flyover state, flyover heartthere's almost nothingleft of august, or me -just fat, humid yawns thatcling to the asphalt andvinyl sidings of housesprettier than any autumn day.chlorined kids rise from thetanned wake of public pools,clothed in school uniforms,counting the new frecklesthey've earned like war badges.the nights i can lay in myunderwear beneath spider webblankets while my wheezy fanoscillates and whispers dustystories are numbered.but i'll hold the moonas it crests over summer'sdying vigil, my arms higharound it's wondrous girth.i'll ride the heat into theashes of three months spentdreaming in fevered euphoria.i'll lead the impassionedthousands down margins tuckedinto a waning, wailing cry.and i won't rest, even afteraugust is buried between bluelined composition pages in acoffin of lead - a memory with noscent becoming one without a heartbeat.
Papers and Cake Roses were a curious flower, rife with symbolic meaning yet rarely understood. Thorns and blossoms forming an artistic counterpoint, Lyra ceased fussing with the arrangement and finally turned up her face to acknowledge her tutor. It was a rare concession, but she’d grown bored with the basic exercises she’d already done and knew he wouldn't let her advance if she didn't listen to him drone on about what was next. Oddly, he made no move to launch into one of his speeches, and after a moment she realized he hadn't paid her any attention as she ignored him. “Sir.” Lyra felt no shame or irony at the reprimand in her voice. Her parents paid him good money; it was his duty to sit and allow her to torment him. Vexingly, he didn't so much as look up, and instead continued writing something in the slim notebook he always carried with him. She'd thought it was to take down his reports on her progress but judging fr
Can't you hear the music? The light fell like raindrops, hitting my bare skin as I danced to the fiery music that surrounded me. Despite their glowing appearance, they were cool and liquid, running down my body like tiny rivers of sunlight. My companions and I saw the woman at the same time, and there was no hesitation. I caught her attention, swaying to the music. “What are you doing?” the woman asked, her hair falling down her back like a waterfall of silver moonlight. She was beautiful, but tamed. The wild light inside her battled to be free, to dance with us. “Dancing,” I replied. “Can’t you hear the music?” The woman looked confused. “Are you alright?” she asked, edging backwards. The shadows danced around her, trying to draw her into the dance. “I’m wonderful. Won’t you dance with us?” She shook her head, afraid, and the shadows pounced. I danced close
BirdsThe birds are flaunting their wings by meKnowing I can't fly.What a joyful, blissful gift it isTo soar in the sky –Racing softly through the windsUp to touch the clouds.That's the place to look for peace,More is to be found.The birds keep piercing through the morning streetsFree of people's vibes.Reveling in the river's peaceful breezeI'm only standing by.Chirping merrily aboveThey must see best of life,Making me, the wingless one,Be glad that I'm alive.The birds will always frisk across this scene,Even when I die.And ungodly hour colors bringEnlightening sense of life.No matter what may be,Birds will be around.Long as they are here to sing,You'll be safe and sound.
Punctuation“I thought full stop didn’t feel like going because of her period,” whispered hyphen.“Oh, no,” said semicolon, “that’s not full stop; that’s dot, one of the ellipsis sisters.”Well, considered hyphen as he prepared to dash off, it had been a confusing story but now it seemed he’d be able to join the dots...
FFM15: To Be A WriterRock wrote a story; she revised it, shared it, revised it again, shared it again, and when she finally had it just the way she wanted it to be, she gave it to her brothers.Paper laughed---he said it sucked, give up, go home, she'd better leave the writing to him.Scissors said to try again, so she did.
Stitching the World Together A tear was forming in the fabric. A man and his wife were drifting apart. Quickly she rifled through her bin, selected the red thread of love, passed it through her needle, and stitched the tear closed again. But even before she finished that repair, an earthquake had destroyed thousands of homes along the coast. She pulled out a purple thread for compassion and pulled the rift together. On the radio, the DJ announced that countries from all over the world were coming together to provide aid to the stricken country. At the edge, a bit was fraying. Someone was alone and hurting. For this she chose the blue thread of peace and hoped it held. More often than not, it didn’t. Over on the other side, a patch had come loose. Drought had stricken an area, putting them at risk of starvation. From her scraps she pulled a green patch for life and sewed it into the fabric. Weather reporters forecast rain that night for the first time in