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How to Remember the DeadHow the hell am I supposed to write a poem
When my heart is dead
And my eyes are closed
The pen’s in my hand
But my fingers froze
PatienceHe waits for the girl with the
Sapphire eyes in the rain
Water running off his hair
Favorite red scarf tucked in
His body is warm though the
Rain runs coldly down his back
Fondly, he thinks of her lips
The way she laughs with a smile
Deep in those sapphire eyes
She waits for the man in the
Hallway, heart beating quickly
Waits for him to emerge so
She may steal a kiss from him
He will hug her and spin her
Around and around and then
Gently he will place her down
One last kiss before she must
Go outside to meet her friend
He waits for sapphire eyes
To come running in the rain
Cheeks red and lips freshly kissed
And his love for her in vain?
Crying in the Wrong ArmsI can’t hear past the silence
Invisible sobs clogging my ears
You’re curled into my couch
Holding in all of your fears
What happened to you angel
Where are your wings
Why is it that I can no longer
Think of happy things
Your face is broken
Heart lying on the floor
I was supposed to patch it up
But I can’t hold a needle anymore
Losing GodLike killing birds with stones
We took our life and
Threw it to the ground
In violence we tore it apart
And screamed to the sky
God, are you real now
And there was no answer
So we walked home
Empty and alone
Faith lost in the sky
Going way too fast
Into the past that can never last
We wander along corridors
That suck out our souls
And in the night time
Tear you off your thrown
So who are we now
Hanging upside down
We’ll all be okay
I promise you
I won’t let the darkness find you
We stay alive
I, ResurrectedYou make a point of turning your back on him as you dig. Albert moans lightly, but, except for increasing the ferocity of your digging, you don't respond. There's no going back now. You've returned your library books, the shopping's done, and all that's left is to bury Albert and you'll be back on top of things.
The trouble is, Albert really doesn't seem to want to stay buried. This is, after all, the sixth attempt so far, and he just keeps turning back up and knocking on the door. It's getting ridiculous, to be honest. The yard is riddled with makeshift graves, and the stake you tried to send through his heart is discarded by the last one. His heart, impossibly enough, is still attached.
Albert moans again and when you look up, you see the dog licking his mouth. "Mr Tickles," you admonish, "come away from him!" The dog whines up at you. "Oh, come here, you stupid mutt." You pat him twice and send him home to the lady next door. He's probably been responsible for several of Albert's gr
Fresh HellShe missed the first sign that something wasn't right, and the second flashed past so quickly she mistook it for a misunderstanding. By the third sign it was getting a little more obvious, but still not enough to spark her curiosity.
The fourth sign, the one that should really have made her realise she wasn't alone, was the lovely scent of vanilla. She'd set her air freshener in the kitchen deliberately - it was one of those "spray when someone enters the room" types, and she'd left it focused on the door. She, meanwhile, was in the bedroom when the scent wafted around her. She put it down to lingering scent from an earlier spray.
The fifth sign occured late at night. She slept through it.
And so it continued, sign after sign of another presence in her house being ignored, misconstrued or simply unnoticed. She remained blissfully unaware and he, for his part, made good use of her ignorance. He had come from rags to riches, Hell to Heaven, and he was determined to make the most of it.
It's Always Blackest Before the ThroneCurriculum Vitae
Snake Cult Leader
General in the Legions of Shagamemnon
Reason Left Last Job:
Green, three-boobed alien women wanting to be taught the Earth-concept of love.
Has own armour (black leather with spikes).
Interviewer’s notes: This guy seems perfect!
I realise there is no way for me to get this letter to you but I feel in need of a sympathetic ear at the moment.
Things haven’t been going too well. I thought the dungeon was the way to go in order to gain power and riches but people somehow completely misinterpreted the whips and chains. Thought it was a place offering… erotic satisfaction. It all made me terribly uncomfortable.
So I gave up and swapped genres from Fantasy to Sci-Fi. But things didn’t improve and now I appear to have ended up in Gritty Realism. I’ve managed to get a minimum w
Black Throne White Noise “Another mead.”
The barmaid slid the mug across the bar, watching in fascination as the leather-clad patron tipped his head back, angled the drink over the slotted faceplate of his helmet, and poured. It wasn’t exactly neat, but the chugging noises suggested that it was at least effective, and that was something.
“Hey, honey,” said the regular with the ample bosom and prominent Adam’s apple. “That’s quite a talent you’ve got there. And I like your style. Want to make me scream like a baby?”
“No.” He set the mug down and sighed.
There was a pause. The barmaid dunked a dirty glass into a bucket of water.
“This is really going to bother me if I don’t ask...are you a man or a woman?”
“Honey,” said the regular, “I can b
Bowie Day (FFM 26)I’m just reaching the peak of the arpeggio when my voice snaps like a twig.
I hiss plumes of colourful profanity – bad idea – that quickly degenerate into a great hacking cough. That very same cough has haunted me ever since the laryngitis; I run for the tap. Did anyone ever tell you that attempting to drink while coughing is a truly dreadful idea? No? Well, they should have. It results in a saga of cough, drink, choke, and literally repeats ad nauseum.
At some point during this lovely display, Cameron enters the room, looking concerned.
“Carmel, babes, you sound like shit – can you sing?”
I grimace. “Judging by my extremely scientific self-assessment, my vocal chords have gone on strike. Lost a full third of my top notes. It’s not looking good, Cam.”
Any other night this wouldn’t have been a problem. But tonight’s my night on lead, and instead of my usual flirtatious coloratura soprano, I’m cur
Some Manner of Shocking TwistDear Miss MacAbre,
I have a somewhat embarrassing problem. As a recently deceased usurper of the throne, I’m having some difficulty adjusting to the afterlife. I understand that’s totally normal, and I’ve been very impressed by the advice on offer. The leaflet I was given upon arrival—So You’ve Been Besieged by an Army of Guys Dressed Like Trees and Your C-section Rival Lopped Your Head Off—was both helpful and unnervingly specific. I’ve taken everything it says on board and, though it’s hardly smooth sailing, I feel that I’m making good progress. My wife, who died shortly before me, seems to have acclimatised much more quickly and has already succeeded in gaining employment with a local magazine.
My real problem is that while I am content to slowly adjust to life after death, my wife is pressuring me to commit regicide once again. This causes no end of worry, as not only did it not work out so well for me last
PeacockEmily was a cross-dressing member of the peafowl family.
For weeks she’d been collecting feathers from her brother Dave, and now with his help, and the use of some pine resin, she’d managed to fashion herself a fine, full tail.
It was beautiful—she couldn’t stop admiring her reflection in the pond.
But Mrs. Peahen was there looking on. “Maybe we should talk about this…”
Emily sighed at the interruption. “I know you don’t approve, Mum but I’m just trying to be myself.”
“It’s not that I don’t approve,” said Mrs. Peahen. “I just worry about you. Your father does too.”
Emily turned to her mother and sneered. “I don’t care what you both think. I’m going to go and see my boyfriend.”
The wind caught her tail feathers and ruffled them.
“You look gorgeous,” said Trevor the Magpie.
Emily was so happy. Trevor understood her. As she smiled at him,
A Damp Squib Professor Hattersley took his place at the podium, ignoring the less than kind murmurs that spread through the audience as he crossed the stage. Talk didn’t bother him. For one thing, he was used to it. For another, after this conference the talk would be different. He set the shoebox-sized casket of gold and lapis lazuli before him.
“Esteemed colleagues,” he began. “I am aware that my research has drawn a certain amount of scorn in the past, and I appreciate that a degree of scepticism is only healthy.” The murmurs showed no sign of abating. If there was one good thing about being an academic pariah, it was that it did wonders for one’s public speaking skills. He spoke louder. “The idea that the deities of ancient Egypt were not merely the invention of a primitive society, but powerful visitors from another dimension, will no doubt have a dramatic effect on Egyptology, and indeed the study of all
Noughts and Crosses“Noughts and Crosses is boring,” said nought.
“What about Hangman instead?” said cross. “I’ll start: _ _”
“Is it ‘XX’: female genes?”
“Yeah,” said cross.
“Right,” said nought. “My turn: _ _”
“Is it ‘oo’: an expression of delight?”
“Yeah,” said nought.
“Well, that was all for nought,” said cross.
“I feel a bit cross,” said nought.
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