Submissions still closed. Pieces added to the gallery only at my request, based on nothing more than the whim of the founder.
Oh, the pent-up frustration. I'm feeling better already.
|More Journal Entries|
I Am Not UglyWeek 1I Am Not Ugly by LiliWrites
"Why don't you like your body?" Kim asked. Noticing my eyes focused on her pen, she laid it and the yellow legal pad on the table between us. I didn't bother to look at the scribbles there. I knew what they would say.
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Low self-esteem. Victim of sexual abuse. Negative self-image. Possibly related to attacker's verbal abuse.
"Because I'm ugly." My fingers found a strand of lanky blond hair and started to twist. Around and around, tighter and tighter. Eventually, strands were pulled from my scalp, but I didn't notice. Pain had stopped existing.
"Why do you think that?" Kim shifted in her chair, recrossing her legs and angling her head to get a better look at my down-turned face. I don't know what she thought she'd find there.
"Because it is true."
"Who told you that?
Soul JuiceSqueeze out the last drops in glorious colorSoul Juice by Bark
The rind is mashed, rotten, ruined
But the juice is beautiful
When I dream of myself, or others, we're
always in our prime
the shut-inthe shut-in by thetaoofchaos
where are these keyholes to the Equinox? the stars huddle
like alien nettle,
a gray chime of wrens scaling tree limbs and middays,
Darwin has no lines for me
i've sheetrocked the blistering ivies and blossoms.
i've glassed out daubers and frightening mollusks
pillowing through mud honey and minute old ruins.
intimate with my quiet desk, my paper hoard
i'm still a coward; the envelopes, Obama glass, the dozen unused spiral
diaries are menacing concoctions, minotaurs of lost dimensions.
i used to sleep in creek-beds.
How To Say GoodbyeDear Unborn Child, Whom I Let Go;How To Say Goodbye by pullingcandy
When I was thirteen and four months old, and you were thirteen years younger, I decided to let you go. You squirmed in opposition beneath my ribcage, up against my pelvis, and I licked my lips and tried to smile while I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of the car, hellbound.
I remember sea weed insertion, dilation, cramps and bleeding. Orange smoothies from Dairy Queen that I threw up, and I hoped you were mingling in the remains of my summer day treat, so I could put this behind me. Pretend I was 'moving on'. I laid in the bathtub of a hotel room for six hours, trying to melt you away in scalding water from a rusty tap, yet you clung on, holding tightly to the walls of my pelvic region. Wiggling upwards, towards my throat. Past my teeth. You're trying to get out, but my family has decided you won't breathe when you're released from your bloody shackles; you may as well settle down now, sweet son, settle down.
The rest of this, to me, is a blur. Th
Under WaterUnder Water by RichardLeach
I jumped and then I sank too deep.
I do know how to hold my breath
but the surface is too far away.
It happened on an August day.
I should have drawn a deeper breath.
I jumped and then I sank too deep.
A cruise for tourists round the bay -
a chance to sit and catch one's breath.
But now the surface is too far away.
The young crew with a sense of play
anchored for us to swim, no less.
But when I jumped I sank too deep.
I will not exhale, will not inhale,
I hold my breath, I hold my breath,
though the surface is too far away.
I break the surface. All is okay.
I take a breath, I take a breath.
And who has never sunk too deep
and found the surface too far away?
Splinter helixEMBRYOSplinter helix by neonxaos
a derelict building shifts its swollen form
wire cage elevators moving carefully as it swallows
nestled in a womb of fragile concrete fibres
the child of paint and pastel colours stirs
searching blindly for that energetic outside world
it stretches its delicate arms like an earthquake
Tell me where you come from, what you remember
of the black ground. Talk in riddles only your kind
understands, talk in flowers, talk in thorny branches.
You crack the foundations in starlike patterns, and
you stretch the heart of you for the concrete above,
longing to carry the sky as a bed for the Sun.
the twisting flesh of the whistling tree
blankets the screaming mud with salt
in a lush park tended by arthritic backs
an old man sits with a young girl
as devils arc their spines within smiles
they discuss the taste of snow
They know the end grows high, grows nigh,
outgrows the star dome like parasite patchwork.
The invaders never came, they were the ground stones,
|15-Minutes-of-Fame: A llama-free, drama-free zone for "fame worthy" literature written by grown-ups of any age.|
We aim to feature high-quality literature that you might not stumble onto otherwise. Join us; watch us!
We’re tough graders. You know the drill.
(1) Members are allowed one submission a month in Poetry and Prose each.
(2) The usual rules of grammar, spelling, punctuation, et al. apply. Please proofread your work. More than once.
(3) With prose, shorter is typically better, although six-word stories won't be accepted. Pieces must stand alone; chaptered stories will not be accepted.
(4) Pieces in the Featured folder will be selected by the founder.
(5) Pieces in a large number of groups -- say, 20, or even more -- may be declined, though some discretion will be shown. We're looking for work that might not otherwise be seen.
(6) Rhymed works are tough to get accepted but will certainly be considered. Fanfiction is a no go.
If you have any questions, please feel free to send a note to the group. Thanks!