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When Heven Does Not Hurt 44.
"Are you comfortable?" Christine asked, fussing over Erik's body as he sat buried in the sofa. She had found as many pillows as she could and had refilled his cup of tea more times then he cared to think of. "Do you need anything more?"
"No. I am fine. Please, continue your story, my dear," he said, shifting uncomfortably under all of the attention.
Christine sighed, causing Erik to only tense more, afraid of what her next, fateful words might be.
"Erik," she started, "do you remember when you told me about the bag of life and death?"
Erik closed his eyes against the memory, ashamed of his outburst and his irrational moments of anger following her attempt at suicide. He was beyond himself when he found her on the floor, wallowing in her own blood, so of course he would be irrational. It was just, humiliating that he, Erik, the magician of the Persian court and the Czar's favorite toy was incapable of keeping cool when the one he loved most needed him. And Christine did need him that
When Heven Does Not Hurt 33.
Erik was dreaming. He stood from Christine's bed and wandered into the hallway on wobbling legs.
She was in the kitchen, preparing some kind of stew. Her golden hair was tied up gently to the top of her lovely skull. He approached her silently, reaching for her with his horrible fingers. His thoughts drifted to the kisses she had given him, and to the ones she had allowed to give to her.
It is merely a dream, Erik, he reminded himself. Christine is with her viscount. She will never know.
He snatched at her waist, pulling her flush against him. She cried out, jumping slightly in the air. Erik growled.
"Even in Erik's dreams Christine fears him. No matter how Erik adores Christine she still shuns him like the animal he is. Like he deserves. She will never love him, never! Oh, woe to Erik!"
He pushed her further against him, closing off all means of escape. Curls touched his face, smelling strongly of the flower sent that had once permeated her veil. The smell was much stron
When Heven Does Not Hurt 22.
The first thing that came to Erik's attention as he woke was that he was not in his coffin.
The second was that he was in a silken robe and light, cotton clothing when he was certain he had been in his dress suit the night before.
The third, most important thing was that an angel was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head burrowed into a novel. Her foot seemed to tap the rhythm of the words into the floor.
"Christine!" he rasped, the burning in his vocal cords strangling the sound of his surprise.
She looked up, her curls swinging slightly before her eyes. The moment she cast her eyes on his face she stood. Panicked, Erik seized her skirts with deft fingers.
"Do not leave " he whimpered.
She unhooked his hands from her dress, patiently pressing them back onto his chest.
"Please. Erik would do anything if Christine would not leave him alone in the dark!" he said.
"I am not leaving, Erik, truly. You are ill and need care. I am going to the other room to f
When Heven Does Not Hurt 1Erik was waiting to die. Christine had promised she would return after he died.
"She will be here soon," Erik whispered his mantra over and over, rolling the words on his dry, corpse tongue. "She will be here soon."
It had been a week since he had met with the Daroga at his little flat. Three days had passed since he had crawled silently into his coffin to await hell. Erik is already in hell, he thought wildly. It is hell without Erik's Christine.
The silence in the house by the lake was think with Death, empty of the music that once ruled the darkness. Nothing existed in the cellars but Erik's home and the miles and miles of corpses left behind from the Commune. And the rats, Erik reminded himself. How ironic, a corpse entombed in other corpses.
He could not muster enough strength to laugh, so he opted to concentrate on every swell of his chest, hoping that it would be his last.
A sound colored the darkness for a moment, startling Erik.
Perhaps a rat has found its way into Erik's home
The Writers BurdenWriters heed your calling,
Bare arms for your right,
Take up your pen in action,
And prepare yourself to fight
Working until distraction,
In you heart it's true
For these things inside
Make the words part of you.
Writers heed your calling,
Words from your fingers slip,
To put bread into your mouth.
For art you would once happily flip,
Will keep you from moving south,
The cold of winter beckons at your minds door
Make sure to prop it open
so they can come inside.
Writers heed your calling,
You read long past stars,
making you intelligent
with words meant to be ours
but beware Astonishment,
for he is a rouge
who bottles you up
and eats you whole.
Writers heed your calling,
remember the meaning of your life,
the point behind it all.
that even in through the strife
you can't afford to fall.
Brush writer's block aside,
take charge of what you know,
and put the hate behind.
Writers heed your calling,
Trust your fellow man,
that when you are writing,
other's are writing your battle plan.
High SchoolBlank white walls,
Lockers sigh as they open,
contents sliding out,
like water in a stream.
You learn things here,
get new information
even if you don't want it
as the sky beckons from outside.
People rush by worried about
and romantic relationships.
They don't notice me,
I blend into the barren walls.
Doors engulf them,
sucking the students into the darkness.
There are so many things akin to,
The JungleMenagerie of hogs and cattle,
No returning from the machine,
Squealing hogs, swooping penalty,
Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked
Screaming, crying, and squealing.
Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling,
Carcasses inch-deep in blood,
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Bantam, 1981
Striking When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.
Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking. That is my word. The one used to describe me. I am not plain or beautiful or ugly. I am striking. Maybe that's why I love older things. Back in the early 1900s, the more striking you were, the more people looked at you, the more you got to sing and dance. The more you got to be an artist and let your hair down as you
Bird The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as the
HypocrisyI own great admiration for the blank slate. It possesses many unwritten ideas. They paint my waking dreams with realizations that hide beneath preset realities. What is caged within the sleeping soul that so cowers beneath human concept? The blank page embodies all that is, was, and ever will be--in minds both unwritten and out voiced. There are tears, and laughs, and screams among the blank pages of existence. Pages, which are devoted to un-birthed ideas and colorless worlds, are caressed by the longing, hungry eyes of silent souls. These souls wish to press full against the purity and bleed out across the pages in a raw, timeless voice. I own an admiration for the blank slate, which so presses against the will of writing philosophies within me that, most often, my fingers refuse to mar its innocence with them. Thus, with this bleeding out of soul, I have given life to colorless, un-birthed ideas. Thus, I have labeled myself a hypocrite.
Generalized Anxiety DisorderH met a woman at the bar. H liked the woman at the bar so he missed the last train for her. They drank mojitos. The woman at the bar talked about the interconnectedness between the universe and all of the objects within it etc.
The woman at the bar invited H back to her apartment. The apartment was very chillin. The woman had a terrarium of Macaqs in the middle of her apartment. H said “your monkeys are very pretty” and the woman said thank you.
H and the woman made out.
Then, they took off their clothes. It was when they disrobed that H noticed something very weird.
“Where in the wide world of sports are your nipples?” H said. The woman indeed had 2 breasts, but 0 nipples. This woman was a freak of nature.
“Fuck,” said H. “Are you a man?”
The woman laughed a high, feminine laugh. “Wait,” she said, “you mean you didn’t know what all happ
IndependenceIf you shoot me
Nothing will change
Despite your attempts
Each moment is mine
Perhaps you will feel better
Every time you contain our actions
Nothing can stop us
Death is a favor
Even if it's early
Never think you won
Certain people will live forever
Everlasting and perfect
No sooner had the door closed softly than the sky opened frenzied and demanding.
As if to echo relief; as if to echo wanting; as if to let loose remaining words left impatient and electrified in the air. The fire and light that assaulted the senses was accompanied by – too quickly and too out of any semblance of pace – an imposing boom that set the world trembling. And it left us at once recognized and cowering.
Lost within the tantrums of the heavens and the careless flood of referenced duality - a black bird sat,
wanting nothing more than the freedom of wings and the quarter of open air innate of its being, patiently, until I gave turn to notice. He, in a space barely holding his shape at the window sill, likely neither the most easily discovered nor gentle location, found what was needed and of relative comfort for the time. As the winds and rains raged, he pushed himself against the glass, seeking that small, random, by-chanced place of safety. I was honored and hoped i
A falling star?... lemme check US weeklyA swirling whirling fragment falling downward earthward flaming burning blazing shining brightly calling screaming to it's tragic end.
A cosmic event, you wake from bed, check your facebook, then go back to sleep...
Storm The badlands are nothing compared to that of an irreversible agony, constantly eating away at lingering hope until nothing is left.
A vast land was set before my very own feet, a land that has yet to be kissed by the rain. All those who entered went into a storm, vast to never be found, forgotten into the world. Yet something tugs at me, pushing me into the dark unknown.
Maybe its because of my greed, my desire to not live in vain, and to emerge as a victor and laugh at fate's will.
Perhaps what drives me is pure stupidity, to believe that I can bear such a tremendous amount of pressure and continue walking, to underestimate one's wrath, and learn to stand.
I don't know.
There is no desire in me to run in there screaming a battle cry, and nothing in me to turn around and run towards safety.
I don't have encouragement, tenacit
the outcastsHe stood there... Watching them pass by ignoreing him as always. Never noticing him, never talking to him and when they do it was always words of hate, and he took it. He took it everyday this kind of abuse. For he was always an outcast. Always in the dark, always ignore. Even though inside he was an angel he can never show that side. For he was demonized everywhere he went. Feeling the scars in his heart as they hurt as bad as those on his back he continue to walk his lonely path that he never ask for. That he never wanted. But he kept on living for he knew one day he will be needed somewhere no matter if this world wanted it or not he will do it and today was that day. As he walked he saw a girl about his age who look a little scared. Coming to her he said hi but instead of running like most will do she replied with her own greeting for she was also a outcast against her will because she made the right choice. Both look past the false labeling that others Gave them and saw there true
Rocking Out"Off Stage Guitar.: That's what the giant yellow sign said. I enjoyed the many shows going on up and down this street.
There are lots of musicians around this place called 6th street. You could see them jamming. I was bobbing my head and rocking out. When the guitarists saw me rocking out they rocked harder and smiled at me. It was awesome. Everybody put their hands up and said "woo" when I was rocking out.
My name is Stephen but I go by steve. I do the whole correct-the-teacher thing at school. I don't play guitar myself. I play guitar hero though. I am 23 years old and my lifedream is to design videogames which I am attending the art institute in Dallas for.
I've had a drink of alcohol. I drank pink margaritas with my dad. The No Doubt concert was too loud. I liked the off stage guitar better. I think I am a little bit drunk.
My dad and I laughed drunkenly together a
The Mirror GirlI am crouched over myself, trying hard not to fall over. The nerves in my feet send telegrams to my brain, screaming at it to stop me from moving. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! My mind is on repeat, the recording forever replaying, over and over. The other girls can just move and she smiles and claps, her fingers the only things that move faster than this endless tempo of music that sets my nerves on edge. I glance at the clock. An eternity until I'm free.
"Moorea!" she shrieks in that voice that is too sweet to be human. To pink to be real. "There you are. Will you try the steps, now?"
I shake my head, praying that it will come off so I won't have to step out there in front of all the other girls and stare at myself in the mirror that seems to portray different people than the people I know. The girl in the mirror who grimaces stares me in the eye. She feels the same thing I do and I can take comfort in that. At least she understands. She turns as I do, the same awkward, clun
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