CalliopeDellaCorte

I burned the bridge with the fire I stole from the torchbearer He never noticed and kept his steady pace down Main Street America His bared body shone with foreign soil tears of hopelessness A battle was being fought, in that dune-dusted desert he came from A contradiction holy war between men who should be brothers After stealing his fire I was obligated to trace his steps backwards And that's how I came across the span of concrete pillars and painted asphalt Bonding artificially the desperate society of ticking human time bombs To a place of lost starved souls zombified by distraction Our mandatory halfway house for empathy rehabil

He wore a mask, white with a heavy spiral of red spinning from his ear to his nose. She wasn't even sure he was human, the way he was silhouetted, crouching on her windowsill. All she could see was that mask. And the streak of blood along the side of his neck. A streetlamp flickered out behind him. Somewhere closer to downtown, a siren howled in lament. Maurine imagined that she'd be waking up soon, and the sheets would be chilly because she'd forgotten to latch the window again. Maybe this time the cheap TV with fuzzy reception would be gone instead of her purse, and maybe she'd finally pay for better locks. He was still there. Maurine wo

I'm up late again, but this time I'm not wrapped in pajamas. The room is quiet as I sit on the edge of my bed, squinting at the hands of my watch and waiting for the angle of the hours to point me in the right direction. My socks make soft sounds, as they brush against the carpeting on the way downstairs. I grab my butterfly bag from the table next to the frog lamp and tip-toe through the kitchen. My coat's on the rack and in the dead of night it's hard to slip it off the hook without letting it rustle. I almost lose my keys—I have to fish through my pockets, my purse, and finally the hole in the lining of my coat before I find them, clenchin

A jade cigarette holder rolled across the carpet. "Would you be a dear and pick that up for me," Rosalind drawled from behind the dressing screen. A skinny hand wagged wagged delicate fingers at Timothy, who scrambled to knock the smoking holder away from the dragging drapes. With the precision of someone bearing a monarch's crown, he delivered it back to Rosalind. She twirled out into the center of the apartment. The fringe of her skirt brushed against the young man's hand before falling to a risqué point just above her knees. She paused and doubled over to peer into a small mirror propped against her makeup case. Cigarette holder dangling

I followed a bad apple Down the snake hole And became A bad orange. Say hello To Mom and Dad For me. Don't write back Because I won't Stick around for long. Please foward All messages To the metropolis Of salvation. I'll get there Eventually. Hugs and kisses. P.S. Don't forget To live a little.

Will you let me find you? Wandering without purpose in a place Where purpose is the definition of life What is life without you? But time feels too short a wick To be burning at both ends What words am I missing tonight That I could be swallowing with a kiss Aginst loneliness, purposelessness How do you stand strong? When the morning dawns cold and wet I may find myself frozen In my solitude, my piety You must bear some badge Of invincibility that I am without Tomorrow I may find that everything Left to divide what keeps me With one foot here and one foot there Is dissolving under the acidity Of the ice that frosts the surf

CHASING FIREFLIES "Well?" "Well, what." "What did you bring?" "Nothing, you fool." "I'm hungry. Where's my lunch?" "I was too busy last night to make your lunch, you jerk." Doumeki stared blankly at Watanuki. The slighter boy sighed. "Yuuko had me chasing invisible fireflies, cruel slave driver that she is. She didn't even tell me how to catch them, just gave me a waterbottle and told me to figure it out for myself." "Did you?" "What?" "Catch them." Watanuki shifted uncomfortably. "Of course not. They were invisible." He glared absently at his own storebought bento. "Yuuko said it was hitsuzen. Somebody else is supposed to catch th

I started spending nights away from home when I was five years old. I'd wait next to the door for the hour before we left, sitting there with piles of picture books up to my waist, too excited to actually read the words I already knew anyway. Somewhere, I was sure, my best friend was waiting just as hard as I was. Charity's house was a castle to my shack. Inside, her room was in the basement, and there was a crawlspace stuffed with more toys than anybody rightly needed. After my parents dropped me off for the night, we would be left alone in that big house, while her family ran errands. Once, we stripped down to our birthday suits and ran ar

I didn't know how much I loved lying next to my grandmother while she rubbed my back and told me stories about my dad when he was a kid. She moved in with us the year after she became a widow, when we still lived in the duplex. I still don't remember her there in that rundown old place. We moved before Christmas to a real house in middle-class suburbia, and it's there that my memory comes into focus. My strongest memory is crawling in next to her when the sun set, while she was watching TV. I don't remember what she watched. I think it was something like 60 Minutes. Her room was the smallest in that big house and the lamp that was on next t

A SECRET IN SAN FRANCISCO CHARACTERS: Deirdre- author Barrick- literary agent Veridy- obsessive and observant fan Scene: A small café with outdoor seating in downtown San Francisco. Two wrought-iron tables with two chairs at each. A tree planted on the left. (DEIRDRE and BARRICK enter stage right, arguing. DEIRDRE is carrying a laptop case.) DEIRDRE: It's my book, Barrick, and I don't want it published yet! BARRICK: The deal's already been signed! It's been signed for months—where is this coming from? DEIRDRE: That's none of your business. My mind's made up and that's all that matters. BARRICK: Never! Never in my life have I met so