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TeatimeIn January, Elsa got new neighbors.  She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.

It gets so cold, here, they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas.  Snow had turned to mud in their front hall—an unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter.  Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen.  They were young; they had big plans.  Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out.  They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips.  The house filled with cinnamon.

In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door.
The Dalzell KnockoutThe Banana Bar wasn’t Conner Dalzell’s sort of place. I was behind it slicing lemons, wincing at acid burns, when he walked in alone in a buff duffel coat. The guy was at least fifty, maybe older, his hair turning white.
Tonight was student night, all the cocktails were half price, and fresher girls were getting fresh with lecherous finalists in the faux-leather booths. Conner Dalzell stood in the doorway for half a minute and I thought he would leave. But he took off his coat and searched for a peg to hang it on. To his evident surprise, he didn't find one, so he flung it over his elbow and waddled to the bar.
“What would you recommend then?” he asked. My hands were sticky with lemon juice. I hastily wiped them on my apron.
“Our featured cocktail today is the Blue Lagoon Special: vodka, blue curacao, and white wine.”
“Sounds awful,” he said, slipping from the barstool he’d tried to mount. “What’s blue
the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:
take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pages
out of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaper
until the last of the phrases are gone; shake it
until it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.

I will give you new words.
Radioactive AutumnRadioactive Autumn

Draped in maple leaves and white gold,
her somber eyes hidden from the mounting ash.
Lack of contact labors a mutual threshold,
restless desires bred amongst odious machinations.

Staid throat drunk on her ambrosial sap,
more reverie to dirty all our neurons one by one.
Guttural cries rattle through shared visions,
depicted in blossoms and ignoring the damage done.
The CartI always got my best book recommendations from my old library cart. Well, the library cart wasn't really mine. I was a shelver at my town's library, before I started college, and I would use their carts to do my job.

I first noticed something was up with the cart when I was shelving juvenile paperbacks. These were the lightest books we owned (and kept in the worst shape - kids are brats). But when I was rolling the cart, it was heavy. It groaned when I pushed it, and steering it was a mini-workout. It wasn't this hard to move a double-stack of adult non-fiction.

What was really odd, though, was as I removed more books, it barely got lighter
SuperimposeHe doesn't look like a gymnast. He's all button down shirts and frazzled grey hair framing wire spectacles, a picture perfect professorial archetype down to the very tips of his frayed shoelaces. But he was a gymnast once, or so he tells us, and I believe him because he smiles like he knows something while he's chatting before class.

It's strange to see that image superimposed over the current one – the distinguished professor in pressed khaki slacks and a jacket, worn brown loafers exuding a faintly courteous manner (you can always tell them by their shoes), and a ring on the fourth finger of his left hand – versus the athletic ki
a picture of a plane.The day her daddy got sent away, the whole neighborhood fluttered with closing curtains and eyes watching through cracked doors. His wife called it a mistake, the cousins called it rape and said he was a pedophile.

And she just kept dipping her fingers into paint and dreaming about kites and the eyelashes on dolls, because she didn't know what any of those words meant.

A year later, he came back, and she washed the sidewalk so he couldn't see that she was drawing their secret in light blue and petal pink chalk.

-

"Those are nice pictures, baby," her daddy would tell her, but she hated it, because he always sounded sick, and he would rub h
HeartmindWe lost electricity on the night you left me
and I spent the night curled up against the rain,
drinking in the slack of damp green winds
in our treasured driftwood home of mist.
I had to come to think of time
as a medium and my thoughts as
imperfect and cursive. It was a wrinkled medium,
a mediocrity of sunken breath: words condensing
into droplets that so contorted my teary lenses
that I couldn't tell that you were turning towards me

with a sound, the sound a book makes
when its leaves are rustled against the grain.
Tonight my body lingers on the edge of the ocean
like a gasp; New Jersey's throaty highways
bear my rosefelt thou
THAT Woman     First they said, "No wind chimes outside the cottages. Three warnings will be given, then you are subject to eviction."
     My Granny said, "Humph. I like my old bamboo windchime. I can't even reach it no more to take it down. It's gonna stay, dammit, and I will too."
     I told Granny, "Not if they evict you, you won't. I can take it down."
     She looked at me over her reading glasses, with that Look she has.
     "If anyone's evicted, you can go with em, Sonny. I'm stayin put. Me and that damn windchim
Let Me Down GentlyI never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
   r
     i
       f
         t
           i
             n
                g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.
Nuclear Winter'Mother, tell me again about the sun.'
She pauses scraping the stretched hide,
thinks. So many images she could give, in words
he wouldn't understand – golden, sunrise, light.
Her son was born to cold darkness, has never seen
the sun, animals in clouds, gods in the midnight sky.

Some days, what she misses most is the sky,
more than electricity, than fresh tomatoes, than sun-
shine. The white tails of planes created scenes
of foreign adventure, when only thunderheads could hide
the horizon and the day produced its own light.
Now the horizon chokes on ash and she on useless words.

She never lets him see her cry when her words
a long awaited return.It was raining when we landed.
A shock
to our sun-drenched systems,
stumbling with snatched-
away sleep.

Another bus, another train
whirring upon endless tracks.
We run, we flee through foreign streets –
disdainful eyes stare on,
watching fugitive

outsiders -
desperate for a taste
of home.
carbon monoxideIt had been Javiers idea for the tattoos. "It'll keep you safe, Diego. No one will touch you." On the streets, no one had touched Diego to begin with. In order for Javier to earn the tattoo, he had to steal. When he stole the teenager's purse, she screamed and only chased him for half a block before giving up, but Javier didn't stop running. Back at his friend's apartment, when they opened the Coach bag and dumped out the contents, besides lipstick and a compact mirror, the wallet held cash and credit cards, a little iPod with the headphone cords wrapped around it and most of all, a digital camera. It had been a lucky find, and they'd sold ev
saudadeLast week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.

Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.

There wa
Deja vu. Again.I had moved here two weeks' ago, but had never visited this section of town so late at night. I had been invited to the pub by my neighbour, to make me feel welcome. An hour ago, she had phoned to say she had been asked to work overtime, and wouldn't be able to make it. Seeing as I was there, I drank a couple of cocktails. I was now walking back home.

Drunken people yelled out across the street. A couple of cars drove by, their horns blaring as the inebriated stumbled into the road. A bright yellow car stopped, flashing its headlights. A woman in a red dress banged on the window. The passenger door was opened, and a shouting match started be
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More from ~disrhythmic

Bones Love Meetings"Oh, one last tip. They, ah... they like to move around sometimes."
I looked up from the stacks of museum-y paperwork I was to file and gaze solemnly at the squirrelly little paleo-something or grad student or dinosaur fanboy in front of me. "Move around? What, the bones?"
He adjusted his Coke-bottle glasses. "Yeah."
"You're just screwing with me, aren't you?" With a wry smile, I turned back to the stacks. Four of them, at least a foot high each, to be sorted and stapled and stashed. At least the pay was decent.
"No, really!" Coke Bottles was adamant. "They... they just like to get together."
I grabbed a small portion of papers and rifled through them. "Sure, sure. They drop off their shelves and roll into the boardroom and have little bone meetings, right? Catch up on ancient business from a couple thousand years ago?" This would take me hours... if not days. And I'd have to sit here is this dusty museum backroom full of assorted specimens to do it.
"No, but--"
"And they bring their l
lack of optionsIt rains, and you stand in the hall with the front door wide open, smoking and watching the slowly sodden carpet. I sit at the kitchen table contemplating death and all its cliches. Whenever I look at you you're always turned away, gazing out into the downpour. Reflections of the cigarette flame dance in the vast bloodshot whites of your eyes. Your shoes are soaked.
The dog sleeps on the mat by the stove. He is old and gray. I think about these things in the monosyllabic sentences that adorn books for children. See the dog. The dog is old. The dog is list-less and has dif-fi-cul-ty get-ting to his feet.
I get up. Stoop. Pat the dog. Turn the oven on to keep him warm. And you stand in the chill of the front door, smoking.
The carpet is gray, and grayer still where the rain has spattered onto it. The rain is gray. You are gray against the gray outdoors. The smoldering end of your cigarette is bright red and surrounded by a tiny sphere of light that weakens and collapses just befor
Meditations of a Girl Adrift :2:I was up with the sun. Before the morning mist had entirely burnt off I was down the cliff, across the rocks, and around the bend in the beach. A narrow strip of sand doubled almost back on itself, curving out of the way of a jutting promontory in the cliff. Tiny wind-hollowed caves offered refuge for the crabs I stirred up. Their legs, clacking all at once, sounded like a downpour of marbles.
Slowly--almost imperceptibly--the strip of sand widened out. I catfooted cautiously up and over an outcrop of the black rock, lungs screaming, and found myself in a cove. Arms of stone encircled a quiet bay and the pristine sand it lapped against. Smooth. Inviting. I kicked off my shoes and set a trail of footprints to the innermost point of the crescent of beach, where I sat in the early morning sun and watched the tide come in.
The light was so thick and warm that I was sure I inhaled some, feeling it pool somewhere in my insides with a strange sense of lifting. The sea snuck up on me and snuff

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January 16, 2012
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The Fountain

:icondisrhythmic:

There were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtains—the arithmetic of her childhood.

"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on each—sixty-four. I counted."

The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.

And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.

Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in each corner of the room—eight corners, eight men, eight long black robes, eight sharp-beaked masks. Thirty-two steps to the fountain. Eight feet up to the balcony.

"Good morning, father."

"Good morning, pet." He stood there, leaning leonine against the balcony's carved railing, his hair elegantly slicked back.

His hair had smelled like spice—like cinnamon and ginger— when he'd lifted her up onto his shoulders.

"You know what's happening, pet."

"Yes."

"Mmm…" His long fingers trailed gently over the railing's edge. "You know why it has to be this way."

"Yes."

"And you're ready to take your place."

"Yes."

"And you'll make me proud, won't you?"

The weight of the room fell squarely onto her throat, but she forced it back and stared straight into his cool steel eyes. "Yes."

"Where are you going, Daddy?"

"Just business, pet. I'll be back in the morning."

His gaze lingered thoughtfully on her for a moment before sweeping out to the eight black shadows that guarded each corner. "Bear witness."

In perfect unison, each eagle-faced shadow gave a low assent that thrummed in the air.

"Daddy, why are you bleeding?"

He'd run red-streaked fingers through his hair. "A little accident."

"Good," he murmured, and stared down at the fountain for a moment. Sixteen mermaids posed coquettishly beneath the open-mouthed lions. "They will come after you, darling."

"I know." She fought back the trembling that snuck up into her ribs. The lions seemed to snarl their stony disdain.

"The world will be yours then. Fight. Protect what's ours."

"Yes, father."

"Daddy, take me with you. Please."

"Not this time, pet."

"Protect what's ours," he repeated, voice rising. It echoed—ours, ours, ours—and when it faded, he spoke once more. "Make me proud."

She couldn't speak. She didn't need to.

Catlike, he leapt lightly onto the railing and grabbed the coil of rope he'd always kept ready. Without hesitation, he pulled it around his neck—and jumped.

"Don't leave me."

The crack shook her to her very marrow.

When the echoes died away, she dismissed the men in the eagle masks. They obeyed in absolute silence, taking the body with them—ghosts were fitting pallbearers.

The stone edge of the fountain was cool under her shaking fingers. "Tell me your secrets," she whispered. The world was hers now.
:icondisrhythmic:
546 words.

I am absolutely drowning in unwritten backstory. There's so much more to this, but the word count limit snuck up on me. I may expand it...

This is based on a nightmare of mine. The octagonal room is still frighteningly vivid--the fountain, as well. The men in the black cloaks are from the dream, as well, but I added in the eagle-beak masks. Let's see... the father is also straight from my subconscious, but originally he was already hanged. Hard for a dead guy to do much talking, though. :P

I think (the key word being 'think') that it all makes sense. Does it?

More Beautiful Words You Should Be Reading

AD - Swan Song Part 1 The boys are betting again on who's going to die.  That's what it's all come down to, in the end: just one big game where someone's bad luck equals a couple of stale cigarettes and a shot of 'Dust, and who has to dig the grave.  
Cris watches them lazily, out of the corner of his eye; he's no fucking peacemaker and he couldn't really care what they do as long as they aren't killing each other--not yet, at least.  Rich's voice rises above the scraps of chatter but really he's only fighting the howling wind: the kid's gotten a lot louder since he killed that gangbanger from Stone's group--nothing more than a lucky fucking shot of course, every Noticed in Committing I started committing suicides.  They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.

At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus.  They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully.  It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.

There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers.  And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand.  That was a fun night.  Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time.  They all wanted to kill

Stationery Pt I Stanley loved stationery.

He loved the way it smelled when you stripped away the crinkly cellophane wrapper. He loved the Spartan beauty of an unspoiled pad of paper (A4, plain, 260gsm). He loved the sound of a cap crisply clicking onto the top of a Biro. He loved the texture of a freshly-sharpened pencil and the flake of the finely-honed graphite point. He loved gazing over stacks and stacks of untouched Post-Its, each a perfect square of yellow, an army of ideas awaiting orders.

He loved everything about it. stationery was neat. It was orderly. It was always needed, easily replaceable, and something that everyone can appreciate.

Stanley

hierarchies White pick-up truck
red brick, ruby house
smoke and mirrors, now
gone to the dogs
gone to the crawlers below
the ditches of the sleepy south

Vietnam flashbacks of
meaty, greased palms
loaded dice
"I'm blind in my left eye."
Okay.

Here, there is a magic show,
hourly.
Afterward
the scientists and mathematicians
make love.
Everyone else watches;
they can't figure it out.
Sex, that is.

The beautiful assistant
talks about the fifth grade
and the pills.
Everyone cries.

A week later, you could have heard
nothing
as they all went about their business.
The fifth grade went back
to where it came from:
tucked, with love, aw lost kings we were all lost kings of the electric
highwire act, tripping like ghosts through boarded
windows and vacant lots that never held
any secret we wouldn’t tear apart
cables stretched over the place we used to live
drooping tightropes for worn-weary dancers
that pirouetted from house to house while
we just paced the streets of glass and concrete
our mothers worried on their rosaries
and poured their fears into party-line chats
father just poured another scotch and said
boys will be boys so let them have their fun
and us out in the night between the tracks
and the towers willing our years into
smoke and bottles and dolled up girls that jus
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Daily Deviation

Given 2012-05-19
The suggester says The Fountain by ~disrhythmic is "brimming with backstory yet delightfully concise." ( Suggested by =angelStained and Featured by `thorns )
love 1 1 joy 0 0 wow 1 1 mad 0 0 sad 0 0 fear 0 0 neutral 0 0
:iconmeggie272:
~Meggie272 Jan 16, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
This is a lovely bit of suspense - a cinematic and dramatic atmosphere, but yet restrained and not over-the-top. Nicely done!
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
~disrhythmic Jan 16, 2013
Thanks so much! Glad you enjoyed it. :heart:
Reply
:iconlacewinged-beauty:
~Lacewinged-Beauty Oct 14, 2012   Writer

This is lovely. It makes sense.
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
~disrhythmic Oct 15, 2012
Thanks so much. <3
Reply
:iconlacewinged-beauty:
~Lacewinged-Beauty Oct 16, 2012   Writer

No problem.
Reply
:iconblueflippy:
~blueflippy Jul 20, 2012  Hobbyist Writer
"The weight of the room fell squarely onto her throat, but she forced it back and stared straight into his cool steel eyes."

oh my gosh. that line... *_* sheesh, dizzy... leave some talent for the rest of us!
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
~disrhythmic Jul 22, 2012
Oh gosh, thank you so much. <3
Reply
:iconexhellfire:
~EXHellfire Jul 3, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Oh, congratulations on the daily deviation, I didn't know such thing happened =0
Reply
:icondisrhythmic:
~disrhythmic Jul 4, 2012
Thanks! :D
Reply
:iconexhellfire:
~EXHellfire Jul 4, 2012  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Still, knowing how good this is, it shouldn't be any surprise :B
Reply
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