[x]

The IntentionWho am I to draw up from this weary mind
and proclaim its labors to be clever or novel?
I am a stranger in a world of ash and dust.
Every song has been sung and faded;
Every poet's pen runs dry.
Every lover, every enemy, every heart begging repose
Has fulfilled its time in this space
And poured out its entirety for generations to come
(or at least this was the intention;
we are often lost in translation).

So, who am I to produce a creation borne of experiences worn and cliché?
Who are we--
each and every one, so anomalous to have this time to live--
Who are we to entwine our sorrows with sorrows long forgotten?
Who are we t

VerdigrisThe sun was red the day Slicker died. She watched him fall a hundred levels, to shatter against a fat, reinforced gas pipe, shards of him breaking across archways and supports and cables, plummeting into the foggy void below. His blud drenched a cluster of backup valves. It dripped from the nozzles, thick and syrupy.

Slicker was unsticking the gears on the Bigtime, with such focus that he paid no attention to the approach of the Quickhand, making its minute-long journey around the Bigtime's face. He had clamped safety cables to the supports, but was careless. The Quickhand caught a support line, and dragged him off the gears, sending him plu

Good IntentionsThe tiny brown mouse, identified only by the bright orange 47 tag on its ear, trudged through the cedar chips toward the water bottle attached to the cage. It nudged the spout twice with the tip of its nose, and droplets oozed out onto the mouse’s forehead. With a soft grunt, the mouse jolted backward and collapsed in a heap in the opposite corner, its chest trembling with exhaustion.
“Amazing,” Victoria Krell whispered, scribbling notes onto her iPad. The fluorescent lighting flickered above her, and she began writing faster; Craig was getting impatient for his bed. She scratched out a side note in capitalized, red letters to remind herself to bring Star Lab’s oldest night security guard a big batch of Boston creams tomorrow morning.
Victoria leaned closer to the lone cage perched on her workstation, watching 47’s wet, blank staring eyes. The brown mouse was only one of twenty in a three foot long cage. It was not particularly interesting or unique,

The Little SparrowHer name was Emma, and she wasn't afraid of falling. For as long as she could remember she had been jumping - always plummeting. She understood the laws of nature: no matter how high she climbed, gravity would always carry her back to the ground; gravity would always grant her momentum to fall and wind-resistance to float. She understood why birds had wings and humans didn't; it was because humans would just as soon leave, and they belonged on the ground.

They always called her a little sparrow, always trying to fly, but they never understood that she didn't want updrafts or wings, she only wanted to scale walls and scurry up trees, to test

petrichorNiobe weeps.

gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.

some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.

listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.

Niobe weeps.

TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.

It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.

In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door.

The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtains—the arithmetic of her childhood.

"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on each—sixty-four. I counted."

The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.

And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense

The Old ManThe old man's wife passed away a few days ago.

He wouldn't like me writing it that way—a fan of George Carlin, the thought of 'soft words' tended to make him cringe; he would have preferred 'died' or 'shuffled off her mortal coil.' He said that second one plenty. Every few years now one of his friends shuffles off their mortal coil, and he always says it that way when he finds their name in the obituary. 'I guess Mavis shuffled off her mortal coil. A shame. She had the most wonderful rack as a young woman. Would've married her if I hadn't met Julia.'

The old man wasn't exactly politically correct. Come to think of it, he was a bit of

Noticed in CommittingI started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill me, but they didn't want to touch me either. Eventually, though, they did.
Oh, another good one was sneaking into one of those giant dump trucks at a quarry and letting them dump tons of excavated rocks on me. The driver of the loader always sees you just as it's too late and tries to stop the load.

a long awaited return.It was raining when we landed.
A shock
to our sun-drenched systems,
stumbling with snatched-
away sleep.

Another bus, another train
whirring upon endless tracks.
We run, we flee through foreign streets –
disdainful eyes stare on,
watching fugitive

outsiders -
desperate for a taste
of home.

The Stellar Void"Can you kill me, please?"

I must have looked startled because her expectant gaze saddened a bit.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Can you kill me?" Her face brightened as she repeated the morbid probe.

Confused, I couldn't help but notice her rather familiar clothes. Faded pink jeans, knock-off Converse shoes. Little black hoodie with a torn right sleeve.

"You just looked a bit angry and I figured you'd be the best person to ask."

I stood next to the bench. My backpack dug into my shoulder and I shrugged it off. It'd be awhile before the next bus came anyway.

"Why?"

She looked down the street. The dim lights barely revealed the closed shops and l

Space CampHe found himself standing in their daughter's room, staring at the dusty mobile of the planets, unsure of how he's come to be there. He looked at her bed, her desk, the unfinished homework. He considered opening the window, but the thought slipped away before he could act on it.

He wandered into the living room, looked out the window. The grass needed cutting. Did it? He wasn't sure. His wife would know, but she'd already left for work. Seems she left earlier every morning and came home later each night. Another thought occurred to him, something about each in their own way, but he couldn't hold it. Perhaps she was having an affair. He wonde

Metastasis98.00

Autumn is the season when everything dies.

The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.

The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.

You promise it anyway.

94.00

November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi

the things they should have told ussee, no one really warns us about growing up.
they leave out things like heartbreak and gossip and broken people you could have saved but didn't.

it is this: the girl who holds her wrists and sits alone and tells me no child should ever grow up being afraid of someone who should love them. Her eyes are fierce, and something inside me is screaming but the clock ticks and the moment is past. i pretend i can't hear the pieces of her shatter as they hit the floor.

the next time we speak there are new shadows beneath her eyes and her shoulders hunch as if somehow she could fold into herself and disappear. maybe it would be better for us both if

Searching for the SunI.

The day everything ended, she was standing in a parking lot, weary from a long day of departures and destinations, staring up at the sky. Clouds strolled west, their armfuls of grey dripping out of their grasp and spattering onto the asphalt, onto her upturned face. They rolled and crashed into one another, piling up high in the stratosphere like mountains of cottony stone. Once, they had been at war, and their arguments had sliced across the countryside with the recklessness of a summer fire. Now, though, something had calmed them. Perhaps they were tired from their travel like her, or perhaps it was the sun, gently wedging them apart wi

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     Her hat was in her lap, her cheek cold from the window. She smoothed her hair and replaced her hat. Jewell moved one foot back to be sure her suitcase was under the seat. The evening outside was lit by city street lamps. Where was she?

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     He wouldn't need much in the double-sleeper berth on the Coach Starlight for the ride.

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     But I found a notebook and pencil at the amphitheater here. And the notebook is completely empty! I can write pages and pages of stuff! I can write what happened before and why I'm in this tree now and everything. I'm almost happy.

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THAT Woman

by *xlntwtch, Jul 3, 2011, 11:06:42 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Humor / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

     First they said, "No wind chimes outside the cottages. Three warnings will be given, then you are subject to eviction."
     My Granny said, "Humph. I like my old bamboo windchime. I can't even reach it no more to take it down. It's gonna stay, dammit, and I will too."
     I told Granny, "Not if they evict you, you won't. I can take it down."
     She looked at me over her reading glasses, with that Look she has.
     "If anyone's evicted, you can go with em, Sonny. I'm stayin put. Me and that damn windchime."
     I said, "Granny, I don't even live here. C'mon. It's just a windchime."
     She said, "And we're just a buncha old senior citizens in a QUOTE retirement community END QUOTE, and I, for one, am gonna keep whatever I want right here. Me included."

     I sighed. I know Granny better than I used to know the song on The Mouseketeers' show. She'd keep her windchime alright, or die trying. I expected she might ask me to make a bunch of posters for some senior citizen revolt, so I left for the day. I hate the smell of spray paint, at least that's what I told myself. Truth was, I'd been in enough demonstrations in the past to last me the rest of my life.

     Next day, before I went to see her, I wandered the entire length and breadth of that senior community. Sure enough, every cottage, even the apartments, had a windchime on its eave. No way was that new rule going to fly.
     It was already more extinct than a single brain cell in the head of the oldest senior there.
     Young girls worked in an office that promised "..a library, fitness equipment and a high-definition TV.." but I saw not one of those things. Not even a magazine.
     Humph, I thought. Granny's right and this place isn't. Not by a long shot.

     Granny had a new paper to show me this time.
     It said, "No gardens in individual yards behind the cottages. We will provide you with planter boxes in a central area. Three warnings will be given, then you are subject to eviction."
     Grandma waved an empty coffee cup around and had quite a lot to say about that.
     "Have you seen them planter boxes?" she asked. "No? I did, and they look like bodies been already planted there. I ain't gonna be movin any damn tomato plant over any old Indian graves or somethin, believe you me." I believed her.

     What she really meant was she'd keep all her own plants and the property managers could go to Hades, or much worse.
     We sat in her garden together, drinking more thick coffee laced with cream.
     Her garden was a beautiful place, extremely full of vibrant colors, scents and variety. A person who didn't know Granny would never guess those plants were what she called "acquired."
     That meant she drove her old car across the street in the middle of the night and stole the plants she liked. What's a grandson to do? Tell his own Granny how to behave? OhGodNo! Not my Granny and not by me.

     Because I thought she might be evicted, I went to see her often. She was always really nice.
     It's just that a person couldn't tell her what to do or, especially, what not to do.
     She had another notice to show me that weekend.
     I opened it with dread while we sat under her stunted pear tree, the one with no fruit but with good shade. She got a boy at a box-store to load it in her car late one night, the boy completely unaware that the pear tree was "acquired."

     This notice said, "No extra fencing around yards behind the cottages. There will be three warnings, then you are subject to eviction." Granny scoffed. She was very good at scoffing.
     "Just last Spring you help nail up my privacy-wood. Anydamnbody could see in here without it! They could watch me cook and everythin. Humph! D'they think just 'cause we're a little older we don't like to walk around nekkid sometimes?"
     "Granny!"
     "Sonny!" she said. It wasn't my name, but she always called me that. "What's wrong with you? Don't you ever wanna get comfy at your place?"
     " 'Course I do. But I hate to hear you talk about it. I mean, I like to hear you talk, don't get me wrong. I just hate that part. And I didn't nail those wood screens there. I used a bunch of braided wires! If anyone ever asks you about that security fencing, you tell em I did it without a single nail driven in their rotten old fence."

     "Rotten is right," Granny said. "I dunno if I wanna even live here much longer. These people are too damn old. Some hussy moved next door, and the only thing she says to me, and believe you me, I was polite as a hundred dollar bill, she says to me, she says, 'Oh, my. Do you always wear rainbow shoelaces? Do you know what a rainbow means these days?'
     "Your Granny's smart, y'know so I ask her, 'Why and what?'
     "She makes her mouth say, real slow and without a whisper, 'ho-mo-sex-u-al.' "
     Then I knew what Granny would say and do.
     "So now right here, I know I'm gonna stay til they take me out feet first and I'm gonna keep my stuff all over the damn place, and I'm gonna have my favorite grandbaby visitin me as often as he can. Right, Sonny?"
     "Right, Granny," I said. "I'll bring Pete with me next time, maybe ask him to come in drag. We'll see if anyone can guess. I brought you another windchime, Gran. It chimes 'Amazing Grace' but I can't hear that for the life of me."

THAT Womanby *xlntwtch

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Humor / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

_{I heard about a game called "Imagination Station" and playing it led me to this short piece.

It's for an old prompt at #dA-lta seen below.

"You must include these items...
1.) an empty coffee cup 2.) security fencing/scaffolding 3.) rainbow shoelaces 4.) a pear tree with unripe fruit, and 5.) a braided bunch of wires."

...unless you have permission and/or I submit it knowing what you may do with it...

- For #theWrittenRevolution - Critique of "Summer Storm" by ~Red-banner - [link] -

Does the piece fill the prompt to satisfaction?
Do you find it amusing?
Can you tell me ways I might improve it?

Thank you for the [4/26/12] DD! _{And you, you sneaky ^neurotype!} And you $wreckling!

#ScreamPrompts#Unconventional-Story#WritersInk#GetWatchersMod#theWrittenRevolution#Word-Smiths
=DailyLitDeviationsProse#Critique-It#TheMysteryGuild#Poets-N-Prose#CRLiterature#DD-Catalogue}

Daily Deviation

Given 2012-04-26

THAT Woman is a short, amusing glimpse into the life of a grandmother and her grandson by *xlntwtch. ( Suggested by ^neurotype and Featured by $wreckling )

Critique by ~Aelorn Apr 26, 2012, 1:35:02 PM

This is a beautiful story! The characters are imaginative, the setting believable, and the plot highly amusing.

The granny is a very good representation of a crotchety, but still loving (and lovable) elderly woman. Despite her stubbornness, her grandson still visits her very often; he does it out of a sense of love, not of duty. This story addresses a relationship we often lose because of the generation gap.

The grandson is also a wonderful character. He does what he can to help out his grandmother; instead of being annoyed with her quirks, he is amused, and is also her partner in crime.

One of the things that makes this story so lovable and beautiful is the message of tolerance and coexistence that the author managed to sneak in at the end. It is such a subtle way to address such a controversial topic, and fits in well with the story without breaking the flow.

All in all, this was a wonderful read.

What do you think?

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19 out of 19 deviants thought this was fair.

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