Lit of the Week Winners:
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Let's Never Meet Featured Writers:
83.7% Skyshe lay in bed with a barbed wire spine and83.7% Sky by *Tigris42
hollow bird-wing bones
where she lets the gods sleep
burning black-smith breaths slipped out of her star-dusted lungs
like cigarette smoke
coffee-ringed pupils flickered back and forth like an uncertain mind
she could feel the birds beating their wings against
her riveted monkey-bar ribcage
she hopes to keep breathing the constellations,
twist them in her lungs just to stay alive,
hopes to keep licking up Saturn's rings and
have galaxies dribbling down her chin
so she can mop them up with her sleeve
she hoped the moon could see her with the cosmos
that curled into her collarbone
and the nebulas that wrapped softly
around her rusting wrists
like a lover’s touch
her thoughts are lost in siren chorus and hot asphalt
but she thought he still might hear her
might nurse her back to health
like he did with the sky when she stole the stars
and hung them in her bedroom to feel less lonely
but the moon was too much of a narcissist to really car
Golden“No nudes,” the tech said as he sidled up next to me.Golden by ~saartha
“Word from the top. No tits for aliens.”
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“Sagan's throwing a fit in his office.”
“I might throw one myself. Might as well shove an Amish guy into space and call it good. What about birth? Basic anatomy?”
“Well, I guess the aliens didn't need to see the Statue of David. Not like it's a big deal.”
He laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day, or like it was either laugh or he'd never stop crying.
Someone picked up on the tell-tale hint of a strange signature. Just enough to stir interest. Suddenly every free telescope on the planet was pointed in one direction, searching out the source.
Pinning it down took some time. Getting a clear picture took longer. By the time some brain in the north figured it out, the object was already winging past the planet, deeper into the s
Merely StarsAll that we thought was lost is merely stars,Merely Stars by ~LaBruyere
Burning brighter still than moon or sun;
But far, so far we cannot call them ours,
Waiting out of reach and never won.
This twilight drives an arrow through my soul,
Clinging to the dust at end of day.
Never to regain what bounty stole,
Driving all we ever were away.
You will always be my summer weather,
Warm and pure in ways I'll never know.
Gently in the blades of grass and heather,
'Twas you who held my hand and wouldn't go.
How far we've come and oh, how far apart--
So bright must burn the stars that light our hearts.
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adoptHow to Pocket a Man's Humanity by *jswebb
a rescue cat, fat, days away
from slaughter. Find one mis-
sing half his tail. The pair
will purr in tune; this step
is important. Next, rush him,
him and his rescue, to their
home, and then keep them dry
and healthy. Move deliberate-
ly, with articulation. Shape
the sound. Watch cat and man
sup together, sleep together.
Spring happens upon them, as
it does, and the man and his
rescue walk along the bridge-
less route to the forest and
grove without wind. Convince
him to let rescue race aloft,
to the distant hill-top. And
he will, and he does, and he
is gone. The man screams out-
ward into the meadow, scream
after scream weaving through
stalks of wheat, but nothing.
No clicks or mews. A nothing
against the rust of night on
the horizon. Help the man to-
ward his doorstep. Help keep
him apprised of the treeline
and its shadows. Finally, he,
rescue, appears, and the man
grabs your collar and shouts
and walks and runs and stops.
Rescue has brought home life
Pride:a Villanelle onePride:a Villanelle by *jswebb
Tearing Apart at the SeamsI look to the sky and see your nameTearing Apart at the Seams by =DrippingWords
Written on a black ink canvas.
You are a cacophony of stars
Wishing they could touch the earth.
Written on a black ink canvas,
My words scream for release,
Wishing they could touch the earth.
I become something that does not exist.
My words scream for release,
Tearing themselves from my mouth.
I become something that does not exist --
It feels like I’m dissolving into dust.
Tearing themselves from my mouth,
You are a cacophony of stars.
It feels like I’m dissolving into dust;
I look to the sky and see your name.
WitanWitan:Witan by *Blacksand459
A felicitous word,
That invites comprehension.
In the Beginning,
Unveiled His domain;
Angelic choirs mightily singing.
A systemic deception,
Powers and Thrones exiled.
Without the Keys, none can enter in.
Blood was shed to acquire;
Relegate to obsolesence.
nocturnehere is the testament:nocturne by *toxic-nebulae
the arch in the back,
the crook, crook,
in elbow, knee,
the dull gaseous pump
in the stomach,
I am not a goddess,
not even an altar
with tight magnetic pillars;
more of a sacrament,
if you must have a word.
stretched out on the pyre
I burn and I burn.
Chapter 1: Decisions (Part 1/2)Hi! I would be much obliged if you could read the description first, before battling your way through this. Thanks!Chapter 1: Decisions (Part 1/2) by ~BlakeCurran
It was a drizzly day, the day Thomas Hurst and Rebecca Cunningham got married, and even more so the day they decided to build a house. They had just gotten back from their weekend honeymoon at a bed and breakfast in the country, and were sitting at Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham’s kitchen table. Rain huddled under the eaves of the old house and fell in large drops, tapping against the windowpanes before racing the rest of the way along the glass. It had been a thoroughly wet week: a fact that they had put down to their combined unluckiness, and one that had not gone unnoticed.
“Oh you poor dears, gone all that way for naught. Spent the weekend cooped up in your room, I expect?” Mrs. Cunningham was bustling around the sink, filling the kettle with water.
Tom cleared his throat. “Well, actually, it was kind of lovely, even if it was miserable weather
Harvest HomesShe says, you can tell America from the rest of the world by the color of the wallpaper, or lack thereof. That Southern hospitality is refreshing after so many years in London. The stuffed animal that sits on her table is named Dog, and if you ask her why, she'll ask you if you're blind. It is a dog after all.Harvest Homes by *Jaybird101
When the aide handed her a night gown she wanted to know if it was for sale. When he told her it was a gift, she couldn't accept it, but if he wanted to lend it to her that would be lovely. The aide was actually a woman and when we told her so she replied, “Well, she was a man when he gave it to me”. We all laughed and she said, “Oh lovely then” and laughed with us while clapping her hands.
Needless to say, I liked her almost immediately; so lively and spirited, and what a sense of humor. I can't tell you how old she is, any age beyond eighty will do. I can't tell you how crazy she is, but I imagine only a little, perhaps a touch of Alzheimer's or Dementia
Toy Soldiers When Chester was a boy, he and Will O’Leary next door used to play with toy soldiers. Some were standing with bayonets poised, others lying down, others throwing something that the boys had, at one point or another, accidentally broken off and lost. They were little and made of lead, and Chester loved to paint them far more than he liked to play with them. But he did, with William O’Leary, because that is what little boys do.Toy Soldiers by =doughboycafe
They came in wooden boxes, though Chester’s came in a paper bag when we rescued them from the charity faire on his sixth Christmas. I remember that there were only soldiers, not a complete set; no machines, no cook’s cart, nor medical tents. I suppose he didn’t think of those things as part of the army, or didn’t know what an army really was, because it didn’t bother him to only have soldiers. He painted them in rebel gray and dress blues, and made sure every stripe and symbol was
It's Going to Kill Me a Little BitIt’s going to kill me a little bit. It’s going to hurt and smart and sting. This won’t be easy. I’m too emotional, too firmly bound to you for it to be easy.It's Going to Kill Me a Little Bit by ~bangingonkeyboards
But, my dear, I won’t be dying. I am here for good and I think I’ve got some staying power. I think you’ve chipped my heart, but it isn’t shattered. And this - this thing between us. I will remember it fondly. When you touched me, you were the first boy I turned the lights on for.
I didn’t love you and I don’t. Maybe I could have. Probably I would have. But it’s okay that I won’t. I’ll miss the missed opportunity, but I’d much rather hold onto someone who will love me just as much, love me fiercely.
I believe that we will both love people like that, even if those people are not each other. Maybe one day I will sit at a table at your wedding. Maybe you will meet my future children, hold my daughter’s hand.
We have so much between us - late nig
At World's End LITTLE BOYAt World's End by *jswebb
boy girl r e
c o n c r e t e r
BreakfastYou told me she had died in a hospital bedBreakfast by *Tigris42
With her glasses on
So that she could see Death properly
And I picked away at my breakfast,
Which was pancakes and strawberries,
Trying to imagine
Her squinting ahead at Him
With her dying eyesight
The pancakes were dry and store-bought
And my plate was a pool of cold syrup
When I had finished,
And my hands were stained with the sweet blood
And you took my place,
Picking away at soggy crumbs.
an irrevocable truthi.an irrevocable truth by =Sammur-amat
snowflake child, you are a fine example
of the incandescence of a human light
even under innumerable umbras
i see you- ruby and blooming
ferociously fighting your way
out of a pile of rubble
my anemone, my halo
that comely wraps around my moon pith
do not fret if i self-stumble, fumble
with my fingers, and mumble to my toes
my center of gravity is oft frail and
meek to begin with
you are lead cause of the diamond flecks
scattering about the carbon of my pupils
you do not leave me
you teach me to be
snake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-
a sapphire wanderlust livid
for life and star-gazing sights, you map
constellations on my freckles and fright
look now at how i'll find my lighthouse lover
then tend to some kids
and grow out of my gills and into grey hairs
then tend to some kids with their own kids
and reminisce about friends and phenomena
i signed my name on a patch of sky with
all on my own except
that your hand never left mine
that if i were to crumble
like the sandcastle
Carving ConstellationsDoctors carve out constellations,Carving Constellations by =LadyofGaerdon
stitch star maps into my skin,
a web of scars, a path to take
to find myself again.
My scars are sewn of haunted stars,
constellations but half-drawn;
ghosts of star-fire whispering words
that fade out with the dawn.
They took my rib from me,
ground it up, reformed it,
turned it into Eve;
made a girl with my own name:
a girl they say is me.
My fragile face now hers,
our spirit splintered,
she stands for nothing
I once stood for.
Deep scars fade
before their meanings are deciphered;
yet more maps unfold
17 -- The JumperArm dangling over the ledge,
I imagine, eyes closed,
Silence. Terminal velocity.
Then, calm, whistling air.
Mind forward, back
like Plath's Ariel.
I am captain;
until red curtains meet grey
WillThey used to call it going to church. For about twenty years, just before I was born, they called it going to the mall. That was before the CCTV agencies got connected with the wiretap WATCH agencies in to one big network. They had to stop calling it that because CCTV confirmed none of the folks were at the mall when they said they were. Nowadays they just call it hanging out, but they never say where.
Going to church isn't illegal. And neither is religion or believing in God or reading the Bible. Most everyone is Christian. But Grandpa says people forgot what it means. Grandpa wants me to know what it means. That's why he's going to take me to church.
Grandpa wants a lot for me, and I don't mind it. The only part I mind is keeping it secret. I want to tell my friends but Grandpa doesn't trust them. He tells me things he doesn't tell my brother, and that's the only reason I don't tell nobody, besides the fact that I'm afraid he'll stop his telling if I do, and I like to listen when he
How I See HerShe always coils her hair up before bed
That tight knot almost pulling back skin
And the nightgown she tosses away
Flutters down like night-breath
Before the sheets cocoon her up to the head-
The steady gather and release of her breath
Comforts and troubles me as I sink in beside her;
Is she dreaming and how fluid is the nightmare?
My palm rests lightly against the bone-arch
Between her shoulder blades
Before I lie back and wait to see
If I will hear 'Hello' in the morning.
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