[x]

For Sarah, Forever AgoI worked the midnight shift last night. It was the sort of night where you body feels so heavy that your mind just starts floating away. I was exhausted, worn. Sleep reached for my heart like a vigilante reaching for a gun, and I couldn't stop thinking of you.

You filled my head with poetry.

I could write something beautiful, that it was a clear night and the stars were out, that the moon shone above me like a love song in the sky. But it wasn't. The clouds were low and heavy and the streetlights painted the sky orange.

It was the kind of night that makes you feel trapped. The kind when there's no one alive but you, no sound but

For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,

You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.

You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to

Every Dog Has Its DayThere once was a dog who wandered the streets. He was a kindly dog who did not have a home.

Sometimes, he would see families at the park playing with their dogs. How he wished he were one of those dogs. After a time, he decided that he would try to befriend one of the children that played in the park. He was overcome with excitement and haphazardly ran toward a child while yelling "Hello!" over and over again. He had almost reached the child when, suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. A man had kicked him causing him to yelp in pain. He never went back to the

RonaFirst, admit this:
You, too, just want to be wanted.

Now, venture timidly into your trophy room. Tell me how many are still alive. If you are looking into their eyes to see which will follow you, do not; glass eyes will not stare but instead reflect your gaze, becoming more and more frantic. If you are waiting to hear a breath, you are wasting yours. If you have found the thing with pitiful pale skin and a swollen belly― well, you're at least thinking the right way.

So you declare it all nonsense and retreat to the music room. You still didn't guess right. The answer was all of them, they are alive the way she is alive, and they will

The Airplane Crashed You are still alive. The most terrifying moment of your entire life just passed and you survived it. Your heart shakes in your chest. You let out a long breath to slow it down.

Your seat creaks as you shift your weight. You test your left arm. It feels sore and overworked but not tight like it was. No heart attack then. Something pinches together in your gut and your insides slosh around. You grit your teeth against the pain and test the rest of your body. Right arm works. Your neck is sore but you can turn your head. Legs don't seem to be functioning. In fact you can't feel them at all.

Somewhere behind you, amid the groaning and crying

Writing Fairytales I told him, "I think I'll write a book."

He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."

"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."

"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story

PromptA man stood by his window, all crossed arms and tired eyes. His dreams of flying like the birds had disappeared long ago. The night was swallowing him whole, but so was nonchalance. It was a suitable escape.

The cars ran down the street, their lights distorted in the post-storm puddles on the asphalt; the water spewed by their wheels rained on umbrellaed youths. It hurt to look at the vehicles crashing down the highway, crazy and epileptic and dancing in the rain. They were nothing more than a force of nature, he assured himself, suddenly cold and mechanical. They were machines with people trapped inside and what they did was uncontrollable.

I Call Him CompulsionThree. Four. Five. I like five; it feels complete. Okay, one more time. Six…

Seven. Done.

"How long does it take to get a glass of water?" my husband calls from the living room.

"Sorry, I'm coming." I resist the urge to rinse the glass a few more times. Cleanliness is not a factor—it's the numbers. The completion. The habit. I take a sip of my water and force myself to stop asking if I should just run the water one more time.

I join Sam in the living room and sit in my usual spot: the center recliner. He always lies on the couch to watch TV. It works.

He hits the play button, and we watch ten minutes of reality before the demon

The Shooter on the MedianThe late afternoon sun beat down against the pavement.  Heat waves curled up from the asphalt, making mirrors in the distance.  A single car coasted down the hill.  There was no one in it but the driver.

She stood by the side of road, waiting for him.  She had picked out a pleasant spot where she could see if there were any other cars coming.  Seeing none, she focused her attention on the driver, raised her arms, and pointed the barrel at the oncoming car.

The driver was near the bottom of the hill now and was moving fast.  She steadied her aim and shot once.  The driver

It Takes Two. The room was quiet. The surreality of it all was overwhelming. A pen dropped; I heard each clank it made as it made its spring dance on the floor before coming to a stop. The tight silence of the room was now allowed to continue.
The preacher's words echoed and bounced off each of the four walls in that old, country church fellowship hall. The smell of mildew and old tile that had been run across by a hundred Sunday School children over the past 10 years resonated in the air. I could almost suffocate from it. The awkwardness I could physically feel wasn't helping any either. Fellowship hall was what everyone called the kitchen and

The ReservationThe road was so dry, so dusty. The van choked on it, spitting up little clouds of sand in its wake. Sand was all you could see, on the road or off it. Sand in deep earthy reds and mild oranges. By the road it was pale and yellow, looking as starved for water as we felt, driving through the desert in the summer. The heat was unbearable and unending. The air conditioner had given out a few gasping breaths of cool air in the morning, but that had been more than three hours ago and it had long given up since.

We were looking for ruins. At least that's what Mom kept remi

I Called Your Boyfriend Gay"I called your boyfriend gay and he hit me with his purse." said Chad as Kisha wiped blood off his face and applied a bandage.

"It looks like he hit you with more than just that." she replied, "If I were to guess he punched you twice with his left in the head and struck a right to the gut."

"And this is exactly why you have this job." he smiled taking some gauze to stop the blood pouring out of his nose, "You got it exactly right. How do you do that?"

"Years of college." she replied examining his chest to see the extent of the damage, "What did you do to get him to hit you like this?"

"I already told you" Chad ran a hand throug

Iron Henry UnzipsIt was the early hours of the morning when they arrived at the castle Ferris called home. He was glad to see it--Henry could tell from his face.

Henry was gladder still to have Ferris home. His heart was still like a sledgehammer in his chest, still painful with every beat, and he knew that as soon as he had some downtime he would have to open up and adjust his settings. Not that he expected downtime anytime soon, what with a wedding and all scheduled for the upcoming day.

Henry extended his hand to the princess first, and she shyly took it as she descended from the carriage. He made her nervous--he was used to that. He did his best to smil

The ProtestThe Protest

A Short Story

The television was always on in the background, but neither of them ever paid much attention to it, regarding it as mostly background noise. They were both on their laptops, chatting with their friends and each other, though they were only 4 feet apart. They could sit in this stupor for hours, only pausing to get food and occasionally text a friend on the go. Their mother worked long hours with the government and they hadn't seen their father in years so this routine was set in stone. When their mother would arrive home they would only give the shortest of greetings before attaching themselves back to their technol

blue velvet"i think it's better to be crazy and free."

she's sitting on the balcony of my apartment. her blue dress is dark against the edge of the sky and against the paleness of her thigh, against the glittering outline of the eiffel tower just outside my window. the weather is getting colder now, late autumn fading into early winter, and the wind dances through her choppy, curled hair.

i want her to close the door, for her to come inside. i want to say something to her, to say something back, but the words aren't forming in my mouth, are lodged somewhere between my tongue and my throat.

the light from my bedroom is soft gold against the edges of h

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Elegant

by ~Tyrison, Oct 17, 2011, 8:39:48 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

His fingers were elegant.

They worked in perfect rhythm to produce everything he could not say.  Where I could only ever hear notes and simple emotion, he heard stories, saw worlds.

I used to envy him, to hide my hurt gaze behind his shoulder blades, to rest my jealousy on his thin, tired shoulders.

His fingers were beautiful.

They danced over the keys; they made the masters look like child's play; they shamed my clumsy attempts at carrying a tune without malice.

I used to long to be him – I would have given anything to have his talent, his skill.  Anything was worth the fingers that never failed.

His soul was transcendent.

I could listen to the same piece for the rest of my life, and yet each time would hear something different – me, with my beginner's ear, with no intuition.  His music, its ineffability, made up for my complete lack.

His body was broken.

Crippled beyond humanity; his fragile bones were scarred beyond repair – that is, if anyone would have wanted to repair them.  His lips were still forever; silent unto the grave.  His body, clothed in threadbare fatigues, was the deterrent of all.  All, save me.

I used to long to be him.  I did not care that he was rent by all life had dealt him – his music captivated me, lifted me, saved me.  It redeemed my tattered soul, and breathed into it once more.  I wanted to do the same – for anyone and everyone.

I used to envy him.

I used to envy him, but somewhere along the road, caught up in the melody that was his heart, I found that my own sang a harmony – a hopeful, uncertain harmony.

And I then understood that his song – the tune I couldn't fathom before – was love.

Clumsily, plainly, simply, love.

Elegantby ~Tyrison

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Short Stories

I finally got bitten by the muse bug...I guess they don't like coming out until 10P.M., but I'm glad I stayed up a little later. Anyhow...it's the first thing I've written in a while, so...hopefully I've improved from a long hiatus, or I still have a long way to go. Probably both are true.

Critique: [link]

1) Is the piece too transparent? Does it seem like it will end like it does? Or is it completely see-through?

2) Is the theme too common/unoriginal?

3) Does the word "soul" in "His soul was transcendent." fit, or should it be replaced with something else?

4) Is the piece itself too plain?

5) Does the title seem too plain and unoriginal?

Thanks all!

This piece is (c) by Mary Stokes, 2011.

~reveur-artiste Feb 6, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

I like this very much!

~Tyrison Feb 25, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Thank you!

~NauticalSortOfPerson Feb 5, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This is a lovely piece.
Regarding #3 in the critique section, you might try removing the word "soul" entirely and write instead, "He was transcendent," implying that he is beyond even a soul, a body, that his music is somewhere above everything.
Even if you leave it the way it is, I still love it. Congrats on the DLD!

~Tyrison Feb 25, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

A belated thank you to you; I appreciate the advice! I get what you're saying, but I suppose I want to keep an element of humanity in him; he is beyond, but not so far beyond as he is not human. Something like that.

And again, thank you!

=DailyLitDeviations Feb 4, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

~Tyrison Feb 25, 2012 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

A very belated but very grateful thank you!

~bluecurse60 Oct 23, 2011

First off, that was nice. I wasn't sure where it would go because it could have taken a lot of different directions- jealous rage, murder, sorrow, depression from envy, learning the music-makers way, lots of ways. The one you picked is very unique, though, in that it brings a lesson to it. The theme I presume is that everyone finds love in their own way and may be envious of others who have it until they have it for themselves? I wouldn't worry too much about being plain. If you wanted to add so much more to it to take it from minimalism if you feel it would add more to it take it. As far as it goes in this state it is minimalist and that simplicity gets a message across well and is clever in playing with expectations during the reading. The love conquers all theme, though, has been done to death and I would avoid that like getting hit by a train. That would be a worrying to have if you needed one, not if you're being too plain. Hope that helps

~Tyrison Oct 25, 2011 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Thanks for the feedback!

The theme I guess I was thinking of, or at least what I was thinking about while writing was that in psychology, a defense mechanism people use to cover over feelings; hate. But it doesn't work in the way that has been used time and time again - the person is unconscious they do it. That was more a though while writing, I suppose, not really a theme. I suppose the "theme" would be of looking past the scars and ugliness to see a person's soul - not just what they look like. Another one that's been used to death, but I enjoyed it.

I agree about the "love conquers all" thing, and it wasn't quite what I was aiming for - perhaps not so much of a conquering all, but that love softens edges - makes you forget faults, so on so forth...I dunno.

Thank you so much for the feedback! ^^

~bluecurse60 Oct 30, 2011

love your avatar by the way, pocky is delicious!

~Tyrison Oct 31, 2011 Hobbyist Traditional Artist

Thanks. I agree wholeheartedly.

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