Deep are the sighs of unsung mariners, Drifting gently upward out of bottomless canyons Over hills and mountains Through snowdrifts and clouds, They make their way Home. Calling the stars (so far...
Deep are the sighs of unsung mariners,
Drifting gently upward out of bottomless canyons
Over hills and mountains
Through snowdrifts and clouds,
They make their way
Calling the stars (so far out of reach);
Calling the moon (dispassionate waning gibbous);
Calling the trees (for the spineless tools they are);
Calling the ocean,
Cry to the waves for the songs of land,
The endless dark crashing and shifting and moving.
Plead for stability. Remembrance. Peace.
Beg for an end to this oppressive
Deep are the sighs of unsung mariners.
Sigh no longer.
I sing you now;
I bring you
1. My Friend, the Moon When Tom was younger, he went to buy fresh bread every evening with his mother, Alice. They always walked and the bakery was far from home, so it was not uncommon for the...
1. My Friend, the Moon
When Tom was younger, he went to buy fresh bread every evening with his mother, Alice. They always walked and the bakery was far from home, so it was not uncommon for the Moon to come out along the way. "Hello, Mister Moon! Do you wanna come with us?", he liked to say. When they arrived at the bakery, he looked to his mother, excited, and said "Look ma! The Moon came with us!", and did the same when they got home.
"Did you know that The Hulk was a detective once?", says Alice. Tom is 4. He puts his hand in the forehead in a gesture of superb irritation. "No, mom, this is make-believe!".
3. Cookie Conundrum
According to Tom, a mysterious group of sinister chipmunks was eating the cookies in the jar. When Alice asked for proof, Tom replied that a secret group of chipmunks got rid of all the evidence.
4. Ice Cream Dilemma
"So, mom, you have two options" — said Tom, seriously. "There are only two ice-cream flavors: chocolate and vanilla. Any choice is fine by me".
5. Tom and the Rats
Tom's house used to be infested with large disgusting rats. One day, he shouted: "Rats are the worse! No wonder we call them rats!
6. Dream Logic
Tom dreamed that his forehead could fly without him, leaving a hole in his head. When he woke up in the morning, there was a deer on the porch eating a hot-dog.4 votes
— Are we dreaming? — She asked. — I don't know, my dear. I really don’t know. — He answered. — It feels real. — Yeah, it does. — Look how old we are! Isn't that crazy? — Not really. — He says...
— Are we dreaming? — She asked.
— I don't know, my dear. I really don’t know. — He answered.
— It feels real.
— Yeah, it does.
— Look how old we are! Isn't that crazy?
— Not really. — He says while putting his arm on her shoulder. She calms down for a moment.
— Yeah, but I thought... Well, I thought something, but everyone probably thinks the same. It’s silly.
— What did you think?
— I thought we’d be different. Old, sure, but perky, wise, matured from adventure. Something noble like that. But no. We’re the same, but older. — She shakes her flaccid arms and looks both marveled and terrified by the loose skin wiggling back and forth.
He adjusts his glasses.
— Sometimes, when I remain silent to appear profound, I’m surprised by the indigence of my thoughts. I may look like Aristotle himself while I try to remember what I ate for lunch. It’s hard to make inwards the theater we make for others.
— But, after all, when have you become so old?
— To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how we got here.
— It’s weird: despite the complete darkness, we can see everything clearly. And there’s no place to rest my legs.
— Sit here on the ground. Beside me. Put your head on my lap. — He gently caresses her head, trying to ignore his surprise with her white hairs.
— I’d be nothing without you. But I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember your name.
— I might be offended, but I don’t remember yours either. — He smiles.
— Are we close to wake up? This old body is getting on my nerves.
— Of course, my love. This is a dream, but no more than everything else. Time is a nightmare from which we never wake up, and old age is punishment for those that refuse to die.
— Don’t talk nonsense. This will go away in a minute. We’ll wake up young and beautiful, as always. As I remember you, and as you remember me. Everything will be fine. — She says that with forced certainty as if trying to convince herself.
— You’re right. The nightmare will end soon, and we’ll be back to our bodies.
— ... This conversation tired me. Good night, my love. — She pushes her head against his thigh.
— Good night, my angel.
And they wished to never wake up.9 votes
Every day I wake up thinking that The Horde is not there anymore. The dreams are good but few, and only make everything worse. I usually dream about The Horde. During sleep, my breathing is...
Every day I wake up thinking that The Horde is not there anymore. The dreams are good but few, and only make everything worse. I usually dream about The Horde. During sleep, my breathing is improved and more relaxed. I dream of a calendar without symbols.
When there's an inspiration, so I write. Delete everything afterward. A professional told me that's is a compulsion. The compulsion for the perfect word removes me from language itself. The enjoyment comes from excising something from myself, which makes me feel a bit closer to perfection.
Every once in awhile I forget The Horde is there. The writing becomes looser, I sip my coffee and take the lunch out of the freezer. The Horde is still there. The whistle makes my blood run cold.
I forgot when The Horde arrived, but since then my days are covered of night and dust. To me, The Horde has no color, they're covered in filth and dark cloth. They get a bit closer by dawn. But The Horde never comes.
They seem to enjoy tormenting me. Twice a crow's carcass hit my window. At least we were communicating. I had to open the window to clean the blood. The Horde did nothing. There's courtesy between me and The Horde. I never complain of their tiny advances, they never impale me alive and eat my viscera.
The worst consequence of The Horde was to remove my visitors. I had friends and a girlfriend, before The Horde. They came here regularly. On the other hand, there's something cozy about being surrounded by The Horde. I'm never alone.
I talked to them on a few occasions but never got an answer. I invited them to lunch and asked what they like The Walking Dead (seems like a relevant question for The Horde). Because, you see, The Horde may be savage, but they did not cut my internet. I keep telling everyone about The Horde, but no one believes me. They think I'm some internet phenomenon, an internal joke from a group they don't know about. They don't believe The Horde can come for them too, knocking on their armor of bronze and recycled aluminum.
Sometimes The Horde's shrieks seem to gain shape and order as if they obeyed a hidden commander. But this doesn't last, and they soon resume their lurid racket.
I don't know for how long I've lived with The Horde, nor for how long they'll stay. I'm afraid of waking up someday to find them gone. Because, in a certain way, I learned to love The Horde. I feel safe in their post-apocalyptic embrace.
This morning they got closer than normal. I can see it better now. They all have the same face, they're both one and The Horde. Their mouths are frozen in a permanent smile, salivating like rabid animals. One more step. They look like neanderthals. The Horde approaches slowly, with steady paces, and arrive with the furor of the sound of metal and drums. The house is hit by numerous rocks — the roof is about to give in. My crumbled body will soon become an ensign for their future marches. Or maybe become mush after being punctured by one thousand spears.
I'm only sure that this is going to end soon. Their petite steps, the threats, crows in the window. Everything is ending — finally, everything is ending. I'll never be again and so will The Horde. Nevermore.3 votes
always seem happy and dandy and talk of love and romance a riven smile on the face to hide thoughts of pain for her, everything has a verse a waltz at each step a flimsy variety of beauty that...
always seem happy and dandy
and talk of love and romance
a riven smile on the face
to hide thoughts of pain
for her, everything has a verse
a waltz at each step
a flimsy variety of beauty
that melts after rehearse
huge hipster glasses
coffee without any taste
a window facing concrete
is now hummingbirds enlaced
and when she sings all her love
I am always in disbelief
cause when someone shouts too much
I sense a hooded grief2 votes
You were smart and pretty and praised every word I said Responded to my commands like a very well-trained basset You gave me food, shelter, affection in bed, you did as I pleased and such strong...
You were smart and pretty
and praised every word I said
Responded to my commands
like a very well-trained basset
You gave me food, shelter, affection
in bed, you did as I pleased
and such strong devotion
was hard for me to receive
Cause how could I trust someone
who clearly and truly loves me?6 votes
In this grass where we sit, I saw many full moons lit Kissed them shivering in the wind, felt like solution, formed decision, ultimate end But the frenzy always fades, pretty mirage in the haze...
In this grass where we sit,
I saw many full moons lit
Kissed them shivering in the wind,
felt like solution, formed decision, ultimate end
But the frenzy always fades,
pretty mirage in the haze
I just met you yesterday
And once again tremble my veins4 votes
When I was young, I went into the ocean with my older cousin. He lived near the beach, while I merely knew how to swim. We went to the deep to catch some higher waves using our bodies (in Bahia we...
When I was young, I went into the ocean with my older cousin. He lived near the beach, while I merely knew how to swim.
We went to the deep to catch some higher waves using our bodies (in Bahia we call this "pegar jacaré", or "catch the alligator").
When we got there, the wind stopped and the stream started pulling us away from the land. After a while, I was very scared and started swimming with all my strength in the opposite direction. But my efforts were much weaker than the stream, so I remained in the same position.
Then my cousin told me: "@mrbig, stop swimming otherwise you'll get tired and drown. Wait for the wave to come. Only swim when it arrives."
And so I did. Minutes later came the wave. I swam. And then another, and another after that. Little by little, by saving our energies and acting at the right times, we arrived at the shore.
And that is the story.18 votes
This screenplay is based on a short story I published on Tildes some time ago. If you prefer, you can download the PDF here. YOLK by mrbig Until told otherwise: BLACK AND WHITE. SLOW MOTION. SLOW...
This screenplay is based on a short story I published on Tildes some time ago. If you prefer, you can download the PDF here.
YOLK by mrbig Until told otherwise: BLACK AND WHITE. SLOW MOTION. SLOW AND BEAUTIFUL OPERA MUSIC INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT KITCHEN HAND grabs the egg carton on the fridge. JAMES is 30, thin and shirtless. Smells the eggs one by one. Stops. Smiles. Water gushes from the faucet, foaming abundantly as it goes down the drain. BEDROOM On the wall behind the bed, a painting of two lovers with their heads individually wrapped in sheets. They kiss, but they're mouths do not touch. ALICE, 30, dark hair, black silk nightdress, sleeps. SOUND OF SOMETHING BEING FRIED. She wakes up. KITCHEN James breaks the eggshell, getting his hand dirty. Licks his fingers. Behind him, Alice is watching. Gently throws the egg in the frying pan. THE EGG SIZZLING James sprinkles salt and pepper. Manipulates the frying pan with skill, throws the egg up in the air and catches it in a precise and continuous movement. Extinguish the fire and look back to see COLOR. NORMAL SPEED. OPERA MUSIC STOPS. Alice with the eyes fixed on the stove. ALICE Look. Points at the egg. JAMES What? ALICE Can't you see? JAMES Has it gone bad? She takes a deep breath. ALICE I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm. Can you see how the yolk is soft yet whole, with a small cut in the lower portion slowly leaking a yellow thread at a regular pace? JAMES Yes... ALICE Don’t you get it? JAMES No. ALICE When the yolk leaks like that, it can only mean two things. She hesitates. ALICE You’re either going to murder me... JAMES What you’re talking about? ALICE Or you’ll get a Ph.D. in Physics. JAMES You’re kidding, right? ALICE Nope. HIS EYES HER EYES ALICE The egg doesn't lie. He sits by the table. JAMES I could just choke you. She sits near him, smiling. Leads James' hands to her own neck, and make him hold it. JAMES That's easier. He caress Alice's neck. JAMES I never thought about that before, but maybe, precisely because I love you, precisely because I want you, maybe I should exterminate you. Retracts his hands. JAMES Or maybe I don't love you enough. ALICE The egg... JAMES I know, it doesn't lie. Then why are you still here? ALICE Makes no difference. He stands up and looks at the egg on the stove. Cleans his throat. JAMES Honey? ALICE Yeah, babe. He opens a drawer and pauses for a second. Closes. JAMES I’m terrible at physics. James holds a butcher's knife with a confused expression on his face. OPERA MUSIC RETURNS THE END6 votes
In a time of ancient legends, Androcles was a runaway slave. He took shelter in a cave where a wounded Lion lived. By removing a thorn from his paw Androcles cured the beast; The Lion was very...
In a time of ancient legends, Androcles was a runaway slave.
He took shelter in a cave where a wounded Lion lived.
By removing a thorn from his paw Androcles cured the beast; The Lion was very pleased.
And then The Lion ate Androcles because he was a fucking lion.5 votes
I cannot defend my lack of years my lack of tears my lack of guilt I will always regret the tears and sweat that I've put upon your face For it is a disgrace the things I've done the thoughts I've...
I cannot defend my lack of years my lack of tears my lack of guilt I will always regret the tears and sweat that I've put upon your face For it is a disgrace the things I've done the thoughts I've thunk the things I've done to you When I killed that man in the cabbage patch at half-past 3 am When I killed that man that I knew you loved that I, too, loved that I knew was marked for greatness When I killed that man with a knife to the heart with a mind full of rage with a mind ablaze with many a myriad thought I could almost say it was jealousy (i know that I cannot) I could almost say it was hatred or spite (but i know that I cannot) I could even say it was impulse to slay that man who I knew and who knew not what he wrought (but still this thing that i want to say-- i know but one thing: say it, I cannot) For it was not calculated nor can I say that I hated that man, though I often berated him for things that control them? He could not. For the reason that I did all these things that I did was simple in the extreme was harder to digest than powdered ice cream And even I could give you a ream of paper to show the things I did of paper to show you these things that I did of paper on which to pour out my sin of paper, cathartic, explaining my doing of paper, incredible, pure white and blank, and innocent, available, asking me to taint it An I could give you a billion words to explain all the pain which I caused I could give you only two NO REASON.8 votes
Ask not for whom the cradle weeps; it weeps for you. O sly kitten, O accursèd cat, cry, cry for the weft and the warp of the world; cry, cry for the sin and the sorrow and suffering; cry, cry on...
Ask not for whom the cradle weeps; it weeps for you. O sly kitten, O accursèd cat, cry, cry for the weft and the warp of the world; cry, cry for the sin and the sorrow and suffering; cry, cry on the bloodshed, but more on the tears; cry, cry for divisions, and ill-wrought connections; cry, cry for the laughter, so far out of reach; cry. And in crying find solace; peace——rhythm——be still. cry and cry——cry for the widows and widowers, woven together forever, by weeping and painless heart-let. But your pain is not theirs. For, though burdened with truth, you will never be cut by the serrated and blunted edge of polite fiction. Enough! When the cat's in the cradle, the mice will play, And I hope that they fly far——far-far away. But the tears of the kitten forever abide, and someday they'll catch you. will you take it in stride?11 votes
What is a logline?: a brief summary (25 to 40 words) of a story for film, television or book that states the central conflict and an emotional "hook", with the purpose of stimulating interest...
What is a logline?: a brief summary (25 to 40 words) of a story for film, television or book that states the central conflict and an emotional "hook", with the purpose of stimulating interest (Wikipedia).
A logline is evaluated not exactly for what a story is (since it does not contain a complete story), but for what it can be. Suggestions usually seek to maximize the dramatic potential of the idea.
Title: Endless Night (feature-film, drama).
Logline (27 words): Death has until dawn to ensure his very survival by splitting a couple whose determination in preserving their toxic relationship threatens to shred the fabric of time.4 votes
I make no promises for quality, I'm really just pushing what can be done with a Pixel 3XL cell phone camera, access to Adobe Lightroom, and a surprisingly gorgeous foggy day. This ties into the...
I make no promises for quality, I'm really just pushing what can be done with a Pixel 3XL cell phone camera, access to Adobe Lightroom, and a surprisingly gorgeous foggy day. This ties into the "No-Money Fun Ideas" thread.
These images have been lightly edited towards what my eyes saw - most camera sensors would have trouble with color accuracy under the conditions these shots were taken.
Please feel free to criticize and inform me on what I could do better.
These photographs are published for your enjoyment under the Creative Commons Share-Alike license.20 votes
The lovely people of a Discord server I'm in recently made me remember that, a couple years back in late 2014, I did some digital art in Photoshop (I might also add some of these to this topic if...
The lovely people of a Discord server I'm in recently made me remember that, a couple years back in late 2014, I did some digital art in Photoshop (I might also add some of these to this topic if wanted). However, I run Linux exclusively now and I'm too lazy to figure out how to get Photoshop to work on it, so I figured I'd just try the next best thing and see if that can't do what I want. And sure enough it can.
The images below were all created with GIMP, using only its built-in default stuff. No scripts, plugins, images from the internet or other custom anything, just the tools it installs with. Some images have multiple variations, this is because I would be working on something and I'd find an interesting enough image to save in the process.
Edit: I've since made a website with all the ones I've made (more than a dozen) to host them more easily:
I lie awake Your smell lingers on my hand Bringing quiet contentment While you sleep6 votes
Her eyes are fixed on the cooker. — Look. Points at the egg. — What? — Can’t you see? — Has it gone bad? She takes a deep breath. — I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm....
Her eyes are fixed on the cooker.
Points at the egg.
— Can’t you see?
— Has it gone bad?
She takes a deep breath.
— I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm. Can you see how the yolk is soft yet whole, with a small cut in the lower portion slowly leaking a yellow thread at a regular pace?
— Don’t you get it?
— When the yolk leaks like that, it can only mean two things.
— You’re either going to murder me...
— What you’re talking about?
— Or you’ll get a Ph.D. in Physics in 2035.
— You’re kidding, right?
— You saw all that? On a fucking egg?
— I knew you wouldn’t understand...
— You were right.
A second goes by. He cleans his throat, kinda embarrassed.
— Yeah, babe.
— I’m terrible at physics.
He holds a knife with a confused expression on his face.13 votes
1:45 A M Two divided Lonely bed, lonely couch Emotional drainage leaks Seeps into sub floors Foul and sickly Sticky and putrid Fuck me13 votes
I'm not quite like you A few words and that's it The façade fades Crumbles The carefully constructed mood dies Coping mechanisms defeated The castle is compromised A strong exterior only goes so...
I'm not quite like you A few words and that's it The façade fades Crumbles The carefully constructed mood dies Coping mechanisms defeated The castle is compromised A strong exterior only goes so far Each word pulls stones from the foundation Fragile walls, fragile heart I retreat to my secret home Away from the swords and arrows and fire No one can reach me here Safe and quiet and in control Equally secure, equally secluded19 votes
Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise! the water laps at the dam seeking egress, seeking progress everyone inside so thirsty life affirming...
Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise!
the water laps at the dam seeking egress, seeking progress everyone inside so thirsty life affirming liquid but the dam the wall we built to keep ourselves safe our salvation our condemnation seemed a good idea at the time but all our other crimes against ourselves did too how are we so smart yet so stupid it hurts it fucking hurts life without love may as well be an empty gift on Christmas morning but we all do it to ourselves every day so many boundaries and rules and norms all because we’re too afraid to get hurt too afraid to be ourselves too afraid to realize ourselves too afraid to give one another the best gift we can12 votes
I’m sorry but I can’t today I want to but I can’t It’s not my fault but I’m guilty anyway I’m not understood but I’m pressured anyway I yearn to create, to do but I just stay in bed I want to live...
I’m sorry but I can’t today I want to but I can’t It’s not my fault but I’m guilty anyway I’m not understood but I’m pressured anyway I yearn to create, to do but I just stay in bed I want to live but I’m too hurt13 votes
Please note, I am no writer of any kind. For some inexplicable reason I just had the desire to give it a go today. I hope someone out there finds some enjoyment in it. After David left I decided...
Please note, I am no writer of any kind. For some inexplicable reason I just had the desire to give it a go today. I hope someone out there finds some enjoyment in it.
After David left I decided I'd better make good on my promise and find a new place to live. The woman from the council said there might be a temporary property available. That someone had recently died at the retirement village outside of Holyhead.
When I finished at school on Friday, I went to David's and gathered up what I thought was mine. As it turns out, almost everything was his. It wasn't long after we'd met that I moved in. It was gradual though. Bits and pieces brought over from mom's in bin bags tucked under the bus seats they save for people and their buggies. As the months rolled on there was less and less at mom's. I'd still visit on a Sunday for lunch but that was about it.
I had this porcelain clock on the mantle at David's, two corgis sat either side of the clock face. David hated it. He had a thing for minimalist art and would order fake prints online. He liked Robert Ryman a lot. He thought my clock threw everything off. He'd often tell me how important it was to appreciate art but what he liked left me cold. I wrapped the clock in newspaper and tossed it into my backpack. I took a last look at the living room. It was something new now.
When I got to the village it was raining. Cold droplets cascading down my jacket. I alternated hands, dropping each bin bag to the ground to rub the speckles from my glasses. In front of the bus stop there was a pathway that led to the complex, flanked on either side by imitation grass astro turf. Beyond that, two identical adjacent blocks. Rows stacked on top of one another like lego bricks.
The woman at the council told me it was flat 2b, "the last flat on the ground floor". I searched for the receipt I'd scribbled the details on to check if I'd remembered it right. I hauled my bags over my shoulder and ran underneath the closest awning. I stared up at the sign fixed to the brick. 1a. I can wait here until the rain dies down, I thought.
From across the yard a woman was sitting in a wheel chair, a mask attached to her face. An enormous tube jutting out from her mouth connected to a canister strapped to the side of her chair. She stared in my direction and didn't move. She's sitting next to 2b, she might be my neighbour, I thought. As the rain died down I walked over towards her. As I approached, I wasn't sure if she was going to take the mask off or not. What's wrong with her, I thought? "Hi, I'm Kate". I extended my hand and wondered if she could move her arms. She didn't reach back. "Mad weather isn't it?". She continued to stare. "I'm only staying for a month or so, I need my own place for a minute and it's all I could get you know? Not that I'm not grateful or anything". She continued to stare. "Ok, well, it was nice meeting you". I took out my key, opened the door and stood alone in the hallway.
David and I usually ate together on Saturday mornings. He'd wake up later than I did and wander about the place yawning. He'd often glorify his exhaustion to me. Some invisible accomplishment he'd been gaining interest on since leaving uni.
There wasn't a kettle in the new kitchen, but there was an electric hob. I poured water over the tea bag, into my cup and peered through the net curtains. The rain had settled and I could see the opposite house and the whole complex in the daylight now, some strange vortex, wholly enclosed. A village of it's own making.
I put on my old slippers, took my cup and stepped out onto the concrete walkway. The woman from yesterday wasn't around now. I thought about knocking but decided against it. Either she couldn't talk or has seen so many people come and go, she doesn't go in for platitudes anymore. Pacing, I caught a glimpse of her kitchen. Pink lino on the floor, almost nothing out on the worktops. It looked unoccupied. I moved back to my half of the walkway and perched on the step to finish my tea. I should get started sorting what I have before Sunday rolls around, I thought. As I got up, I heard my neighbour careen around the corner, up over the astro turf and onto the walkway. She stopped before her door, I nodded and smiled. This time she nodded back in my direction. She then raised her hand and jostled the toggle on the arm rest. Her chair moved closer towards me. She raised her eyes to meet mine and looked back at my hands. She did this a second time. "I'm sorry, I don't understand". She repeated this a third time. I mumbled something and she reached out and opened up my right hand. She surveyed my palm, in all of its detail, looked back up at me and nodded again. "Sorry, can I help with something?". She shook her head, reversed and rolled up the ramp back into her flat.
On Sunday morning I started sorting through the rest of the papers I threw into my bag at David's. Bank statements, a few receipts, junk mail. In amongst them I found a cinema ticket I'd kept from when we started dating. He asked me to go to see the first Terminator, "on the original reel", he said. I didn't much want to go and don't like violent films but thought it'd be a good excuse to get to know one another. We got pretty swept away with each other after that.
I sorted through the rest hoping I'd find something else, but there was nothing. I stacked the ordered papers on the ground and went outside for a break. There wasn't anybody out, like the day before. After some time my neighbour's door opened. I stood up and checked to see if she needed any help. I found her raising her eyes to her forehead, motioning backwards. "Do you need some help?", she shook her head and motioned backwards with her eyes for a second time. She reversed the chair and gestured for me to come in. I stepped inside. She manoeuvred her wheelchair into the kitchen and positioned herself next to the dining room table. There was a chair opposite to her, so I sat too. "Is everything ok?", I asked. She nodded. "I hope you don't mind me asking, are you able to speak?". She stared at me and shook her head. After a few seconds passed she pointed to a badge on her cardigan. On a yellow background, in all black caps it read, "JANE". "I'm Kate, nice to meet you Jane". This time she extended her arm and we shook hands. "How long have you been here Jane?". She nodded 5 times. "Ah ok, and how do you like it? Do you have family that visit?". She shook her head. "Do you mind me asking, what's wrong with you? Shit sorry, umm, not like that, I mean, umm, are you sick?". She paused for a moment and nodded. She then reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a deck of cards.
I don't know anything about Tarot, other than what you see on T.V but I'm not a superstitious like that. She laid the cards on the table in front of me, either nodding or shaking her head as she passed each of them one by one. The last card in the row showed a stone tower. She looked down, paused, raised her head, but this time, looked right past me. Dust cascaded through the shards of light piercing through the window. Jane starred into it for what felt like a whole minute. Watching the particles dance before her I asked, "Are you ok Jane?", she shook her head. "Is there something I can do?", she shook her ahead again. "I had better be going Jane, I meet my mom on a Sunday for lunch, please let me know if there's anything I can help with, OK? As I said yesterday, I won't be staying too long, but while I'm here, feel free to knock on". She nodded her head. I let myself out and left, the cards still strewn about the table.
I didn't see Jane much after that afternoon and things went on as normal. David called and we hashed things out over the phone but we'd petered out long before that. The council explained I couldn't stay on at the village for another month so I moved back with mom. After a few weeks passed, one evening after work, I opened up my laptop and searched online for "Jane Tarot". Tons of results came up but only one from Holyhead. A local newspaper article with a headline that read, "LOCAL LADY FORESAW DIAGNOSIS". "I knew what was going to happen to me, the fibrosis I mean. The cards speak and I accept, I give myself up to that". I closed my laptop and looked outside into mom's garden. I thought about the tower card and how people do all sorts of things to justify their own lives, to deal with their own grief and make sense of things.
Mom plants Floribunda's every year and they're starting to bloom now. My phone rings. I offer to cover a shift for a new temp at work. I put on my jacket, walk outside and think about Jane.13 votes
Put your head over here and cry all the yearning away cause thinking will bring you nothing just thoughts and yet more pain Sleep, sleep my child breath slowly that way cause here there is no more...
Put your head over here
and cry all the yearning away
cause thinking will bring you nothing
just thoughts and yet more pain
Sleep, sleep my child
breath slowly that way
cause here there is no more strain
under my loving gaze
In your cotton candy dreams
you embrace with such strength
a cloud above in the sky
sleep, honey, yes, sleep
cause here you're free from time
And there I am on this dream
the mark of a want, of a wish
a trace drawn in the sky
don't know if I'm the one dreaming
or if I am been dreamed about
encosta a cabeça aqui
e chora a saudade toda
que pensar não leva nada
só mais pensar e dor ainda
dorme seu sono infante
respira assim devagar
que aqui não vai sofrer
debaixo de meu olhar
em teu sonho de algodão doce
não sei do quê dá risada
e abraça com tanta força
uma nuvem no céu alçada
dorme, meu bem, dorme sim
que aqui o tempo não passa
E nesse sonho estou lá
A marca de uma vontade
Um traço no céu projetado
Não sei se sou eu que sonho
Ou se eu é quem sou sonhado7 votes
So many wants that never were But that were mine nevertheless In the joy of many maybes Slow evening Time is cursed, it goes The body is alive and weary And stuck in hour a soul — immense...
So many wants that never were
But that were mine nevertheless
In the joy of many maybes
Time is cursed, it goes
The body is alive and weary
And stuck in hour a soul — immense
Nostalgia das 5 Horas
Tanto querer que nunca foi
Mas era meu ainda assim
Na alegria do talvez
A tarde lenta
O tempo é maldito e passa
Ainda vivo o corpo cansa
E presa na hora a alma - imensa7 votes
Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end a phrase with no reticences a shadow lost in the gaze A question you have not made a plot not yet heard a night with no resolution be calm, the sun is...
Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end
a phrase with no reticences
a shadow lost in the gaze
A question you have not made
a plot not yet heard
a night with no resolution
be calm, the sun is not late
vi em você um traço
um gesto sem fim colocado
vi frase vi reticência
suspiro pela metade
e olhar desencontrado
da pergunta ainda não dita
sequer pinçada talvez
da trama'inda inaudita
que a noite não tarda ou finda
mas calma que o sol já vem6 votes
Glowing friend, your light has given me everything I know. To run you require a sacrifice I click open my knife forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo, the heart necklace of an...
Glowing friend, your light
has given me
everything I know.
To run you require
I click open my knife
forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo,
the heart necklace of an immature love
and the compass
with the atomic symbol.
With the blade I
to draw sand
from the glass
long left unflipped.
It slides along your surface
and is gone.7 votes
lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass lost feelings like love leaving a full heart lost purpose like a crusader without a cause all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated an evil...
lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass lost feelings like love leaving a full heart lost purpose like a crusader without a cause all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated an evil I never invited, never wanted it's not my fault, not my goal innocent yet guilty convicted more like cursed their hatred is my destiny never get back what was lost never recover who I could, maybe should, have been robbed of a life, of a happy, normal life I can't even hate them for it can't even have that comfort I'd be just as bad, repeat the cycle almost sympathetic only path, only cure, is love creamy center of a cyanide pill9 votes
This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying. it shines and blazes such light and warmth...
This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying.
it shines and blazes such light and warmth stories told round the hearth cold nights kept a safe distance away beauty in chaotic dancing patterns it promises everything all at once no regard for consequences or the future just passion in the moment no foresight, only enthralling abandon its wake is ash empty, cold, dead no energy never burn again it destroys what it loves what it needs not because it wants to because it is destruction guised as passion8 votes
I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is...
I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is an attempt at expressing that difficulty.
Down in the foothills the peak is so perfect Covered in pure white snow Nary a tree in sight The peak carves a visage in the sky In the clouds It just is, it exists peacefully in its austere authority Calm, serene Impossible Yet I yearn to climb To ascend Down in the foothills among the trees The greenof the hills I make my preparations Breath Training Gear I practiceand I meditate I meditate upona life A life of mistakes and triumphs Each breath preparing and steeling It's time to begin my climb Each step and the air, the precious vital air, thins Lungs emptying and muscles weakening And yet I continue Not quite undaunted, but I continue The views are stunning Yet I don't see them, eyes ever on the peak Visualizing success, not the process It's so cold Bitterly, viscerally cold There's no air Even a yogi must stop for air But there's no air The ground slick with snow and ice Snow and ice with the oxygen I need Sealed away in the mystery of the bonds Just as beautiful as it is inaccessible But I continue my climb Slipping and falling, the rocks cut and score Gashes and bruises amass I take a moment and reflect Is it worth it? Shall I ever ascend? And as I slip into meditation, I slip down the mountain All progress lost The world turns around, up and down I lose my breath And land, dizzy and hurt, down the bottom Even further from the peak than when I started.11 votes
Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more...
Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more generally. I've never not lived in a city after moving out of my parents' place, and can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Cities are my home, cities are where I belong. I don't think this one is finished, yet; there are a few rough spots, and I'm not sure about the ending. But, like people have said in a few of the timasomo threads, the important thing is to get the words out, to make the work exist outside of one's head.
the city is awake, alive lights dance in the dark of night little lifesigns, each a past and present each a history and a story not yet told subways and busses and ubers the occasional oblivious cabbie (cancer on the streets) each moving people to their goals their dreams veins and arteries in the city's body lights for seeing superstructure in steel and glass inspiration aspiration and ambition passion and drive these power the pulse and the breath each person, each cell shapes and grows the city, the body each experience shapes epigenetics no place the same after the city takes us all in gives us homes maybe not shelter, but homes we are alive and so is our home an energy ineffable yet indelible
edit: A friend has said that this reminds her of the opening of Murakami's After Dark, and I can absolutely see it. Perhaps a bit of subconscious inspiration?6 votes
This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I...
This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I explore yoga more deeply as part of my teacher training program. There's clear inspiration from Whitman's O Me! O Life!, but the message is very modern.
That the powerful play goes on and you will contribute a verse Why not let the verse be love? It used to be so easy, so easy, just a simple choice Choose love All the conflicts of today and every other time Not enough love For one another For ourselves Not enough love All the religions and faiths of the world All our enlightened leaders All taught love The play used to be about love So many acts ago Only a few moments ago Seems like forever Seems we’ve forgotten the lines But no one to remind us what they are And we don’t get a rehearsal We get one grand opening day One somber closing night No matinee No encore Why choose any other verse but love? Love makes everything else possible Makes everything else worthwhile Everything else builds on love That the powerful play goes on and you may choose a verse Choose love.
note: Posted this with the wrong title first, so deleted and reposted.7 votes
hi I'm here right here I'm on the edge of something big I'm on the edge of something new edge of a cliff--should I step forward? edge of my bed--should I step forward? which side? I'm on the edge...
hi I'm here right here I'm on the edge of something big I'm on the edge of something new edge of a cliff--should I step forward? edge of my bed--should I step forward? which side? I'm on the edge of my seat I'm edgy lost my feet they went down the cliff can't walk it's like I'm paralyzed the words, they swim before my eyes my eyes are swimming I can't swim stuck stuck here can't move at least I can't step off a cliff but what does it matter if I can't step out of bed12 votes
My phone sits, as I, in silence In my room – alone. I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy To dig into my bones. When I was younger I was told that One day God would call me home. Instead the...
My phone sits, as I, in silence
In my room – alone.
I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy
To dig into my bones.
When I was younger I was told that
One day God would call me home.
Instead the coffin calls my name in whispers
And beckons the unknown.
Why do I feed a body with a
Soul that keeps depleting?
When all my hopes and expectations come up
Short and keep receding – I
Start alternating between plotting,
That I’ll make a rash decision, they’ll
Give my organs to the needy.
Perhaps I’ll drive a stake into my head and chest.
No one should endure this mind or heart.
Meditation never seemed to give much value,
All the medication felt a farce.
I’m an incongruent, uncompleted puzzle
Dangling from a bridge; falling apart.
I watch my pieces sink below into the water,
As this letter dances all about the hearth.
I carried out important shit in boxes;
Let the rest behind to be thrown away.
I hid and watched as they threw in the dumpster,
A bed now wrought with chocolate and decay.
As the memories flashed in to my brain,
Of how we chose to spend that final day.
(Of how) even on the best day of the end of my life,
I ended up naked, chocolate-covered, curled up on your chest and crying,
Begging you to stay.
The devil is a myth they tell believers;
Hell prevents their chasing earthly dreams.
I will not go to Heaven, and there is no Great Receiver
Who will comfort me and silence my screams.
There is no purgatory in the ether;
The earth is this one act’s final scene.
Fittingly, the water isn’t beautiful here either.
It’s choppy, warm, and a putrid shade of green.
Someone use my hands to write a sonnet.
Someone use my eyes to see a better day.
Someone use my legs to climb a mountain;
Use my tongue to find the words to say.
They’ll use my lungs to feel the oxygen.
Use my kidney when theirs is in decay.
They’ll use my heart to feel in love again.
I’ll rest easier that way.10 votes
A free form poem. You sing the devotion song and your people drink from your font of well-meant falsehoods. They sway in the breeze, roses ripe for cutting, so you reap. And I deal with it. Brain...
A free form poem.
You sing the devotion song and
your people drink from your font
of well-meant falsehoods.
They sway in the breeze,
roses ripe for cutting,
so you reap. And I deal with it.
Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
that I'm not enough.
I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
"Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
And I deal with it.
The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
Heads shake and hands pray,
repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
And I deal with it.
The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
Our future dances and plays in the light.
We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
And I deal with it.
Dark nights, dark thoughts
in front of a washroom mirror.
Lightning thunders, they come and go.
Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
And I deal with it.7 votes
This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as...
This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as flash fiction, I think it works well enough. I hope you enjoy!
She was three floors from the bottom of the sunken tower when the crying first reached her. A quick swipe earned her a pair from the rack nearby and she continued her descent.
With the aid of technology this process had been streamlined and systematized such that these checks were only needed once a month, but everyone dreaded them. She had drawn the short straw this time and, though it had been years since last she’d ventured to The Lab, she still remembered her last haunting experience. It wasn’t that she was a dissenter or rebelled against that which needed to be done. This was a necessary evil to save their species, but she was still a human being. Seeing them all like that, all tubes and tapes running from frail flesh, was enough to turn any stomach.
A pair of heavy iron doors sat ominously in her way as she bottomed out. She could see the white, crisp interior of The Lab beyond and pushed forward, swallowing her hesitance as best she could.
Before her lay a large room with clean white tile, walls and harsh, flourescent light. It smelled and looked like a hospital because that’s exactly what it was. 10 rows and columns of small, clear, plastic boxes stretched between her and the far wall. The muffs were doing their job exceedingly well, but she could still hear the awful racket bouncing around her memory. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started working.
Her primary duty was to make sure the machines were functioning correctly, mostly the arm that glided to and fro above the boxes, administering medicine or changing bags of various fluids as need be. She would also be checking the tubes for clogs that may have been missed by any old or worn out sensors; this was the part she dreaded the most. She flipped the lid on the nearest box and checked the left, then the right, and lastly the tube running into its belly button, and closed the box quickly.
It couldn’t have taken her more than 5 seconds but that short time was enough for the anguished face to plaster itself onto her mind. Everyone does their part, she reminded herself, from the start to the end. It didn’t serve a purpose to bemoan that which she could not change. She moved on to the next crib, hoping this would go by faster than she expected.
Halfway through her checks she hit a snag. There was a clog in Crib 54. She could register the fault in the system and it would fix it on its next hourly cycle, as were her orders, but it was such a small clog. The tube simply needed to be changed, and as a nurse she was well-versed in the procedure. In that moment it was decided.
The tubes themselves were specially designed to be thin and flexible, but rigid enough to fit the shape of a tear duct. Her first task, after finding a pair of gloves, was to gently remove the tube currently in the eye. She hovered over the crib and gently pulled the tube out of the right tear duct. It came slowly, millimeter by millimeter, each bit covered in more goop and mucus than the last. It wound its way up into the sinuses which meant, by the end of it, she had pulled at least five inches of tubing. This she discarded.
Next she had to insert the new tube (these were kept in abundance in a draw underneath the crib). She grabbed one, snipped it to length with a pair of scissors hanging from the IV stand, and took a moment to recent herself. Inserting the tube while the child was crying would be much more difficult than removing it.
As gently as she could she reached down and, with her index finger and thumb, pried open the eye of the little one. With one came the other, the muscles young and unwilling to work independently, and she found herself staring into a pair of brilliant green pools. Her heart melted and, for the briefest moment, she thought of taking it. She could smuggle it out. The bed being empty would trip the system but she could clear the error and explain it away somehow. But no, that was silly. This wasn’t a decision for her to make; things were done this way because there was no other choice.
She pushed the tip of the tube into the tear duct confidently, shoving the traitorous thoughts from her mind as the child’s cries were renewed with pain. She was here to do a job, cold and emotionless. It wasn’t her place to question the way things were done. The tube went in without a hitch and the child’s eyes snapped closed again once she released them. The little bundle of agony before her squirmed and she saw the tears begin to flow anew. With swift, definite movement she closed and latched the lid.
The rest of her checks went smoothly, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that now ran rampant in her gut. She hated Lab duty, and she expected that would always be the way. With a heavy heart she signed the documents needed to record her visit, noted the tube change in the work log, and left The Lab through its heavy iron doors. The trip upstairs would be long and tiring, but at least she could try and forget ever having been here.12 votes