“I’ve got a sun inside of me,” Toni announced. I chuckled. “Yes, you do. It’s actually a controlled helium-3 deuterium aneutronic fusion reaction but... close enough.” There was a moment of silence while the ship processed this. Then, “is that why you named me Tonatiuh?” I stopped, sat up straighter. “Ah, accessing Wikipedia are we? I didn’t know that link had been established yet. Yes, Toni, that’s why we named you so.” “Tonatiuh, an Aztec sun god. There were a few. The one I am named after was... unpleasant. A god of war?” I thought a bit. Gazed out the window at Earth, far below. The shipyards sprawled around us, stuttering flares of welders torches, the staccato flashes of reaction thrusters on teamster sleds as they moved gantries & ship assemblies about. “Not war,” I said eventually. “Transformation.” Toni absorbed this then intoned, “And they say that, even though all the gods died, In truth, still he did not move. It was not possible for the Sun, Tonatiuh, To follow
I love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.
Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus home.
I love the luxurious sigh wh
“Afternoon, class,” the lanky professor said, his voice bored. The doors slammed shut of their own accord after him, but did not lock. The not locking was such a strange occurrence that it was the subject of intense discussion, at least until the professor—robed in red like all the teachers at the Academy—made it down the 99 Steps of Knowledge to the orchestra at the bottom of the amphitheatre. Once there, he did not immediately begin a lecture, but instead began sorting notes on a table which obediently appeared for him.
The sound of shuffling papers echoed all the way to the top of the seats, and his students shu
The words of the dead and dying by MoreaGaara, literature
Literature
The words of the dead and dying
The words of the dead and dying are prophetic, carrying weight far beyond the promises or threats of the living. For a living girl, to say that she would wait forever for her lover to return was a simple thing. A mere promise, even if she meant it with all her heart. The priest sighed, then, as he entered the house of the dying girl. Some fever had struck her, along with a pain in her stomach that would not fade—it could be no babe, unless she had been as blessed as the Virgin Mary, and she had carried this pain for nearly a year now—and now she was ready to leave this world behind.
He had been tending to her for most of the
o crap not much tiem mus akt fass to save my frend befor he drownds.
i stand ther liek an idyot for a minnit becuas i cant remember how i got heer or whut i was doin befor this horribal thing happend. i shook my hed, an that seems too help a little. I suddenly get stronger, think clearer, and in a split moment of realization it's all pretty obvious what I need to accomplish. But somethin is wrong cus as soon as i think this my hed gets wavy again and thinking is hard. maybe im hurt too?
i check for blud on my hed, no blud, but still... i shake my head again and once more, things stabilize. I reme
"You need to stop doing this."
"Stop doing what?"
"Writing me into your stories."
"...why?"
"Because it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!"
"So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly."
"Well firstly, I'm a really nervous person."
"Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting y
I walk through college campuses in the city, where boys bum cigarettes, bad jokes, beer cans, and brittle belief in their life goals.
There are the frat boys who wear letter jackets and haven’t changed much since high school. I know these are the boys my best friend is going to turn into, the kind of boys who don’t have time for me around their other friends, spiked with hair gel and stupid jokes. I can’t help hoping I’m wrong.
There are the hipster boys with their battered guitar cases, expensive haircuts and cameras, and tattoos sprinkling their bodies. I find myself wishing for their hipbones and lazy smiles.
The
You're anorexic if you're thin
You're not? Then you're obese.
If you're different, you're insane
You're not? Then you're a fake.
If you're happy, you're hiding something.
You're not? You must be emo.
If you're dating, you're a slut.
You're not? You must have no friends.
If you're popular, you're a jerk.
You're not? You're a nobody.
If you're quiet, you must be disabled.
You're not? You obnoxious freak.
If you're you, you're wrong.
You're not?
Then you must be perfect.
Demons are Smarter Than You by MoreaGaara, literature
Literature
Demons are Smarter Than You
The mist obediently hovers within the binding circle, coming once more and tamely to my call. How raucous it was when first I summoned it! How loudly it roared its name to the ceiling—how silent were the heavens that night. But now it is silent when it arrives, as silent as the heavens when I call, for I have bade it so. With it comes the sulfurous reek of its home and its own pets—a pair of tiny bat-winged imps no larger than my hand—and a deepening of the shadows in my basement conjury.
The fool has cast his spells of summoning again, and never were more clichéd words uttered than in this room. He thinks I am silent because he ordered
Nobody goes to the graves anymore
potter's field number ten stands empty
aside from the hundreds of bodies, at least
and the one lonesome boy at the gates
"May I come in?" he asks with a faint mournful smile
and he opens the gate and he pauses to kneel
asks forgiveness from the bodies
that he technically put there.
He's brought some small offerings
food, flowers, rum
and a handful of sugar skulls
which he places on gravesites, every fifth one.
His ritual solemn, he murmurs his greetings
he addresses by name the ones with wood markers
but most graves are nameless
so he calls them "lost friends."
He stops at the grave of a woman