[x]

A Love Story in Four Actsi.
     I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.
ii.
     Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."
iii.
     Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.
v.
      My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.

pyrite girlNote: Pretty please listen to the audio version for the full effect.
you noticed things
little things that came sneaking slyly in
smiling crooked like good children
with bad deeds freshly done.
of course you loved her all the same,
your little lighthouse among the tendrils of east coast fog
she tasted like mineral water
concrete
new pennies
and you lived in soft, sweet depression
intertwined
gazing out at a broken world from a tenth-story window
and breathing in the cigarette smoke.
your little pyrite girl
bright eyed and dark mouthed
a tiny dirty moon, dragged through the gray city snowmelt
and left to dry in the glare of rooftop suns
"who would live here?"--
musings from the tenth floor
and you knew the answer.
broken cities feed on broken souls
and even they need angels.

the song of a roamerAnd darling, I've been gone for a long, long time. Your eyes
are still that steely gunpowder blue, but your hair has grown long,
and there's a softer curve to your waist
and freckles on your shoulder I don't remember,
and I think,
God.
What have I missed?
You tell me about the weddings
the divorces. You tell me
about the babies
and the losses, and how last year
your dog died--easy, in his sleep--
and there is a hollow lack in you,
a space reserved for things that won't come back.
Long ago, was there a space like that
for me?
When did it collapse--when did it
fold in on itself
under the weight of things that matter more?
I tell you about Cambodia. I paint
the jungles for you, breathe the crushing wet heat
of it into your lungs. I tell you
about the kids in Africa
and how the heat is different there--
belligerent and fierce.
I tell you how much you would have liked Barbados,
and how much you would have hated Rome.
And I remember all the things I
can't tell you--all the things I don't hav

SmokeYou smoked, and everyone hated that. The cigarette would hang loose between your knuckles, tendrils of smoke mimicking the tracery of veins and tendons that stood out along the back of your hand. You could do the most graceful French inhales, and sometimes you'd lean in close and grab me and kiss me, blowing warm smoke into my mouth. The scent would always cling to me—I'd drag it back home with me and there would always be a fight over it.

You were sparrowlike, all taut pale skin and prominent bones. Your hipbones jutted slightly—sharp elbows, sharp knees, a sharp jaw softened by cornsilk hair. When I ran my fingers down your back

ravingsthe salt in the cellar's gone sour, you see
     but the skeletons don't give a damn
and the lighthouse is choked with the dust and the sea
     for the wick keeper's gone on the lam
and the garden is thick with the souls and decay
     and I doubt I'll be here very long
for the floodtides will rise at the close of the day
     when the nightingale's snapped up his song.

all that hasn't happenedPretty please listen to the audio.
i want to remember
the rumbling piano baritones
high notes like hailstones--your hands
running soundless scales.
i want the summer seas
november tides
the vineyard overlook, the olive
trees and sunwarmed coasts.
remember
we filled the empty pages
with whole notes and halftones,
oceans and lovesongs.
we lived, we live
inkstained and drowning
through nights thick with words
and days shot with sound.

transientthe gods fell, and the world with them,
titanic Titanic,
and to dust returned, all--
crumbling
creaking
sandstorming
metallic warbles of radio static proclaiming
this is the end
this is the end
and long before it all ceased to exist
(Titanic titanic)
the slate had been wiped clean
and the end of it all
forgotten

ChloeChloe was born in the pouring rain and blinding dark, under a thunderstorm that cut power to five counties and lingered for days. Her first memories were damp and earthy and fresh--watercolor paintings of wildflower fields, thunderheads, and pale yellow dawns.
She grew up with summers swimming in lurid heat and trembling cicada calls; in winters soft with snowfall and tree limbs upraised to the icy light. She was a tiny sun in herself, glowing effortlessly. Plants reached up to her, swayed with her voice. Given enough space and enough time, her hands could have delved into the earth and come back up trailing with trees and vines, with berries falling from her fingertips and thick pale roots curled around her wrists.
I met Chloe in the middle of one electric summer, when the heat was aggressively breathtaking and I had to continuously swipe sweat from my eyelashes. Chloe was a breath of undying spring--cool to the touch. She tasted like almonds and cinnamon and clean, wet dirt, and like

mothsthey tell me I'll never make a catch
[a catch--whatever the hell
that means]
with the tongue I've got and its tendencies and
the tastes it's partial to
but really
since when have they ever known a thing about me?
the drinking's just an excuse
it's always been
a way to let them down easy when they wonder about
the types of human moths my cigarette attracts
and I just don't have the heart to level with them
tell them that those human moths happen to be my preferred company
even with all their imperfections
and rough edges like knives gone too long without sharpening
not sterile scalpels sorted in wolfish order
for the display case.
and I've always had a sailor's lexicon
but listen
there are some kinds of beautiful that can only be expressed in expletives
because they go down like whiskey and light you up
from the inside out
and damned if you can keep a polite tongue in the middle of that kind of onslaught.

Indestructible"I am a fortress," he drawls nonchalantly. "Right now, I have two firearms, a hunting knife, a switchblade, a smoke bomb, a pair of brass knuckles, a flashlight, duct tape, and a lighter concealed on me." He smirks. "Indestructible."

Too close to the scaffolding above, the Indestructible Fortress is summarily decked by a falling hammer.

noise(this place is packed.)
we were the kings of soulless
screaming beasts
we
played to soothe their tattered nerves
untaped so many larynxes
we were snakecharmers
and liars
both.
(with echoes.)
we broke their ribs to
pieces and stitched them tenderly
back up
with kisses and apologies
whispered promises that everything
would heal and the scars
would never show
and did it again every night.
(and ghosts.)
and they've
all left now
nomads to the core
chasing
     some
          other
               high.

Moon Eye Fire Eye     Sit
he says to me, and I sit and feel very small.

     Let me tell you,
he says to me,
     how it happened.

     The creek dried up that summer and
     the crops gave their last shiver
     and bent down to the earth. And at night
     you could hear the leaves crawling down the creekbed
     like goddamn spiders along the rocks.

His face is half winter
pale and sparked with a milky eye like a moon
and half raw summer, twisted

ShayI open the door and the apartment is dark and musty cold--that antiseptic not-lived-in kind cold. "Shay." I fumble for the light switch, then hang my keys on the hook with practiced finality. Door locked, backpack dropped, and I'm in the living room. "Shay." Nothing.
There's piles of assorted belongings everywhere: books resting on crumpled sweaters--a belt and a plush toy--empty picture frames on dusty shoeboxes--glass jars full of colored oil. It forms a trail, sharp-cornered and lazy, to the bedroom at the back, and that's where I find you sleeping belly-down on the floor.
I should wake you up and make you dinner because I'm sure you forgot to fix yourself anything, but for a minute I lean on the doorjamb and look at you. Your shirt hiked up a little bit around your narrow waist to small to hold up all but the skinniest of skinny jeans. You're always been thin, almost dangerously so, without seeming to try. Your hair curls in tendrils all over your shoulders, down your back, across

let's start a fire“Can I get you anything?”
She shifts, splaying herself along his couch that is quietly becoming hers.
“Maybe.”
He smiles,
balancing
the empty glass on the back of his hand. “A drink?”
“Yes, please.” A luxuriant stretch. She watches his pupils drag all the way down the curve of her hip before continuing.
“I’d like a glass of Kafka—distilled, mixed with
dark rum and a splash of Dostoyevsky—poured
so sweetly down my throat and
chased with a lungful of smoky Fitzgerald.
The works.”
“I wasn’t aware this was a book club.” He pours a soda before joining her, taking
a biting sip in the half light.
“There are too many book clubs,” she says, hooking her legs over his.
“Too many streetcorner ladies and their lace-veiled
threats over coffee and New York Times bestsellers.”

She harbors a
particular
derision for New York Times bestsel

summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you?
i. summergirl,
you are crowthroated and tumbling
through the aspen grove
hair on fire with sunrise, lungs
full of sky.
eyelashes like wildflowers
and every morning brings
a new spray of freckles
and a sharper curve to your collarbones.
the cornfields hold no shadows
for your lighthouse eyes
and there are no endings in that
surefooted smile.
ii. you have grown
so fast.
autumn finds you with broken ankles
leaning on an oak branch
and watching the skies.
crow to sparrow--you are quiet.
summergirl, there is peace in silence,
perched treetop,
fallen antlers in your hands.
you will come to mourn your deer.
keep them close.
iii. by winter you have paled,
and like the streams
your eyes have frosted over.
you feel the chill--
there is no need for sight.
summergirl, th

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More from *disrhythmic

nightmarethe foxes are at your bedside and singing--
feversongs,
songs of boiling thoughts
and broken muscles.
their lullabyes.
they sneak so quiet, and
somehow,
you can't quite
dream
anymore.

with thanks to frosttwo roads diverged in a soulless dawn
and you pull over,
idling on the shoulder of route 50.
it's a polaroid morning and
the world is as grainy
and sleep-heavy
as your eyes,
and one million miles
is not far enough.
it plays back, filmstrip,
blurred along the length of
optic nerves,
and here you are:
facing a choice between
on
and
out.
and this?
this loosejointed, hollowbodied
weightless ache--
this is what
gone
feels like.

rapid eye movementi am jealous
of my birdwinged half-sister.
later, birdwinged reapers--black,
looming quiet in every doorway. they
followed me from my hemmed-in waking terror
to the free reign of my subconscious.
far better suited to their purposes.
thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, and
empty little boats tossed on emptier shores.
it rains, and the sea advances,
cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.
i don't know who. i don't know why i
care so much.
cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimes
i am afraid of heights, and sometimes
afraid for those who are not.
the skinny girl
with the long dark hair is
always worth dying for.
sex. i am in turn
bemused, and indifferent, and bored, and
frustrated, more often than anything.
i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,
right down to the cool wirecoat
and the warm fluff beneath,
and his immense
patience.
sometimes i wake up with misty
recollections and the overwhelming thought:
i wish it could be like this.
jungles with ancient

sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciples
thrum closer, closer--
seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,
and reflections,
and a landmark in the wide and open
dark.
we breathe,
together
(closer)--
moths among the fireflies.

dance party of oneever the same, rob thomas
there's a bonfire in the drum
of a washing machine by the lake and
bottles tied to trees with sparks
glancing off like so many
fireflies.
the a la menthe, nikkfurie
most
get lost among the cobblestone
rabbit warrens or
take to the sea but our road
is lit by midnight cameraflash
and the neon,
with our tracks scuffed out among
the hush and rumble of
a city
where no one
knows our names.
travelin' on, norah jones
shoulders just broad enough
for six strings and a hollow body
and the weight of
all those words yet to be--down the
train tracks and through the
blue dawn, with that
crossroads rumble
in his bones.
don't let go, weezer
and the irony is
that they were always right
but we never cared.
are you happy now, by somebody whose name escapes me and i'm too lazy to look up (and covered by cassadee pope)
pretty little thing with a pretty little gun
and a smile like the devil on a
monday morning...
breathing, lifehouse<

three dogs in the churchyardThe chain link around the graveyard runs straight through an oak tree. The bark looks crippled where it passed through the wire--mutilated in a faint diamond pattern--but you can see around the edges where it's fusing together smooth again.
The kids with the distant eyes always come here to smoke. You've never seen eyes like that. Distant, but not glazed, like they're looking into eternity and watching the threads of livewire possibility arc and writhe before them. The embers at the ends of their smokes cast cherry-red reflections on their irises.
The top of the fence is buckling where it enters the tree. You wonder if they'll have to cut it loose if they ever take it down. You wonder how far the roots have crept.
You wonder why the kids with the forever eyes never stand, vulpine, by the churchyard with its stray dogs and subterranean hum of faith--of vulnerable hope. Maybe all the life drowns out the eternity.
On winter mornings, they exist only in the pinpricks of light from the ends

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Submitted: August 15, 2012
Submitted with: Sta.sh Writer

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Pilkunnussija

by *disrhythmic, Aug 15, 2012, 8:13:04 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Here's what I think:

There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel like I'm getting to know you. And even when your turns of phrase are about as subtle as a wheel of lovingly agéd cheese, or your heroine so monotonously perfect I consider ripping the number keys off my keyboard to vent, or I fill an entire margin with clusters of angry and demanding red balloons because really, darlin', you need them--there's a certain sense of kinship there, with words against words, and it's far more satisfying.

Here's what I type:

I've attached your edited copy for review.

And I click 'send'.

Pilkunnussijaby *disrhythmic

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Read by the wonderful and fabulous =Sammur-amat here: [link]

These are words, and things like 'gray' and 'rain' and 'cold' are not among them, which after recent events is far more than I was expecting, so here it will stay.

Feel free to Google the title and have a laugh.

~~love 0 0~~

joy 2 2

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~PlayinTheDead Oct 28, 2012

wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again

This has made me chuckle the heartiest. All the rest, including the goldfish if you count as such a ceramic one, I can relate to it so much that every further word is unnecessary.

*disrhythmic Oct 28, 2012

Thank you!

So glad you could relate.

~linderel Aug 28, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is brilliant. The title attracted me immediately, and I was not disappointed.

*disrhythmic Aug 28, 2012

Thank you. <3

=Laitma Aug 26, 2012 General Artist

Ahahahahaha, ohmygosh this is absolutely lovely~ xD And gosh, don't we all know the feeling...

*disrhythmic Aug 27, 2012

Teehee thank you. <3 ^^

~gogocherryrose Aug 26, 2012

i love it. i wish i had written it.

interesting title, lol, how do you find these words?

*disrhythmic Aug 27, 2012

Thank you! <3

I frequent Cracked and Mental_Floss and nerdy hangouts like that. ^^

~gogocherryrose Sep 5, 2012

oh really, i will have to check them out

=CrematedMan Aug 24, 2012 Student Writer

Simply, I love it.

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