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Literature Text
They say that this is the age when
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:
"You shouldn't have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?" Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman's
photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading
between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall
playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Sometimes there are others with
you; sometimes there is a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you're
alone, but there's still that friendly
whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable
for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It's next to the silo
where yellow striped spiders—you called
them "fiss-sized" in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each
night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled
at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would
kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor's; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.
You always had a chuckle at
their dance of kicks and needle bites.
More words: "Sometimes they got away."
you start thinking in images
rather than words. Here are some words:
"You shouldn't have gone in there. What
happened to your clothes?" Leftover
pictures: On the wall, a woman's
photo plastered above a bunk,
legs open. Other senses kick
in: The bouquet of soil threading
between the boards, a door closing
in the adjacent room, moist breath
on the small of your back. Recall
playing the rug on the hollow
floor, underlooking the gravel
road: Sometimes there are others with
you; sometimes there is a man whose
face is a thumbprint. Mostly you're
alone, but there's still that friendly
whitethorn scraping the window. They
bulldozed it while you were away,
to put up a yellow stable
for thoroughbreds. But the willow
which used to hide its façade is
still there. It's next to the silo
where yellow striped spiders—you called
them "fiss-sized" in those days—consumed
and reconstructed their homes each
night. Remember abducting young
grasshoppers to rattle their webs?
In your picture-thoughts you marveled
at how quick that motionless X
became with a nymph smothered in
its silk. Their two jumper legs would
kick at the spiracles of their
aggressor's; the four little ones
bent and curled like ungreased hinges.
You always had a chuckle at
their dance of kicks and needle bites.
More words: "Sometimes they got away."
Literature
Nameless
A nameless creature jammed into a nameless space located in an unknowable location was all that stood between Experiment 726 and what he considered to be the Endless Stream of Creation itself. The creature was large and menacing, but seemingly beautiful to behold. Experiment 726 crinkled his eyelids at the creature that stood before him, frustratingly unable to comprehend all but the most simple adjectives about it. And yet… it was as clear as day and cold as night.
Cold. That was something you could call it, 726 mused. It was one of a very limited number of describing words that he could muster about this impossible place, because no
Literature
Foresight
Debra Mae was an astonishingly good programmer.
Her code always worked correctly the first time, and she never missed a deadline. Her workspace was immaculate, but curiously devoid of personal effects. No framed pictures, no toys, just her small collection of pens lined up according to color and an inbox for the occasional old-school paper input.
Her computer was equally immaculate. Nothing extra on her desktop, no stray icons. If one peeked at her browser history there’d be nothing there but work-related google searches and company stuff.
She dressed neatly but very plainly. I suspected she had four dresses in her wardrobe an
Literature
When Dragons Die
"It's on the beach!"
It's on the beach.
Amy Dale fingered the pack of cigarettes in the baggy pocket of her jeans as she moved with the rush of the crowd towards the lake, her mind fuzzy with shock. Could it really have come to this? After all these years of hundreds of people searching, working, chasing, probing, trying to pin down the elusive Loch Ness 'monster' - after all her years of work, studying and scraping by and manuveuring with difficulty through her scanty network until she was part of the latest team sent searching for it - all of that ended like this?
It washed up on the shore?
Dead?
She left most of the crowd behind
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When I wrote this several months ago I realized that this was the first actual poem I've written since I began writing poetry.
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How is it that this doesnt have any faves or comments.
Much like your prose, this is just fantastic. In some cases, I would think that your dreams might fit a poem format very well.
Much like your prose, this is just fantastic. In some cases, I would think that your dreams might fit a poem format very well.