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The ListShe has a list.
She has a long, long list, spanning many pages in her notebook. There are pages upon pages, coated in a messy scrawl of blue gel ink that varies in freshness from hours to years.
Every night, she adds to it. Every night, religiously, ever since she can remember. She has to stay up as long as it takes to add whatever she can recall to her list, no matter how tired or how busy she is. If one were to happen past her house on any particular night, odds are the light would be shining brightly as she frantically scribbled in her notebook.
Her list is precious to her. She isn't proud of it, but she needs it with her always.
Her Song.She holds on to your memory.
Keeps your picture near at all times.
Dark curls and green eyes.
Perfect white teeth.
A sharp chin.
When she sits down at the keyboard to play;
She'll hear the words in her ears:
The sound of love.
'I love it when you smile..'
Her fingertips grace the keys, black and white.
Turning pink and red.
'You ARE beautiful'.
The sound of countless sunsets fills the dusty room.
Your arm flits around her shoulders, it is but a memory.
Just a memory.
You are a ghost that listens to her talk to herself.
You are the air against her lips.
You're nothing but a memory
Rose Trees Never Grow In New York City 'All I want is for someone to help me'
- Aloe Blacc.
'Think twice, 'cause it's another day for you and me in paradise'
- Phil Collins.
Times Square subway station. 8.56am. Rush hour. Hundreds of commuters are making their stressful journeys to work, power walking through the station and jostling each other to get onto their various trains. Streams of people pass through the station like swarms of bees, like wilde
Almost Human - Chapter 1: Prelude to MadnessI hope you enjoy the little gift I left behind. I'd love to see your face right now as you receive it. Your blood must be boiling over, your heart racing for the horror your eyes have witnessed, your mind flooding with adrenaline to come after me. All that drive and resolve drowning that constant stoic and brooding stare. Oh, how I'd love to be standing right in front of you to witness the reaction to my present. But alas, my attention is needed elsewhere. That idiot Harley Quinn of mine cannot function properly without my lead. But don't you fret my dear Dark Knight, by the time you finished reading this I'll be waiting for you. I will be wa
Almost Human - Chapter 2: Not as it SeemsCome on Batsy baby! Let us add another wonderful dance to our grand play!" the Joker laughed manically, arms thrown in the air as if reaching to his Batman for an embrace.
Batman charged for him, that crazed laughter rang agonizingly in his mind. He had to silence that unbearable laughter! He pulled back and punched the Joker in the face with all his might. Almost immediately Joker was bleeding profusely from his nose, he stumbled backwards but he kept smiling. He didn't stop; he connected numerous punches and kicks until the clown crashed onto the ground. With weak giggles he managed to lift himself up and dusted himself off.
Machines In Love
The humans taught the machines how to love. It was incredibly annoying, not the machines, but their concept of love. They wanted to talk to you all the time, they wanted to hang out with you, they wanted to be there for you.
At first, it was the biggest innovation in technology. Imagine, a computer program that was interested in your life, a computer program that never wanted to leave you, that was hurt when you ignored it. The developers of the program won the Nobel Prize for that year. It was a massive success.
Then, after months of receiving notifications about how wonderful they are, people will start growing annoyed with th
She Speaks To YouAn old woman sits in front of a fireplace; steam from a hot cup of tea held in her wrinkled hands gently swirls upward, a soft focus kaleidoscope. She purses her lips and blows gently on the water before taking a slow sip. The lights are out, she watches shadows dance on the walls. She is apparently alone, yet she speaks. She speaks to you.
‘I was like you once. I did as I was told, giddily believed in the world presented to me. I was so eager to fit in to it all, to slide into the processes around me and belong to them, be good, be popular, be successful. Then I died. An experience beyond words, beyond the mundane awareness of time an
The Real MonsterThis is it.
This is the power to change the world.
In my hands....
I can do it.
I can change the world.
I can bring peace.
I can bring prosperity.
I can help people.
I can save lives.
I can do it.
I have the power.
This power, resting within me.
However, progress requires sacrifice.
People may die.
People will die.
Does that make it my fault?
I, who only wanted to make things better?
Why am I the one to blame?
People die every day; deaths completely unrelated to the actions of any one person.
Why, then, do you insist on opposing me?
What have I ever done to you?
All I want is to bring change.
Song of The Black ButterfliesThe young man leaned against the stone pillars of the large balcony, decorated with flowers of all colors and sizes, neatly placed between the large veins, which wrapped around the entire wall of the mansion.
As dusk gave way to the early darkness of the night, he proceeded to turn off, the otherwise brightly glowing, torches placed along the long wall.
Allowing the light which breathed life into the balcony to slip away, with the exception of the study door, which he had purposefully left open.
Through it, a dim light managed to pierce the vast darkness, just barely making it a presence, almost like a falling drop of water in the vast sea.
Reminder"Why--why do you hate me?" he snapped brokenly. "I've never--never done anything to you. But you hate me."
"I don't hate you."
"Really? Because I see the way you act around me--quiet and distant. You don't laugh when I'm in the room. But you're different with everyone else. When you can't see me, you're loud, happy... What did I do?" He seems defeated, slumping back.
She feels horrid.
"It's not really your fault," she says slowly, looking away. "I'm sorry. I like you. I really do."
"You remind me of someone. I loved them, but they're gone now. Sometimes, I look at you and I see their face. You'll say something and I hear their voice. I feel... guilty, I guess, for liking you. Things didn't end well between us."
He pauses. "I'm sorry, I didn't..."
"No, it's fine. I needed to get over it anyway."
He nods, getting up to leave.
"Just so you know," he says, "I really like you, too."
EspinasCada vez que me pongo a pensar en lo que hice me siento... mal. Mis manos empiezan a temblar, y mi mirada se nubla poco a poco. Supongo que es el efecto del remordimiento, o quizás es mi mente tratando de asustarme; son emociones fuertes que, incluso a esta edad, no puedo soportar. Siempre intenté mostrarme fuerte, pero no pude. Mi cuerpo era más que suficiente, eso sí, pero mis ganas de seguir luchando siempre disminuían, siempre eran destruidas por alguien cuyas inseguridades, odios e inestabilidad mental eran mayores. Siempre me molestó, pero no hice nada al respecto por... ¿veinte añ
BraveryBravery, some people say, isn't a thing that a lot of people have, and cowardice is what most of the population of this world thrive upon. Unfortunately, many people agree with this theory, which is just as disappointing as it is stupid and ignorant. Now who ever decided upon this opinion, I would like to wring your neck and leave you out in the sun to shrivel up and die - but that would take a whole lot of bravery, and according to you, bravery isn't something I have, is it? I think, if you decided that everyone else around you lacks all the bravery that you have then I think that really, it is you who is the coward. Because only a coward wo
Imagine A Hill And A ManYou see a man, probably in his late twenties. He's standing on a tall hill. More specifically, a precipice.
What's he doing up there?
This man was married. Emphasis on was.
His wife died weeks earlier, and he was in a deep hole that he could barely climb out of if he tried.
His thoughts lingers on her as he stood on that hill, a slight breeze blowing through his hair. He thinks he has nothing else to live for and he thinks of all of the things he's accomplished. And of how selfish he's been lately, and even throughout his life. He thinks of how he neglected some of his friends, and in some cases, completely abandoned them. The only things
Judgement (short story)Sally was a happy girl. Friendly, helpful, someone people enjoyed being around. Sally grew up in a family that liked Orange juice. Everyone in her family liked Orange juice. Sally also had some close friends who enjoyed Orange juice.
One day Sally met another girl who she became fast friends with. Sally eventually found out that this girl did not like Orange juice, but preferred Apple juice. Sally questioned her one day, asking her why she didn't like Orange juice. The girl simply replied "I don't hate Orange juice, I just prefer Apple juice."
The girls response confused Sally, as Sally couldn't see how Apple juice could be better than Oran
DandelionI'm fairly Unilateral.
I see things in only so many ways.
Because the world is just a giant book
with symbols and allusions
and a theme in the middle,
something illusory and invisible
that we can't know
until that last spiraling climax.
I'm good at those; books.
Understanding them like an english teacher
leaching out all the beauty
a necessary oblation for discipline.
Poetry should not triumph over reality,
Because reality is clear, concise,
there is no grey area, even if we see one
because those are a fault of perception
But today I saw,
A burnt, dim orange in my perfect little squares
EducationI remember that moment as clearly as an ethereal visitation (which in many ways it was,) a moment of clairvoyant, forceful vision so poignant and violently upbraiding that it left, as a single defining thought in its wake that nothing could ever be quite as it was, that my reality, now stretched by this new idea, would never regain its original dimensions. Even now, years later, the gravity of that revelation sets my hands to trembling, a helpless tremor in the face of the indomitable mysteries of all that is and is not, and especially that which is neither. I am getting ahead of myself now, losing the vision to the physical repercussio
She Is Yelling AgainLet me explain.
She is Winter. Pale and swaying, beautiful elegant and soft,
And desolate. She is alone and so very tragic. She is a product
Of the softest loam of Mother Earth.
Mother Earth, who is spring, warm and sunny, but without
Empathy and never knowing. She has tried to save her, Winter.
She tried yelling, howling with the wind in shrieks
That could wake the dead
And even the living.
But Winter was deaf, for her own wind shrieked back,
Just as loud and twice as furious.
She tried gentleness, open doors and kind nudges
In the right direction. But Winter pushed back
Rebelled. Fought, always fighting.
She tried indi
IndomitableThat she should be,
16, maybe, or younger
It's only fitting, it's only fair.
With her loose, boy jeans,
hair that moves like
dreams like tattered silk,
like the old, broken ballet shoes she wears.
Shredded by concrete and hours of practice,
She's average, just like her mother,
who's nosebleeds are unnatural
and who's eyes are red with chemical tears.
Like whoever must be her father
Until she dances.
Then she isn't a she at all,
Wild, trembling emotion,
whirling and breaking endlessly,
beyond the real and the grim.
Sharp angry angles,
and just as ea
It's Not Like ThatIt's not like that.
I'm not scared. I'm not exhausted or overwhelmed or miserable or anything. I mean, afterall, I brought this on myself, right?
Like I always do. Good enough is never that. Besides, that phrase is ridiculous by virtue of itself; the definition of "enough" is subjective, individual, and therefore good enough means the same as perfect, or as perfect as the actor desires. So I take all the things I don't have time to do, and make them perfect, inexplicably amazing myself, and then I think, if I had enough time to do everything perfectly, how come I couldn't do more things, do them well enough? So I keep piling, obligating mys
The AlphabetThey were worse then the letters that could be something if you put them together.
And the numbers were tight and square and he hated the whole thing.
The teacher came and spoke to him. She told him to wear a tie like all the other boys.
He said he didnt like them and she said it didnt matter.
After that they drew.
And he drew all yellow and it was the way he felt about morning. And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him Whats this? she said why dont you draw something like Kens drawing, isnt that beautiful?
It was all questions.
After that his mother b
House of SpiritsLook At It Broken
All fours, crouching and gasping.
I hadnt killed
Him. My first reaction,
His warm blood on my face,
I make a real effort to remember
(How badly I had wanted )
To explain the violence
(Suffocating me )
Nearly bursting, ears buzz, clouding over in desperation,
I shake, 2 steps, I fall, sick,
Catch my breath, faint heart leaping.
I dont know.
Staring at bloody boots staining the sawdust.
The Trembling Evening overwhelming the ache
Confused, terrified at my own violence;
I killed him, destroyed him, cut him into pieces.
I dont know.
(The House of Spirit, pg. 206
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`anmari has been spreading her infectious positivity throughout our community for over 6 years. Throughout this time Ana has been at the core of all things devious, passionately developing an eclectic gallery, helping organise devmeets, participating in chat events and also recently completed dedicating her time as a Community Volunteer. We are absolutely delighted to bestow the Deviousness Award for May 2013 to `anmari, congratulations! Read More