RailwayMy breath coned white; clouds against glassHe looked over his shoulder as I pulled awayHis darkness was closing inI was leavingI saw him shiver, his wrinkled jacked pulled tightIt smelled of smoke and bourbonMoving jerkily to the ticket booth, I waited for him to speakHis attention was already fixated elsewhereI went through the turnstile and it clicked closed behind me
The AnchorPulling at my ankles,Anchoring me down, down into the thick floor.It was like tar, the tide of ooze.Struggling I thrust my arm toward the gloom.My head vanished, then my arms, then my fingertips.A varnish; dull red gloom.Stricken, I stood straight backed and still.Bubbles strewn from my moth,They floated, suspended, yellowed,My unheard voice encased within them; a somber note.My spine curved;The anchor, the anchor.Silence floated and compressed my chest.I was enveloped.Waves were lapping overheard, but the light I could not see.Toying with me.Without heat, I was freezing.Blood slowed.I was suspended.
NirvanaIt lifted without a word,A cruising, fluttering breeze that was wet of gauze.Palms, hearts; a musical luminescence.The earth dropped down; sky and heavens melting,Welded together they gleamLazy rays of sun,Piercing even the stubborn shadows.The flutter of wings.The sun, once sunk so low, towered above all horizons,Drifting with the tide through the earthly flatness,Sails flutter, a call from below.Rushing wind,Mist, rain from the sky, its blinding.Clear blue without the tiniest specs of discoloration.Palms open to the wind,Calling and calling as they climb higher and higher,Ever inching into its touch.Gravity.Nothingness.
The Clock Struck OneHickory, dickory, dock!The mouse ran up the clock;The clock struck one,The mouse ran down,Hickory, dickory, dock!But what about that clock?Covered in chains and lock?No wonder the mouse was there!Theyre simply everywhere,Upon that old wood block.It was such a strange thing, to hear the clock chime; I thought it had wound down years ago, when I was still a child. It took a considerably long time to remove all the boxes and things from atop it; peeling away the dusty layers of time. Indeed I do think I caught a glimpse of a soliary pink tale flit out from behind an old quilt. Gastly things.What are you doing? I heard a voice call out from beyond the cellar steps, where the sunlight poured in and the air was freshest.I found something from a long time ago, my voice was echoing all around me, and I think it works, too! A snort of either laughter of distain barely reached me. I pursed my lips, trying to keep the hem of yellow arou
Inkpapers, leaves, moss-vibrant thingsbut if they wash away,thus the tide runs
StructureOn the stone engravened there:Caught er long n lifes sweet snareNow embraced by times long careSwept upon the dew.
Heated IceLove is a heated allusion.a fiery lament. But then, why canit not be cold? Your veins constrict likethe instant spider webbingof thinned ice.
How To Write A StoryWriting a book is an adventure. To begin with, it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster, and fling him to the public.-Sir Winston ChurchillNow that we've gotten that out of the way....Hello, and welcome to Cooking With The Authors! This is the show where we bring an aspiring author to our stage, set them in an electric chair, and give them the basics to writing a story. If they do it right, their novel or what have you is published. If they turn out trash not unlike the bet sellers of today, well, our contestants get to have a nice little meeting with Old Sparky! Today, our contestant is... you, the reader!No, not really. I wish there was such a game-show, but who in their right mind would be a contestant on that show? Although, I know I'm being fairly hypocritical here. If th