it started with “good night”
and the way you stopped saying it
and I told myself it was because
you were too tired
too weary
too worn
and I made it okay
then I stopped being your “good morning”
and everyone else saw you first
and I told myself it was because
you were too busy
too popular
too distracted
and I made it okay
now it ends with “good bye”
and it's not a cry for attention or a ploy for your love
you can tell yourself it's because
I'm too needy
too jealous
too much
but I gotta make it, okay?
It’s here, in the dark, in the still, quiet night that war begins. It’s easier to focus on the monsters in the dark, real and imaginary. It’s harder to see truth and a nightmare becomes an emotion and an emotion becomes tangible and soon you’re drawing your sword to fight the demons in your head.
As long as there is anger, as long as you can nurse the rage, you can avoid the pain, but when the anger subsides (and subside it will), you will find yourself drowning in the sorrow left behind by the deep slashes your sword made as you sliced recklessly at the darkness.
It will cut deep, sometimes leaving you on your hands
Because in my head
for every one story
there are ten more
and one story says that
you love me and only me
even though I hold
no claim to you
and it's not fair to imagine
that I do
but in that story
we are two lovers
standing on the edge
of something tremendous
and dangerous and beautiful
and I want it.
In another story
we're parallel, side by side
together in a way that's
not together, almost touching
but you've got yours
and I've got mine
and that's okay, isn't it?
Except I don't want mine
because all I see is you
and it's scary to be this
available, to give this much,
to have you here and yet
be alone on the edge.
And then there's the s
He asked me to be who I am,
but who I am is too much.
I'm an extra drop
when everything is saturated
and colors are too bright
and there's that one song
you can't get out of your head
and the one voice
you can't run away from
that sounds so much like your own
and is so, so afraid
of the quicksand
you're eager to slip into.
It feels an awful lot like dying
and an awful lot like breathing
and an awful lot like drowning.
And I know exactly what I mean
and I know exactly the words
because they've been here all along.
I'm just afraid of being too much.
“Can you get this rust bucket moving or can’t you?”
“I’m trying, sir! She took a lot of damage from our last hit, and I didn’t have time to fix ‘er!” The dwarven engineer wiped a bead of sweat off of his upper lip with the back of his hand and kept working.
“Can’t believe my dad went and got himself killed. 30 years a pirate and he gets taken out by some assclown United goon.” Hammert should his head for the millionth time since the news hit his wire. And it happened right after his first big score since getting his own ship, too. He scratched his beard and realized that his
Wesley checked the clock again. He needed about 12 minutes, and he had exactly 14. When the President called with news of the multiple bombs spread throughout the capitol, he knew he had to act fast. According to intelligence, the bombs all connected to one source, but the bombers encrypted the location and even the best and the brightest at the CIA and FBI struggled to track it down.
Throwing a few things in his bag, Wes glanced at his watch again. Down to 10 minutes if the intelligence were correct. Could he find the source? Of course he could, he reasoned; he'd been tracking down these kinds of attacks since the youngest agents were in di
When the blood and vomit and shit dried, and when I no longer heard the low, hungry growling of a big cat and the high-pitched howling of the monkeys, and when I didn't see Rapiers stomping past the grounds or hear their war shouts, only then did I leave the shelter.
Six days. I had marked them on the tent with streaks of my own blood. Morbid, maybe; but blood was the one thing I had in ready supply. Whatever biological weapon the Rapiers unleashed, it made us seep blood from our pores.
Everyone here was dead. I took three steps and fell into a pile of blood, and if they found me again, I never knew.
TW: Suicide, death, loss
It was never enough for you, was it? Life left you short-changed, you said; you felt like a street urchin sneaking dollar bills into your pocket when Life turned its back. You saw her as a greedy, soul-stealing beast that kept you around to torture you into submission, and you fought it; God, you fought it with everything you could throw at it.
So many people fight to live. They turn into Dateline specials and National Geographic documentaries and those crummy shows you watch between infomercials at four in the morning when you can’t sleep. You don’t see any news specials about people fighting to die, a
it started with “good night”
and the way you stopped saying it
and I told myself it was because
you were too tired
too weary
too worn
and I made it okay
then I stopped being your “good morning”
and everyone else saw you first
and I told myself it was because
you were too busy
too popular
too distracted
and I made it okay
now it ends with “good bye”
and it's not a cry for attention or a ploy for your love
you can tell yourself it's because
I'm too needy
too jealous
too much
but I gotta make it, okay?
It’s here, in the dark, in the still, quiet night that war begins. It’s easier to focus on the monsters in the dark, real and imaginary. It’s harder to see truth and a nightmare becomes an emotion and an emotion becomes tangible and soon you’re drawing your sword to fight the demons in your head.
As long as there is anger, as long as you can nurse the rage, you can avoid the pain, but when the anger subsides (and subside it will), you will find yourself drowning in the sorrow left behind by the deep slashes your sword made as you sliced recklessly at the darkness.
It will cut deep, sometimes leaving you on your hands
Because in my head
for every one story
there are ten more
and one story says that
you love me and only me
even though I hold
no claim to you
and it's not fair to imagine
that I do
but in that story
we are two lovers
standing on the edge
of something tremendous
and dangerous and beautiful
and I want it.
In another story
we're parallel, side by side
together in a way that's
not together, almost touching
but you've got yours
and I've got mine
and that's okay, isn't it?
Except I don't want mine
because all I see is you
and it's scary to be this
available, to give this much,
to have you here and yet
be alone on the edge.
And then there's the s
He asked me to be who I am,
but who I am is too much.
I'm an extra drop
when everything is saturated
and colors are too bright
and there's that one song
you can't get out of your head
and the one voice
you can't run away from
that sounds so much like your own
and is so, so afraid
of the quicksand
you're eager to slip into.
It feels an awful lot like dying
and an awful lot like breathing
and an awful lot like drowning.
And I know exactly what I mean
and I know exactly the words
because they've been here all along.
I'm just afraid of being too much.
“Can you get this rust bucket moving or can’t you?”
“I’m trying, sir! She took a lot of damage from our last hit, and I didn’t have time to fix ‘er!” The dwarven engineer wiped a bead of sweat off of his upper lip with the back of his hand and kept working.
“Can’t believe my dad went and got himself killed. 30 years a pirate and he gets taken out by some assclown United goon.” Hammert should his head for the millionth time since the news hit his wire. And it happened right after his first big score since getting his own ship, too. He scratched his beard and realized that his
Wesley checked the clock again. He needed about 12 minutes, and he had exactly 14. When the President called with news of the multiple bombs spread throughout the capitol, he knew he had to act fast. According to intelligence, the bombs all connected to one source, but the bombers encrypted the location and even the best and the brightest at the CIA and FBI struggled to track it down.
Throwing a few things in his bag, Wes glanced at his watch again. Down to 10 minutes if the intelligence were correct. Could he find the source? Of course he could, he reasoned; he'd been tracking down these kinds of attacks since the youngest agents were in di
When the blood and vomit and shit dried, and when I no longer heard the low, hungry growling of a big cat and the high-pitched howling of the monkeys, and when I didn't see Rapiers stomping past the grounds or hear their war shouts, only then did I leave the shelter.
Six days. I had marked them on the tent with streaks of my own blood. Morbid, maybe; but blood was the one thing I had in ready supply. Whatever biological weapon the Rapiers unleashed, it made us seep blood from our pores.
Everyone here was dead. I took three steps and fell into a pile of blood, and if they found me again, I never knew.
TW: Suicide, death, loss
It was never enough for you, was it? Life left you short-changed, you said; you felt like a street urchin sneaking dollar bills into your pocket when Life turned its back. You saw her as a greedy, soul-stealing beast that kept you around to torture you into submission, and you fought it; God, you fought it with everything you could throw at it.
So many people fight to live. They turn into Dateline specials and National Geographic documentaries and those crummy shows you watch between infomercials at four in the morning when you can’t sleep. You don’t see any news specials about people fighting to die, a
Missed writing, came back, but let's be real, I'll be here for a month, write a couple of random things, then go play Overwatch. I mean, at least I'm a self-realized slug? >.>
I stepped away during Flash Fiction Month because my son had to have an appendectomy.
(It was a real scare, but he's recovering beautifully!)
There are a lot of messages. o.O
I guess I have some catching up to do!
My submissions are a little less than timely, but here you have it anyway!
It's never too late to jump on the Flash Fiction Month bandwagon; if you want to get on board, go check out Flash-Fic-Month (https://www.deviantart.com/flash-fic-month) and get crackin'.
Week 1
Peacekeepers
Helper
Boom
Permanent Relocation
Becoming a Man
Chupa
Strangers