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Literature Text
"Wanted: One heart. It must be scarred along the edges, cracked...but only a little." She sets the pen down next to her, ink balled upon the tip in black, and glances at the diary. Torn and tear-stained pages clutter the space between the covers like tissues in a box, the clasp hanging off-kilter. Broken. A steak-knife and hammer lie near the tips of her left fingers. She picks up the pen.
"It must not age, but stay naive forever. It must be fitting for a girl of sixteen to still be able to dream with. It cannot shatter." The down-slanted scroll, learned over eleven years and many alterations, blares the thoughts of a young girl's life. Twelve pages from the end, the script begins to change, to mutate. The last entry is a mess of jumbled words and half-hearted pencil strokes. Despair.
"Wanted: One heart in mint-condition. It cannot be used. It cannot fail. It must bring her back to life. Bring her smile back to me. Non-refundable." The ball-point falls from her numb grasp as she wipes away another sob. It's been three months, but the curiosity was killing her. The diary was the only thing she hadn't opened since finding Sue laying facedown in the tub. The floor had been red, she remembers. The same color as Sue's words across the pages before her.
"Please send it via UPS Priority. Fragile. The sooner, the better." Because it's worth a shot, at least. Even if it could never work. All she wants is just the chance to try. To make the heartache--both of them--disappear.
"It must not age, but stay naive forever. It must be fitting for a girl of sixteen to still be able to dream with. It cannot shatter." The down-slanted scroll, learned over eleven years and many alterations, blares the thoughts of a young girl's life. Twelve pages from the end, the script begins to change, to mutate. The last entry is a mess of jumbled words and half-hearted pencil strokes. Despair.
"Wanted: One heart in mint-condition. It cannot be used. It cannot fail. It must bring her back to life. Bring her smile back to me. Non-refundable." The ball-point falls from her numb grasp as she wipes away another sob. It's been three months, but the curiosity was killing her. The diary was the only thing she hadn't opened since finding Sue laying facedown in the tub. The floor had been red, she remembers. The same color as Sue's words across the pages before her.
"Please send it via UPS Priority. Fragile. The sooner, the better." Because it's worth a shot, at least. Even if it could never work. All she wants is just the chance to try. To make the heartache--both of them--disappear.
Literature
Anatomy of a Deadgirl
My skeleton is a barbed wire framework glossed over with spun glass and glitter-glue stars.
(Break it.)
My skin is melted magma, sizzling upon contact and twisting in imperfections and pimples and moles.
(Burn it.)
My blood is poisoned snake's venom, thick black sludge that is retracted slowly by a razor's gnawing gore, withdrawn from a well deep within my soul.
(Bleed it.)
My organs are burbling instruments, bubbling a glutinous rhythm.
(Oust it.)
My hands are hole-filled gloves sewn on to stubby, chubby stumps of arms.
(Cut it.)
My ribcage is a birdcage, trapping the anxiously fluttering butterfly that is trapped within my heart a
Literature
realized I was not a masochist
as I stand here, suffocating, I wonder whats next.
will I make it out alive?
what do I look like?
are my lips swollen?
do I still have lips?
what are lips?
-
I am leaking raindrops and dripping tonights dinner into the living room below me. I am bleeding tears out of my mouth and puke from my eyes. I swear, I cant stop bleeding, but Im not bleeding blood- Im bleeding purple pigments- Im bleeding bags under my eyes; Im holding these bags so tightly in my hands that Im bruising sunsets under my eyes, and he just watches me in the sky.
I tell myself to set. just set like a sunset; just fall
Literature
Snapping Your Strawbones
The incessant clobbering against mirror-lined ribs,
glazes over the sound of her sighs;
he becomes wedged between her glassy collar bone,
fingers tearing into dissipative skin.
Her collarbone is an exhibit to him,
his fingers tracing patterns over it;
he is tearing out her soul.
Then the pain begins.
She is baffled by why she enjoys this.
Grating murmurs strangle her ears
as he discreetly takes each column of her coiled spine.
Serpentine words dangle from his jackal lips:
"I'm only snapping your strawbones, my dearest."
"Those lips could tell a thousand lies,"
She whispers under his ruffled hair.
"You truly wouldn't treat anyo
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Draft One: An attempt at microfiction for class.
I'm not sure if I succeeded here?
Oh well.
Thoughts?
November 2009
I'm not sure if I succeeded here?
Oh well.
Thoughts?
November 2009
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Comments22
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That was so descriptive and touching!