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Literature Text
sometimes
i
feel
to
live
is
to
prostitute
yourself
for
others'
love:
to
work
endlessly
for
scattered
cents,
to
have
groaning
muscles
leaking
tears
&
oil
to
catch
up
food
and
throw
up
rent
to
smile
beguilingly
at
a
boy
&
give
your
wind-toy
heart
to
staunch
the
gasps
of
breathy
carbon
dust
trick
the
brokenness
trickling
from
the
radiator,
the
dry
veins
of
the
carburetor.
and
when
all
is
said
and
done,
to
be
undone
or
just
to
run
like
the
tears
in
your
stockinged
feet
i
feel
to
live
is
to
prostitute
yourself
for
others'
love:
to
work
endlessly
for
scattered
cents,
to
have
groaning
muscles
leaking
tears
&
oil
to
catch
up
food
and
throw
up
rent
to
smile
beguilingly
at
a
boy
&
give
your
wind-toy
heart
to
staunch
the
gasps
of
breathy
carbon
dust
trick
the
brokenness
trickling
from
the
radiator,
the
dry
veins
of
the
carburetor.
and
when
all
is
said
and
done,
to
be
undone
or
just
to
run
like
the
tears
in
your
stockinged
feet
Literature
Changing Gears
My morning oats taste particularly bland this morning. I look outside the clouded windows and see the city across every inch of my vision. Buildings of all shapes and sizes are formed from copper, brass, and iron. At all times of the day, the city's Gears are churning.
The Gears are the machines that run the city, the country, possibly even the entire world. Metals are formed together to form them, robotic men designed to replace our government. Their voices boom over the industrial noises of the factories and drown seem to drown out all individual conversations. We're free, I suppose, but they all say that there was once a time when freedom
Literature
Fire and Water
It was raining in Lancaster on September 3rd 1555, and Jane Ask loved the earthy smell that it coaxed out of the soil.
She wiped away the sheen of rainwater from her forehead with the back of her hand and set her small basket of nettles down by the front door. Later she would dry out the leaves and reduce them to a powder; the substance worked wonders on small wounds which refused to stop bleeding.
Jane had always been something of an herbalist. Growing up with only a father, and two older brothers from his first marriage, she had spent the majority of her childhood outdoors. Now practically a spinster at the age of twenty-two, she knew the
Literature
Jitters
MARTY
Ok. This mess is called Jitters.
Teacher gave me a one-word name
On the first day of the third grade.
She labeled me with my condition
And so sparked a life-long tradition
Of insecurity and anxiety, cyclical
Critical hits dealt to my clinical tics
By cynical pricks so I set adrift
Across a rift between me and every other fucking kid I ever dared not encounter, fearing the ridicule they would pursue.
A few years later we went to the zoo.
A tarantula, gargantuan, yet trying to hide
from our view in a viewing tank
With sandy banks and small cacti
Yet we could not avert our childish eyes.
“True,” said teacher,
“You&r
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Comments6
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i really admire the craftsmanship here and those beginning lines just wow. you really captured something that cannot be reproduced. i love the series on scheherazade. :] 