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55 Word Stories - Part One

1. Roulette Logic dictated that he had to die eventually. By bullet or bullet train, he didn't care. And end was an end. He's heard of this condition before – Quantum Immortality. One multiverse incarnate that would live forever. Him. It was just his luck that he would be saddled with eternity. He sighed and reloaded the gun. 2. The Chase There is no scientific name for the delay between lightning and thunder. The light flashes across the empty fields of gold followed by the crash of sound racing to keep up, to catch its always faster partner. The thunder never quite reaches its elusive lover. I guess what I'm trying to say is come

Literature

Dogeared

I wonder if books keep memories of all the people who read them.

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Contact

It’s too brief to be a proper memory but I remember it all the same – me, standing, hands resting on a chair; you, bustling about the room and sliding just behind me, a brief hand against the concave of my backside, and you’re out the door.

ChloroformBoy

Literature

poetry, again

Spoiler alert: this is not poetry. Print 15 copies. You just killed a tree. Put this in mass-produced magazines. Slaughter a forest – arboreal genocide. This is not poetry; this is lexical vandalism; this is getting away with murder. Fire your editor & set fire to your dictionary. This sentence is a Death sentence, but death shouldn't be uppercase. Capital punishment: life fragment (incomplet) Shit, I don't think I executed that properly. Correct the syntax & execute it again. This time: sharpen the guillotine. Type a noose around this poem & hang it on your fridge like gallows, smothered by two magnets. Con

Literature

semantic satiation

i have become desensitized; repeating your name in the form of syllables until you(r definition) become meaning less love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love without (me)aning

Literature

to love and to cherish 'til punctuation do us part

i only love you in my poetry: my parenthetic utopia where i can make you into the eighth world wonder, make my freckles swim into your skin, make out with you in paradise's garden, make you into a dandelion, blow you & make a wish: i wish you would make love to me, underneath this sleeping oak tree in my poems, you do (tu fais) you say: i do i say: me too, let's have our honeymoon on the moon, honey (and we do) like dreams, all poems die when their lines di vorc e; (the trick to living forever is to never

aprilwednesday

Literature

anemic, broken, and growing up anyway

when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice while dust drifted in the sunshine of our creaky old room. dear me [she said], barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile. love, me. "did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag. i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully and she smiled. when my s

Literature

blue hour eyes

people say sparks fly when you meet your somebody but it wasn't like that with you. there were no sparks when we met, no birds singing, no cartoon hearts. you were reading. it was a thick book, and old, and dogeared and you glanced up at me, and smiled and i remember noticing that your eyes were blue [not blue like the ocean or the sky but blue like mountains that are fading into the distance blue like the moment after the sun sets blue like snow in the twilight] and when i heard your voice for the first time, it felt familiar and new and strange, but beautiful twisting around me like the music you sometimes hear in

Literature

the wind's story

the air was thick and sharp with the smell of salt. wind gusted across the beach, kicking up dusty piles of sand. it was midnight. a young girl with fiery hair stood there, digging her toes into the cold, white sand. she had the anxious, exhilarated look of someone breaking the rules, and yet she couldn't bring herself to regret coming here; the alternative was being at home in bed, watching the walls around her shiver every time her father sucked in a loud, rumbling breath. best case scenario, she'd simply be dreaming - and this was better than dreams. she took a deep breath and called the wind by name. it was loud at first, coming in a

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On self-love

Maybe who she really loves, is the name of the boy she thinks of, while she lines her chatoyant eyes with charcoal maybe the name she really needs to think of, is her own.

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Unaware

When you are two and five and ten you are unaware –– of the cactus in the windowsill, how, fragile, each quill bends and breaks and falls apart.–– Twelve years later, on a Tuesday, you dream about a boy who bumps his head on an iron slate and you wake in a cold sweat. You are twelve when you are always bumping shoulders. Twenty-two years of Thursday. There is nothing at all. And you wonder (and you wonder why) each time you wake. The cactus in the window bleeds with you when you bump it. No one ever mentioned frightened things bite. So you have always been unaware.

Literature

ripples on a blank shore (#15)

in rainbows with a petrichor veil; you've caught my breath in palms covered in dandelions' dust, my longing, an uncovered explosion of drafts hidden from the both of us. but i reach out, knowing wind-chime silence is a possibility as it has always been; knowing the doldrums of my harrowing echoes could be the only reality i'm pressed against, but i'm more than willing to risk my heart and expose it to the weight of sorrow if there's a sliver of a shot that we can be together. suspended in the contingency of the unknown, i hope your wrung hands red with distortion & blue with disappearance, make your way back to the greying soles of my

Poetry

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Something Sinister

A ring around the rosy Let them laugh lightly Pocket full of posies Watch them sleep tightly Something with poison And pleasing to the eye Poppies to make them sleep And sleep until they die Something sinister is stirring Beneath the fragile skin A daisy for lost innocence Scarlet rose for my sin Not once have blossoms healed Not once have petals saved Something sinister is stirring There's lilies on my grave Something sinister is stirring Buried in the ground Dust to dust, and ashes, Ashes, we all fall down

Literature

Clipped Wings

It begins slowly As such works of veiled wickedness do So soft and gradual that the perpetrator himself does not even guess At the sheer nauseating extent of his control He starts with the foreplay of caressing words - Insidious whispers slithering across a moonlit pillow Forming a chain around the young girl’s mind Like the tender entwining of his fingers around her slender throat So white, swan-white, in the waning night As he suffocates her with his dominance And so it goes, night after night Day after brittle star-haunted day Manipulative words sliding into seashell ears, gently Tickling her psyche like the feathers of a

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Poetry

random words on the page speak of broken dreams and pent-up rage spilling out ink from the pen burn it all start again

Poetry, Art and Others

Laura2467 on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/laura2467/art/Destiel-Edit-556290515Laura2467

seffykoepsel on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/seffykoepsel/art/Sam-Valentine-513569894seffykoepsel

seffykoepsel on DeviantArthttps://www.deviantart.com/seffykoepsel/art/Crowley-Valentine-513569152seffykoepsel

writing notebooks 02.03.14- 28.12.14

consolecadet

Published: Jul 3, 2015

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Finally got around to transcribing some morning pages notebooks from last year. It's a lot, I know, and it's not edited very much, so feel free to skim/not read/skip entries/whatever else as you please.
Just be glad I don't transcribe every entry. I write every day, and some days I write things that should not see the light of day. . .

Mature