Why couldn’t my parents be dream crushers? My proclamation of wanting to become a marble sculptor should have scared them.
Perhaps the pieces which are grand are worth it but starving artist isn’t just an expression, and who buys marble sculpture anymore?
Men who spend on everything and still afford sculptures of themselves. Naked.
“Make sure it’s a testament to my … manhood. Like Michelangelo.” The man, overweight and sweating, purs.
“Michelangelo was the …” Not worth it. “If you insist on staying you’ll have to be quiet. I’d hate for my chisel to slip and … reduce your manhood in anyway.”
Word Count: Exactly 99
For the flash fiction challenge at Carrot Ranch
A new one for me!
Silence sounds like …
Your spirit spinning
Out of control to the DJ.
Your breath slowing
In puffs of hazy cigarette smoke.
Your heart pounding
Under the soft weight of my hand.
Your smile against
My hair under the cold moon.
The fading drops
Of my rocks failing to skip.
Your fingers drawing
Shivering lines down my back.
Silence sounds like …
All those things I feel in my soul
When your eyes lock with mine
And we fall away from time.
Originally published here in Dec. 2017. The prompt at the time was silence. Today’s RDP prompt is intimate
I couldn’t let love day go by without something!
I’m in the final weeks of my grad program. Unfortunately that’s meant I haven’t been on here. But if anyone’s interested in my research on investment in clean energy let me know and I may post the presentation here for all to see!
I collect futures, conceived, never lived
Six Word Story for RDP: Collection
I wanted to do a series of 2018 round up posts …
But I got sick instead.
With life not slowing down until after the new year (my daughter’s birthday is this weekend too!) I figured I should write something before Dec 30 next year.
This year I made the choice to stop focusing on hitting the publish button every day, whether the piece was good, bad, complete … whatever, and put more focus on participating in the community and the quality of what I was writing here.
That has helped me so much. I’ve gotten a ton of feedback from fellow writers which has helped me improve and become more confident. I appreciate every bit of it!
Without further ado … I’m linking the top 5 most viewed posts from 2018
#5 Counting Lighters
#4 was a tie: Perfect Moon and Wild Mess
#2 Dead Leg
And #1, which surprised me: Jailbait
I hope everyone has a great New Years!
First, I want to check in on readers from Indonesia or with family/friends in Indonesia. Is everybody ok?
Second, it’s Christmas Eve! Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays! I hope everyone has been enjoying the holiday season.
I’ve taken a longer break than I meant to but I’ve been working on my thesis which has taken over my mind for a bit.
The sight of him sends heat pulsing through my veins. My skin grows warm. Sheer will pushes me forward. What’s worse, my throat dries and heart hammers, I can feel his energy fixating on me. There’s a thousand women in this room; a thousand men too. He’s misdirected. He’s confused. Why would anyone pursue?
Doesn’t he see? People like me … We exist in the shadow. There for your amusement, or bemusement, but never serious inquiry. We slip in the cracks, stay behind a crowd’s back. His aim’s amiss. That must be it.
He must know I’m just a play thing, just the monster free of chains.
Ragtag Daily Prompt – Dream
I haven’t done this prompt in a while but I’m trying to get back to writing regularly and want to incorporate it.
Your soul is a percussive instrument, beating and vibrating, keeping time with the wants and needs bouncing through your mind. You’re projecting, sending pulsing signals out into the world with every move you make, vibrations in colored solar flares to tell every soul what you seek, what they can help you find. We constantly meet and crash, impressing on one another the desires of each other. When my soul met yours it beat so perfectly in tune, moving in beat exactly with mine, complementing every move we made. There was no moment, no hesitation, only total realization. You were part of me and I was part of you, there’s never been another way it could be. Your soul is a percussive instrument and it beats in perfect time with mine.
This was posted in Nov 2017, just over a year ago. It’s not perfect but I’ve always liked it. The prompt of the day was percussive (I think).
Depression is 136 untitled drafts
Neatly ordered by cut and depth
Catalogued by tears spread
And self destroying claims
No longer resembling the party
And freezing floors
Under burning drunken skin
It’s purposely destroyed
Dreams, papers, applications
In the kitchen bin as you look on
And bloodshot scared animal eyes
Pressured into ash
While never sleeping or even stopping
Because rules are always changing
It’s 136 pieces
Of torn papier-mâché soul
Too stupid, too sad, too bad
Scattered over cold tile floors
There’s no telling what you saw
When I woke you up that day.
You whispered about an angel.
It couldn’t have been me,
I would never let myself believe …
Back in April the WordPress daily word was rivulet, today the word of the day challenge is rivulet so I’m sharing this one again.
Standing beside you silence is broken even when nothing is said. Funny isn’t it? The stars and the sky; did they dance and dive, bring cosmic planes of every color into a swirling whirling dance of lightening intensity before your eyes met mine?
Has the world always fallen silent at the beckon of your gasp, a movement so sudden and rasp, or was it just mine?
Strange thing isn’t it? To feel everything you’ve ever been step into the light of everything you’ll ever be, knowing no matter the fragility broken will never be … again …
Oh this feeling, again and again. Melodies in languages I fear I will never understand, kisses along paths I may never travel beneath moonlit branches otherworldly in their desire.
It dissipates but not into illusion, a dream of roses and foreign spring days. It sinks beneath the current, becoming the undertow, dragging us along in this sweet abandon, forever familiar. You are home. You are forever, over and over and over.
Such are the rivulets of love that stream from our silent smiles, glancing eyes, as we stand quiet, forever reaching in fear of loving alone the other.