, you then took an elastic bandage and wrapped it around the bruised area to reduce the pain.
It was still painful, but he decided not to mention it. You did so much for him already.
"That all?" You said, raising a brow at him. Something about Nishinoya was odd today. He was quiet. He was usually loud and filled with life, and as much as you hated the obnoxious out-bursts, you weren't going to deny the fact that
Belly RubSeated on the couch, you tilt your head back and groan, brows furrowed in a less-than-pleased fashion. Your thick thighs spread apart, feet stretching under the table. With puffy hands, you grip the belly that sinks slightly forward over your jeans, soft flesh squeezing through your fingers.
Each breath is laborious as you heave that weighty ball up, and you can't help but wince as it flops down with every exhale. You try to massage it, but the pressure only makes it that much more painful. Instead, you simply lay back against the couch, eyes closed, trying to block out the harshness of reality.
In the kitchen, he readies your dessert. You told him earlier that there's no room left, but as usual he didn't listen. You can smell the freshly baked cupcakes that he ices, and hope there's only a couple to get through. Past experience, however, lets you know that it will be a feast in its own right.
Struggling, you reach a hand around the swollen rock attached to your middle. Sausage-like fi
Faulty Feeding TubeWith the tube stuffed far down your throat, you take a deep, awkward breath and wait for the sound. The faint, clicking sound of the switch hitting "on". When you hear it, the whirring of the feeding device echoes around the room, and in seconds you feel the sweet liquid travelling down your throat.
It takes a few moments before you start to feel full. Your stomach, at this point, would consider itself at capacity. You know better. The liquid continues to pulse down your throat, forcing itself into your belly. The feeling of fullness grows, and you eye your middle, waiting for it to start showing.
Finally. After a full minute, you notice your previously flat stomach beginning to push outward. It strains against your buttoned shirt. Fills up the extra space in your jeans. The feeling of tightening clothes digging into flesh feels good, but not good enough. Not yet.
More liquid travels down your throat. Your stomach stretches to contain it all. Deep inside, a faint sensation of painful t
Tantrum Token Twenty-three seconds ago, the smallest god struck Iltharus with his fist. Our world howled and bled, its veins leaking sun-hot destruction across the land and seas. By the time the god’s Mother had soothed his cries, the air had died and we faithful fleshlings were dying silently. The Mother sighed at her son’s behavior, and her wind drew ice from the world’s hidden oceans. Then, The Mother wept for our flickering hearts, drowning Time in her teardrops so they might learn to beat again.
Twenty-three seconds ago, my body was forced to stay eleven years old forever. Iltharus is rubble to the eyes of any other sun, but encased as we are in The Mother’s radiant regret, my people and I lead lives stolen from Time itself. If one more moment had passed, I know that the floodwaters which had come roaring and frothing through our wooden to
Georgia, 1946"Damp night air and hot summer fear. Looking through the crosshairs while my face caught fire. Flex, shudder, pull, fall. Dust, moonlight, blood. The walk home though the long grass is unbearably uneventful. No serpent to bite or scorpion to sting. Just guilt, silence, dread. Hiss, hiss, the grass screams and clings to your ankles."