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Bad HabitsS.

She always rubs her mouth,
like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.

Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.
Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.
Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.
Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fall

paris and troy When she met him, he had a ring around his finger that he never took off. When she realized it was etched into his skin, ink as permanent as his existence, she asked if he was married. He laughed.
The ink said "Helen," woven into a ring by his knuckle, and he told that Helen was the love of his life. She wanted to be jealous, she wanted to feel resentful, but he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hair while he told her the story of Helen, Queen of Mycenaean Sparta, and a love so fierce that Paris fought a war to keep her.
"So many things in life are mediocre," he told her while her fingers traced the tattoo. "Helen reminds me that lov

Summer SalutationsEyes open, blooming flowers as the sun sets the sky on fire and burns away all traces of that damp, grey, world caught in between yesterday's end and today's beginning.

Shout with joy all you that are green and growing, all who shake off with gladness your pale night's wrappings and raise your selves in the most ancient salute to the beginning of long days of light and life.

Send skywards your tears, your cold nightly sweat, the sticky beads of dew still clinging to your outstretched hands, reminding you of the dead world before and keeping the hot light from pouring into your eager cupped palms and dancing across your starving skin. Let it

the butterflyYou sit down in a cornfield a golden ocean surrounds you.
When the wind blows, he creates waves and dishevels your hair.
It smells like summer. It is Julie and the sun burns, the clouds are gone.
The yesterdays rain dried already and so the nature, reborn, after the long winter feels fresh and new.
Birds are twittering.
You smile and stretch your arms as high as you can.
Suddenly something lands on your fingertip.

It is a butterfly!

With a colour like a piece of the sky.
Softly, slowly it moves his wings to tank the heat.
He did just escape his homely safe cocoon and is fragile as a new bourn baby.
You don't dare to breath.

So flawl

SkyHunterLet me get one thing out of the way right now.

I do not have a latex fetish.

Or a rubber fetish, or a vinyl fetish. Nothing like that. I had a girl ask me that the other day. I was working, bagging groceries at this little store on Beacon. She noticed my yellow-white gloves and she asked me did I have a fetish for latex. I blinked, and told her no, I didn’t, it was because of a condition. She told me that it was okay if I called it a condition, that other people liked it too and that it was a normal part of being human. She then told me that she was more of a bondage person.

Her mother’s face ran scarlet.

There were days when

Haunted"I'm sorry," she says softly. The sky is black above, speckled and marred by the bright scattered peaks of stars. An empty field stretches out from her on all sides, grass swaying softly back and forth in the breeze. The horizon is a flat plane in the distance.
She's all alone, but she doesn't feel like she is. She can feel the spirits all around her, filling up the field and then reaching up into the sky. She can hear their voices, quiet and stuttered as they are.
"--John? John, where--"
"--I just need to tell her--"
"--have you seen--"
"--Alice, can you hear me? Can you--"
All of them are looking for someone; a child, a lover, a friend.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs to them once more. "I didn't mean to bring you back. I thought it would be better for you this way."
They can't hear her.
She covers her face in her hands, weeping for the lost souls she pulled back from death.
"--I just want to see her--"
"--Is anyone here?! I can't--"
"--where are they--"
The girl beg

But Softly1.
I am an artist.
I feel the need to create.
I explore the feeling.
2.
Yet creation is impossible. The colors splashed onto a canvas are but colors; they need to be saturated, pumped with the essence of something.
Words do not add the necessary element. They only waste ink and space. They are clutter.
Even sounds and motion and dance do not breathe anything more than dimensions. How can these things ever become more than the
sluggishly industrious blood of the artist? How can they become thoughts, ideas, suspended but flapping dusty wings
gently, how can art be more than residue?
3.
I bleed.
Images, material, sex, honesty, tears, purgative, travel, touch, music, struggle, nature, fear, depression, consumption, money, rags, paint,
libraries, machines, schooling, risk

Midnight ramblings of an old manThe stars tonight hide behind the clouds. To think I would miss their glow as I do now. Tonight I wonder, had they even existed in the first place? I know that I have seen them for twenty-five thousand days, and their light had never faltered. Now, they were only gone for a night but why is it that I think every single star in the universe were just an illusion, that there were no such entities that burnt, fissioned to produce light and heat? Even the Sun which I cannot see in the dark night sky, one which held us so close and nurtured dearest Earth which in turn nurtured us; us who have been leeching off of our Mother.
What horrible children we are. To use Mother to our advantage through sucking her life blood. Soon enough we might not be able to see our Grandmother through the dust in our eyes. We become cold and shiver in the darkness, again using Mother's blood to keep warm and produce light, to see again and to advance further. Slowly Mother dies, painfully and sadly. Poor old Gra

The Parable of the Small Man Once upon a time, in a peaceful village, there lived a man. He was small of heart and lived by himself. He was not a learned man, only a simple farmer. In this village there also lived a nobleman who had many riches yet was very generous. In his great generosity, he invited the small man to a wondrous banquet.
Now the small man was very doubtful of himself as a person. He thought to himself, “I am but a simple farmer, and I have never been to any banquets, great or small; I would not know how to act in front of this nobleman or his other honored guests.”
As he left his home, he saw the herder of the

Timemare“I’ll start with a knight.”
“I’ll go with a bishop then.”
“And now for the pawn.”
“In the end, aren’t they all?”
Quiet chuckling from both parties.

The setting sun highlighted the sky with colors that don’t exist. The plot of earth a thousand meters below bustled with life, if it can be called that. Here today, dead tomorrow. As with all reality.
The skyscraper overlooked the city. A city of a thousand names, from a thousand eras. It suited her, she who stood at the top of the skyscraper. A figure that could not be described, an impossible voice, and sorrow inexplicable.

Momentum"today I just want to be a housewife. I guess somewhere in the French Province. My only worries are to look pretty and prepare a nice tasty dinner when he comes back home. While I can hear him approaching the entrance door, I am sitting at the balcony's window with a glass of wine, red wine, smelling the breeze. "I am back!" He shouted after he entered. I smiled. I knew he reached before his actual shout. He smiled. He knew I am at the balcony waiting for the sound of his keys. And so the day became wonderful. We both knew. Yet, those unspoken thoughts, the unspoken knowledge, triggered this unspoken wonder."

EventuallyIn the cruelty of time, memories lost to the emptiness of the ever stretching void are the unmistakable whispers of weeping. A child runs through the marbled corridor, tears streaming down her face as she runs without hesitation, not checking to see where she was heading. The thunder storms gather, the last bellowing of battle drums before the great plunge in to the dance of war. Lightning strikes the cold earth sparking vicious fires and shrouds of ash and smoke. Lungs begin to shrink, the very oxygen becoming sparser and sparser as carbon dioxide envelops the atmosphere, coating the once blue sky in misty red pigment. Volcanoes tower above

I wish I were a writer.I wish I were a writer.
Transcendent rosy moonlight would fall from my lips. Not this damned spew of blue ink and charred feathers. I'll carry my sticks through with me. They're all I have. Each one knotted and scarred with my twisted melancholy memories. A starving artist, penniless poet. No chance. I remember the time I opened the gilt gold cage. I have no desire for birds, but birds desire the wind the clouds desire birds. They laugh as the clouds fail to catch them. The fat ruby stared, starred, crusted. All I need is the night, sat dulcet on a frosty park bench, the glittering of morn guiding my hands to weave dusky, fine yarns of words

Visionary-CreepypastaI'm a visionary, you see. My ideas will save the world from an enemy, such a foul and lecherous breed. You can't even fathom the madness and depravity of these creatures... Well, I'm going off on a tangent, allow me to explain before you ignore me like all the other doomed fools.

Although they wear the mask of a civilised man, make no mistake, they are monsters born from your worst nightmares. They'll look at, no, they'll analyse you with their beady little rat eyes whilst they claw at your skin with their gnarled talons. They really are barbaric little parasites that root themselves into our society like a blasted weed, and they stick their

Destani: A letter This is for you. The only reason I am writing this is because I am fairly certain that you will never read this, that I will need pluck up the courage from within me to show you this. Yes, I am a coward but only because my greatest fear is that you will openly reject my love for you.That is something that I simply would not be able to cope with. It would destroy me from the inside out. Yes I am weak but this has always been so.
I am not angry that you have moved on. That you have found another to hold you and speak words of love to you. To listen to you when something troubles you. To tell that it is going to be ok. To take you to to the movies. To laugh and cry with you. To watch you grow and go through your life. To say I love you. To do all the things I wish that I could do.
I didn't really expect for you to still love me after all the time. Yes you that you do but I am not so sure. How can you love me and and him both? You will read that

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A Knife in a Thief's Pocket

by *Chicky-the-Dragon, Dec 28, 2010, 4:15:55 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

By chicky-the-dragon.deviantart.com

A Knife in a Thief's Pocket #Candlelight-Writers Prompts
I spend most of my life here, in the pocket of this small-time thief. I rarely ever get to come out and it's not exactly the nicest pocket to reside in, is it?
Dirt, lint, chewing gum, empty wrappers, bus tickets and other random crap makes up my living space.
I think I was only ever used once, and that was to cut open a packet of cheese – real threatenin' – not... That being said, I'd rather cut open a packet of cheese than be plunged into somebody's gut!
Yuck.
If I'm not in his pocket, I'm sometimes taken out to lie on his bed or on top of a desk which has never been cleaned... Sometimes I'm thrown at a dartboard! That's fun.
Until I have to go back into the pocket, of course.
What is this "daylight" that people keep talking about? It sounds nice.

A Knife in a Thief's Pocketby *Chicky-the-Dragon

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

For

Flash Fiction Prompts.

Theme: July 28: Point of view of the knife in the thief's pocket

Link to my journal tracker: [link]

Poor knife. It'd rather open cheese or see sunlight than sit in that awful pocket!

Feel free to comment.

Flash Fiction © *Chicky-the-Dragon [Me]

Stop! You are not authorised to claim this work as your own. Plagiarism is illegal.

~AlecWolfe Jan 2, 2011

'I think I was only ever used once, and that was to cut open a packet of cheese – real threatenin'[*...] not[*.'

I quite like the personification of the knife. It would be rather horrible to be stuck in someone's pocket all the time, now wouldn't it? Good work.

*Chicky-the-Dragon Jan 2, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you very much

. I can't imagine living in someone's pocket is a nice experience

~AlecWolfe Jan 2, 2011

You're very welcome.

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