[x]

MonologueSpinal fluid seems to be seeping between the cracks
Of the dark hardwood floors beneath me
As if all the cartilage from my being
Has been used to paste together an arthropod heart
I’ve white washed my pupils and folded them
Into hazy envelopes and sent them off to strangers

the Chandler's Around the WayThe hose slipped out again. Chan cursed, and shoved it back into the incision he'd made, adjusted his mask, and bent over the pump. He yanked the cord, and the pump started to life with a cough of biodiesel. It bounced on the sand as it grumbled away. Chan kept one hand on it and held the hose in place with the other.
If fucking Fathers would spend the bone on a new one, I wouldn't be all night at this, Chan grumbled. He ached for a smoke, but didn't have the hands to spare. Plenty of hands here, he thought as he glanced at the riverbank. Some of them even had a pulse.
"Hey," he said to whoever was closest.
It was a sunbather. A walker who drew enough bone to slot time on the beach without having to fight for it. She had each arm draped around a man, both of them tattooed in the same place with the same sigil. Chan was jealous. Someday he'd have his own numbers, but they'd be women. All of them. He was old-fashioned like that.
The walker answered without raising her sungl

if teen dreams were teen novelsthere was once a boy who had all the write words to say
with all those fancy allegories, metaphors and similes
and antonyms of synonyms, like rails and snares and storms
and organs and trains and drums and hurricanes and
hearts,

and she was only a girl with plain words, the kinds of things
that are only found in piles of papers and pens, books
she keeps where she sleeps,

that will only break when he leaves in the morning,
but she shares everything, like a boat shares a bard,
like a cigarette shares a lung, like a mouth shares other mouths,
like an artist shares her heart.

but there is a running in her heart:
not that type of b

Across the Sea and Around the KotatsuSpring

Taco Rice

Mom starts with rice. Japanese rice, one, two, three Japanese cup-fulls of rice grains into the cooker, because Sis eats a lot of this stuff. It's one of her favorite dishes, taco rice, and Mom's always happy to make it for her because it's the only way Sis will eat her tomatoes. But back to the rice. "You want to rinse at least three or four times, until the water's kind of clear," Mom says as she cups her hand under the cooker pot, letting the cloudy water wash over her hand.

Rice cooking's easy though – just fill enough water to the point the rice's covered, punch in a time (or set it to "Quick Cook," which with our cre

A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.

"Lucie," he would say, with the fond smile and kind eyes I always remember. "Lucie, my peach. Whatever you become, and wherever your heart and mind leads

hindsightAt one time, we followed
the fires of July like fools in love
with heat smothered on our raw anatomy--
but fall has wrought our kindling into cinders,
carried it away on the earth's currents and sighs.

Here we see the girls with pressed skirts and
polished Mary Janes catch drifts of oak leaves,
pale-downed arms reaching for the bleached clouds
of late September,

and when the boys with all their chivalry abandoned
come searching for pig tails and rounded thighs,
we watch the snow eat an old world
from our separate park benches.
Cigarettes lay crumpled on the ground,
dead soldiers from our last war.

But when I open my eyes again,

Talking to YourselfWind drove snow over the trees with such force they seemed to step into the distance. The whiteness in the air covered everything until it was as faded as an old scent trail after a rainstorm. The snow was already deep enough to suck in a man's leg past the knee if he wasn't wearing snowshoes, but the figure trudging through it was no longer a man.

Wendigo had given up on snowshoes long ago in favor of simpler footwear. The straps challenged the clumsy fingers of his stolen human body, and he could never figure out how to move in them without tripping. He lurched onward with the tenacity of a wolverine gnawing through an inch of deer skull t

This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.

Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you

Epitaph for an Old Italian WomanWe walk into the apartment building. The building for old people.
It smells like old people.
We silently take the elevator to the second floor; her room is 205. Mom has the key, so she opens the door. The apartment is so empty. No little old ladies with white hair and a waggling crooked finger.
Empty.
There's still newspaper on the floor by the door. Mom and I remove our shoes and put them on the newspaper, lest her ghost throw shoes at us. Or, maybe, hit us with a broom. She never did it to me, but Mom says she used to.
The pantry is full of food; mostly Fig Newtons. We always brought her Italian cookies when we came to visit, but she'd make us eat them while we were there. We would insist they were for her, but what good were cookies without someone to share them with? Italian cookies, Fig Newtons, and tea.
The cookie jar on the counter is full of tea bags. You could never have Italian cookies and Fig Newtons without

grassy field with rustgrassy field with rust
--------------------------

I'd heard about the old car, three miles out of town and all alone. I just had to see it. It was time. School was over for the summer, my friends were at camp, and I was bored. I set out Thursday morning for a hike, following directions that Uncle Will had given me. As the heat was still growing with the climb of the sun, I found the field and wandered around looking, and looking some more, trying not to be distracted by bees buzzing in the flowers, and butterflies and baby mice. Then it was there, just a bit upslope from the bottom of a natural swale, and just below the sky at th

Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.

Whiskey Laden DreamsBitter eyes and tears might taint a drink, but sitting in this bar alone with your stool pulled out next to me, and the Martini poured regardless of your presence still brings a smile to my face; despite the taste. I'm having a whiskey myself; dry. Yes, I know I don't drink, but every once in a while you need whiskey to solve an intricate problem, and mine is the distinct lack of alcohol in my life.

There are people everywhere and it amazes me how none of them are you, from the woman in the black dress coming down the stairs to the signing couple in the corner, laughing silently. They're not you at all, and that's what's amazing – in an

SolsticeOnce upon a time, when you were still sunlighthouses and shimmering existence wherever you were needed most, you found him. He was November, shaky on his first last legs, and you saw through the mind-twistings he feigned to the mind-twistings that were really there, knotted up in his dreams.

You were still birdsong then, and thunderstorms, and your bodyheat melted the frost claws that held him tight. You held onto him as his November deepened. When he howled, you howled with him, and the wind played with your voices and pressed the softness of your lungs against your cageribs—and then against each other's.

November became solstice, and

I Have No Names for all My Teacup BabesI feel always like I am starting over.

As a magpie I gather trinkets under my pillow,
bay leaves and bags of herbs to bring the next lover to me,
to call the next dream-face forward—a picture
painted in the tea leaves.

But truth be told the start-again
is never clean, is never gentle,
and the sweat of all that labour
is a fire on my skin, telling me
I will never resist its wind-cry.

The moon comes when I call, to help me;
midwife, she is, and she carries into being my new selves
like the babes they are, teaches them to
fill long footsteps like hers.

Truth be told, I tire of the destiny
I was given once—I am a teacup

Gnome Noir  "I did it for the money and I did it for the girl.
        Well, I didn't get the money – and I didn't get the girl."
::  Walter Neff - Double Indemnity
So I point the flintlock at the guy – and that's no easy thing, big musket like that on a little gnome like me – and I peer down the sight. Not many people know what it's like to stare at a man through a glass. But in those sacred moments, the whole world takes a breath and it's just you and him. I line up the shot, and I think about the girl, and--

What? That is the start. What do you want, Sheriff, my life story?

Alright, well, I'm Gniles Brody the Third – that's

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Mending an Illusion I woke up to the faint scent of coffee and cinnamon. I blinked as my vision cleared, blurry from hours of peaceful slumber.

Alice had spent the night, and her hair was almost up my nose. She smelled delightfully Alice-like: a scent that could only be described by her name. Resisting the urge to pull her closer to me, I instead rolled over and sat up in my make-shift bed. Although we were much too old for sleepovers, my Mom let her stay over when her parents fought. I didn't understand why it was such a big deal. My parents fought all the time and I just tuned them out. I was just happy to have Alice in my room.

"Nick!"

Choosing CavitiesCotton candy
Rots your teeth,
And sunrises mean
Lack of sleep.

I think of you
In red and gold,
But you're not shiny
You just glow,

And whispered kisses
Go unseen,
(But I've always believed
In you and me).

So tonight I scramble
For dusty thoughts
That clear my haze
(I'm dripping rust).

All the memories
I thrust away
Come crawling back
(We're zombies fighting day)

I always knew
You had a spark
(You were my song,
In an unending dark).

But,

Unseen kisses
Might be best received,
And I've always believed
In you and me.

Slow LeakYou were the sun
And I've always been
Just a star,
But

Your electric light
(I always knew you as liar)
Fooled us
And

We lost ourselves
In your maze of burns.
(You never understood
The pleasure of summer rain)

You relished in sunburns
And fizzy heat
And we loved you.

But you were a broken light blub
(Flickering radiation)
And I've always been
Just a star.

The AlmostsShe samples
Fragments.

Inhaling the aroma
Of a fellow Almost.

Intoxicating.

Each shimmering letter
Leaving a
Darkly-sweet imprint
On her curious,
Desperate lips.

She lives on the pieces,
The words.
She breathes summer dew,
And nothing will satisfy
Her craving for magic.

Leave ItAll people are fractured sunsets
And I'm a step away
From grabbing the
Cursed tape,

But broken
Isn't pretty
Once it's mended.

Upside-DownBroken stars
Will stain your eyes;
This blizzard killed
My butterflies.

Broken wings
Smear my skin
I'm a Picasso painting.
Reel me in.

It makes me think
Of drunken stars,
Blurring the skyline.
We're up too high.

Rainbow bits
Still pelt my cheeks
Where's the elevator
Down from this place?

Frozen kisses
Graze frosty lips;
Snowflakes and teddies
Will hold your place.

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Souls and Sparkles

by ~WhisperedInsanity, Jun 10, 2012, 1:55:35 PM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Emotional

To write something that is meaningful to someone else, you must first write something that is meaningful to yourself.

There are a thousand rooms in each person's mind, and each mind is a maze because it has been tangled. The hallways are criss-crossing and clumping, like long hair in the wind. Society has made it so.

We all have impure thoughts. Things that would make us "bad", unequal, or imperfect. Thoughts that make us different in gloriously unusual ways. We are born into the world unashamed, but then we are taught the unspoken words. Words that are rules. Words like normal, like good and bad, ugly and pretty. We are taught that if we do not fit the rule of "good", we are bad. We are evil, we are tainted, and so we are unwanted.

So, each of us hides our failures; our shortcomings, even though they are exactly the opposite of such. They are a representation of the uniqueness of each human soul, but unique is "bad", and so we hide. And those impure thoughts are hidden in darkened corners of our mazes, trapped in locked closets, guarded by wary soldiers.

But, every so often, we find our way back to that small room, and the guards avoid our eyes, and we rediscover ourselves. We find sanctuary in the unopened space, and quickly shut the doors behind us, lest our sparkling secrets are spilled.

It's a closet of glitter and unopened boxes and the smell of photographs. It's jars of buttons and déjà vu and moth-eaten gowns, and it is our private place. We open the doors late at night and the secrets spill from our maze into our real room, into the dark.

It's this room that connects everything. It is where our dreams exist (tiny figures in heavy shoe boxes) and it's where love begins. Because to love, we have to allow someone into our secret room. They take in the scent of our hidden things, our fear of exposure, and they unzip their hearts and we see the sweet innocence trapped in their own room, and we understand. Because if there is not understanding, if there is not soul sharing, there is not love.

Souls and Sparklesby ~WhisperedInsanity

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Emotional

I finally made it into an actual prose thing, as was suggested by several DA peoples. Yay <3

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-10-19

Souls and Sparkles by ~WhisperedInsanity Sentimental words to us all, it is okay to open up. ( Featured by ^Beccalicious )

love 4 4

~~joy 0 0~~

wow 2 2

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~unfinishedcastles Oct 19, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

i feel like deviantart is my small room sometimes. i've just gotta go look at my favorite pieces and turn on some cowboy beepbop, other random theme music, or chase coy and i'm there.

~WhisperedInsanity Jan 14, 2013 Student Writer

Chase coy <333

And I definitely agree about deviantart being a "small room" of precious things. There's just so much beautiful artwork here. Thanks for the comment