[x]

Simon Says Go Off YourselfThere's a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Blackstone. Cheap. I know it's cheap because it gave my dad nausea last night. Cheap wine does that to him. Why he drank it, I don't know. He's such a dumbass sometimes.

Lindsay, his new fiancée, sits on the couch behind the coffee table in her black nightgown, a lit cigarette between her fingers. She's not supposed to smoke in here. It's bad for my asthma. It's also against regulations. But of course, she doesn't care.

She passes awkward glances at me between each hit. I stand in the threshold to the front room, my arms folded, staring down at her, not knowing what to say or do.

Schrodinger's CatA hermit died. No one knew.

A Thousand Needles"Don't you think you're taking this a bit too far?"

The corner of Will's mouth curves into a contemptuous smirk. "No, doc, I don't," he says.

"See? He just won't stop!" Nina's face is flushed and sickly from sleepless nights and crying. She's a pitiful image—wasted, tired, desperate.

And Will laughs at her, unable to control himself.

Dr. Willoughby looks down at the piece of scratch notebook paper before him, once again observing the gruesome image of the mutilated infant doodled upon it with the words "mommy no love me" scrawled across the top. He leans back against his cushioned chair, removing his glasses and touching his thumb

Drinking in The AfterlifeFor someone who had killed herself, she was awfully cheerful. She was sitting at a small, one-person table in the corner of the pub, twiddling her hair and giggling. There was a bottle of beer on the tabletop. If I hadn't known that it was untouched, I would have thought she was drunk.

"Something amusing?" I asked, having walked up to her.

She jumped and looked towards me, her eyes finding mine. She smiled somewhat sheepishly. She was such a pretty girl. Why she'd killed herself, I couldn't imagine.

"I just can't believe this," she said. "Who'd have thought there'd be pubs in the afterlife?"

I nodded in understanding. "Indeed."

She tucke

tacenda.he's curled up at one end of the sofa, legs tucked underneath him, book in hand, glasses so low on his nose they're practically in his lap already.

she doesn't recognise the book, but it's tattered and worn, like he's already read it a thousand times. like he could probably recite whole passages from memory at his point.

his hair is a mess. there's a hole in his t-shirt, just below his right shoulder, and his jeans are split at the knee. his fingers are covered in what's probably paint, or maybe ink, and there's matching smudges on the bridge of his nose, from his apparently futile efforts to keep his glasses up. the bags under his eyes are

the blind girl's fifth sense
“Mama,”
her tone assumed a quality of
vehement curiosity
backed by a force
of assertiveness.
“Where do babies come from?”

I recognized that she would never accept,
“mommy’s tummy”
or
“a delivery stork.”
My daughter had seen less but she
knew more. She was not naïve.

I answered her, “Better to ask,
where do tears come from?”
Her voice was not kept in abeyance,
there were no second
thoughts.
“Why, from the eyes, Momma.
They have nothing else
to give.
Tears are the only thing they can
contribute. What else,
could eyes be for?”

I responded
to her rhetorical

The Sky is Falling TonightThe sky is falling tonight.
My toes curl inward
as I finish off a cigarette
and flick it to the street corner.
Looks like it might rain.
I bite my lip and taste metal.
A car rolls by with the windows
down and a tanned arm
hanging out the side.

My granddaddy once said
that on the very last day
no one will cry except the earth itself.
I can't hear a thing,
but I smell gasoline and regret.
My granddaddy's tombstone
once had a lipstick stain on it
from where my grandmamma
kissed him goodbye.
I won't even have a tombstone.

The playground is vacant,
the swings rocking in the subtle wind
as if carrying invisible children.
The d

The Paper SocietyWhat if I told you that heaven was a lie
would you fall deeper than you've ever fallen before
to expect nothing to catch your fall?

Glass shards rip against skin
summoning to a God that's never here
and with this said
bones break
and a testament's promise tears itself apart.

For a thousand years, wait patiently
clinging to the single-stranded ropes of a promise
because that's what we are
ropes.

a society of breakable paper, pliable words
the things that hold us together
the lies which are slowly stretching
but we never see the crack beneath it

(careful, dear.
those things are a thousand years old
they're fragile.)

Sing, Scream, WhisperTheir sex spoke of life's secrets.

Only The WildOut here, eyes are unnecessary.
This is what I say to the children
I've been asked to supervise
this dismal February week,
out here in the mountains -
the woodland -
the wild.
Out here you can feel the trees;
the sheer weight of their presence -
physical, tangible -
envelopes you like snow,
a shiver in the soul.
Biting wind wailing through the branches
raises the hairs on the back of your neck,
and you tremble
like saplings in a storm.
Rain and ice and something in-between
drip down from the leaves above.
You feel its caress against your flesh,
taste the kiss of the frozen forest
against your lips, face upturned to the
pine-bough sky.
You know it's there -
you can smell it:
deep and ancient and
heavy with pungent memory.
Pine isn't a variety
of air-freshener, children.
It is alive with the spirit of the earth.
Pine outlasts this brittle season
when all else cowers from the cold.
Evergreen stands proud
against battering wind,

Saltwater VeinsWe chased unfamiliar coastlines,
crossed a continent of earth,
abandoned Northwest shorelines
like broken shells upon the beach;
drove straight ahead, towards looming Atlantic,
laid down roots in an East Coast state
without a shoreline.
But I missed my rocky beaches,
crashing waves swirling sea-spray
against wind-reddened cheeks,
breathing life into salted lungs.
So we chased the Atlantic northward,
up the coast, snaking up Route One,
a wending wave of rocky coastline.
I leaned to touch the water,
and it flowed fast from my fingers -
'til I turned, and
the Atlantic chased me up the beach,
caught me fast in its swell,
froze me in place as seafoam
lapped hungry at my heels,
swallowed ankles seasoned with brine.
My feet sunk into sand
locked between sea and shore
unable to move for fear of falling,
of being swallowed whole.
Then gentle waves released me
sopping wet against the sand
And now I feel the pull
of coastlines east and west
tides rent me from within,
s

And a Sixpence in her ShoeSomething Old.

The first time we meet I am letting a cat out of my bag and you are skipping rocks and skipping school. At first glance I can tell you are broken, with your tired eyes and quivering smirk, and at second glance I realize you are beautiful.

As the cat runs off, a black streak melting into an oil portrait of the woodsy lake, you notice me and tell me your name. In return I tell you a secret.

Secrets, we soon find out, are the oldest tricks in the book.

After we meet each other we find ourselves together time and time again. At the ice cream parlor, the Cineplex, and the animal rescue center. I am busy picking up more cats

Writing Fairytales I told him, "I think I'll write a book."

He said, "Do it right, November. Write a best-seller and send me a copy with your autograph on the inside cover."

"I can do better than that," I promised, our fingers intertwined for the last time, "I'll write the best damn book you've ever read. It'll tell the story of lost love and lost innocence, of found friends and staying out too late on a cold night, and the story of endings without closure. It'll be about boys and girls and break-ups and hook-ups and how everything happens in the backseat of cars."

"They'll interview you on television because everyone wants to know who inspired the story

Anyone Less Than A Saint"Listen, James," Alice said, looking up at him from the bed on which she sat, wearing the pajamas she'd worn the night before. "I got something I have to say to you. Something really important. So I need you to keep quiet and hear me out. Can you do that?"

"Sure, I guess." A smirk tugged at James' lips. "I mean, I never get a word in edgewise anyway, so…"

Alice winced. "I'm sorry about that, Jamie. I'll try to be better, I promise. But for right now I need you to listen, 'cause I'm gonna tell you stuff—stuff I don't particularly want you to hear, but you need to hear it. So, uh, here goes." She cleared her throat, obviously ner

Heaven Looks Like It Wants To CryTerrified by the light that is becoming corrupted on the outside
The clouds up in the sky are slowly turning angrier all the time
It makes me wish I could scream

There goes the lightning in the sky
The heavens looks like it wants to cry
There goes the lightning in the sky
The heavens looks like it wants to cry
There goes the lightning in the sky
The heavens looks like it wants to cry

There’s a reason that we want to cry
We’re living in a world that’s turning dark and gloomy all the time
Weddings and funerals report to the same home every night

There goes the lightning in the sky
The heavens looks like it wants to cry
Ther

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 8.6 KB more ▶

More from ~TheEmptyChest

Winds 2The girl's name is Michaela and she likes to talk. She talks more than the father and the sons combined. She tells stories from her past, and jokes, and talks about things she misses like music and movies and ice cream.

The father decides within the first day of her company that he hates her.

Isaac decides within that same day that he loves her. She makes him almost not want to die.

***

Later, the wind picks up. It's blistering cold. Jacob stops walking and Isaac goes back for him; he opens his coat and tells Jacob to shove his arms inside, and then closes it around them both. A moment later, the father comes back. Picking Jacob up

Winds 1The house is dilapidated: the roof is bent sideways, a few of the windows are busted out, and several of the boards that had made up the structure are now broken and jutting in every direction. It's a pitiful image, but it'll have to do for shelter. Nightfall is fast approaching and the father and his sons need a place to stay. Here is as good as anywhere.

They wrench themselves through the slanted front door. The inside is just as unwelcoming as the out. Everything is grimy and sad. The remnants of what was once a home look betrayed and hopeless.

The oldest son, Isaac, wanders into a nearby bedroom and finds a fallen-over bookshelf.

Magic TricksShe's wearing a black dress with white lace and fishnet stockings that complement her fair-skinned legs. Her hair is done up in an intricate bun, her face coated with exaggerated makeup—white foundation, red lipstick, dark purple eye shadow, rosy blush. Monsieur Dubois said he wanted her to look as though she had popped out of a Tim Burton film. "I want her to have flair," he'd said. As it turns out, his idea of "flair" is an unbalanced, ghoulish look. I can't say I dislike it, though. Grace could make any look work.

That may sound cheesy, and I confess that it probably is, but it is the absolute truth.

I watch her twirl around for Monsieur

Not Too Far DownSometimes Danny would get real scared. He never did like to admit it, but sometimes when he sat on his front porch he'd start tappin' his foot and hummin' and fidgetin' and the like. His wife said it was somethin' with his brain. His rockin' chair helped. So did his cigars.

I remember when the men in suits came and had a hole dug in his field, lookin' for oil. "You just might be a rich man," they told him. One of 'em clapped him on the back and he broke down into tears. He sobbed for hours. I couldn't even tell if he was happy or sad. When his wife heard the news, she put her hand to her chest like she was about to recite the Pledge of Alleg

Broken Hearts Still BeatingThe lightning-spliced sky illuminates my bedroom
and I'm crouched in the corner, embraced by the dark,
thinking of how there could have been a chance
for me to wake up next to you, your emerald eyes
webbed with emotion, your body limp
from jerking in your sleep. I imagine ruffled sheets,
broken lamps, and permeating heat.

I think of how we could have jogged together
along roadsides and doubled over with thorns
in our ribs at your feeble attempts to whistle Dixie.
I'm collapsing inward, reminiscing on the truths
I should have told you and how every boy I pass
has your face, your dark brown hair, your lips.
And I cry. Oh, do I cry.

Schrodinger's CatA hermit died. No one knew.

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

#Writers-Guild-DA
writers everywhere

#writers-central
Pens are mightier than swords.

#knownames

#TheWritingObsession
You know you want to join!

#The-Art-Museum
All Art, All Artisans

#WordsArePicturesToo
Because Literature is Art

#AspiringWritersDojo
Don't ever stop writing

#Short-Stories
Can be as short as you want! :D

Show all (20)

Details

Submitted: November 11, 2012
File Size: 8.6 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 33
Favourites: 22 [who?]
Views: 416 (0 today)
Downloads: 4 (0 today)

[x]

Her Name Was Chastity

by ~TheEmptyChest, Nov 11, 2012, 8:38:57 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Romance / Post-Teen (Mature) / Short Stories

Her name was Chastity, which was funny because she was anything but chaste. She loved to fuck, and by the time I met her she'd done it plenty of times. Far more than I had, and that's saying something.

I suppose most guys would have been worried getting involved with a girl like her, but I wasn't. Just the opposite. I loved that she wasn't ashamed to admit she enjoyed sex, that she had it as often as she wanted and didn't let petty words like "slut" define her.

And I loved her name—the irony of it, the way it sounded, the way it tasted in my mouth. Despite its meaning, "chastity" has got to be one of the most erotic words ever invented. It made me want to fuck her even more. Every time I said it—every time I thought it—the air around me would humidify and I would look at her and see an innocent child, pure and untouched, and I would want to deflower her all over again.

I told her this once, and she laughed and said, "Oh, Christian… how un-Christian of you."

I gave her the finger. Then winked.

I've always hated my name: Christian. Not because it's ugly or anything, but because I'm a hardcore atheist. Have been since the age of fourteen, and damn proud of it.

Chastity and I made fun of each other's names something terrible. It was our way of making light of them, of forgiving our parents for giving them to us. Honestly I think part of the reason why we loved each other was because of our names—because they described the opposite of who we were, because we accepted them even though we hated them. I also think it had something to do with us both coming from fundamentalist households and having a strong distaste for religion in general.

But there was so much more. Chastity was unique. She represented something rare and special, a person unwilling to conform to social standards. She was an attention-seeker if I'd ever seen one, and she showed it. She dyed her hair orange and wore white, star-shaped sunglasses that she'd once found at a thrift store; they'd been on sale for less than a dollar because they were broken, but she'd bought them anyway and fixed them with duct tape.

She had a tattoo. The day we met she told me about it. It was a blooming rose directly above her left breast with a thorny vine that curled around and circled her entire torso. When I asked her why she didn't get one in a more "traditional" area like her shoulder blade or her lower back or her ankle, she scoffed and said, "Because that's so cliché!"

She was definitely not like any of the other girls I'd dated, and I admired her for that.

Sometimes I still can't believe she and I only fucked once.

I'd been lying on her bed shirtless, trying to get a nap in after taking a ridiculously long midterm. Wearing just a bra and checkered miniskirt, standing next to her desktop which had iTunes open and was playing Madonna's "Vogue," she turned to me, a smirk on her face, and said, "I love it when you do that."

"Do what?" I asked, half-asleep.

She sauntered over to the edge of the bed, next to my waist. "Lie on the bed shirtless, looking like you want me to fuck you."

I smiled, instantly horny, and decided to play with her. "What makes you think I want you to fuck me?"

"You do," she answered, and then crawled over top of me, straddling me. "Don't tell me you don't," she said, "because I know you do." She grinned, her cherry-red lip gloss shining in the light that was spilling in through the window.

And I couldn't play anymore. I gave in, just like that. "Yeah, I do."

She let out a giggle—a really cute "teehee"-sounding giggle—and then quickly changed her expression to a feigned look of seriousness. "Well, I suppose I should give you what you want, shouldn't I?"

I couldn't help chuckling. She was playing with me now.

"That's what a good girlfriend would do." She ran the manicured nail of her index finger over my chest and stomach, stopping at the button on my jeans. She tucked her bottom lip under her top teeth as she popped it open. "Am I a good girlfriend?" she asked.

"Of course," I replied.

She grinned in return—"Hell yeah, I am"—and then took it from there.

The next day I left for Thanksgiving Break.

About a week after I returned, once I'd gotten back into the swing of my classes, she invited me up to her dorm room again. It smelled like puke. As I closed the door behind me, I heard her toilet flush. She wobbled out in her pajamas, looking groggy and sick. "It smells like barf in here," I said. "Are you okay?"

She took a seat on her bed. Patted the space beside her, beckoning me to sit there. I did, and the next thing I knew she was sobbing into my shoulder.

"Hey," I said, "what's the matter?"

Gently, she lifted her head up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and replied, "I'm pregnant."

My stomach clenched. My whole body went stiff—so stiff I could actually hear my heart thumping. I felt electrified, frozen. I asked the first question that came to me: "Is it mine?"

"What do you mean?" she snapped. She looked at me like she wanted to tear my throat out. I don't think I'd ever seen her so pissed before. "Of course it's yours, you fuck face! Whose do you think it is?"

"No, I just meant—" I paused. I didn't know what I meant. That question had come out before I'd had time to think about it—about what I was really implying. Truth is, as much as I loved and trusted Chastity, I didn't want it to be mine. I'd rather her have said she fucked some other guy over break than say I was the father. "I'm sorry," I said quickly. And I really was. "What are we going to do now?"

She shrugged, combed her fingers through her hair, and then shook her head. "I don't know."

That scared me. It wasn't like her to be uncertain. She was the type to know what to do, and to do it.

To make matters worse, she asked me what we should do.

I took a deep breath. What could I say but the truth? "I really don't want to be a father right now," I said. "I'm not ready for that."

She nodded, her expression blank. Contemplating.

"Are you angry?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "No." Then she looked me in the eyes and told me we shouldn't see each other anymore.

If I were any kind of man, I would have stayed. I would have set my fears aside, taken her hand, and told her I'd stand by her no matter what. Like the gentlemen in movies do. But I wasn't a man, so I left.

A few weeks later, she sent me a text telling me she was going to adopt the baby out. She said she still wasn't angry at me for wanting nothing to do with it, and that I wouldn't have to worry about child support.

I sent her one back telling her to take care. She responded with a simple "You too."

I didn't get another one until March of the following year. She told me she was four months along and that she'd changed her mind about giving the baby up for adoption—she was going to keep it instead. She'd dropped out of college for the time being and was dating again; a Christian named Andrew. He was going to help her raise it.

I wondered if he knew she was an atheist. I wondered if he knew I was too, and how he'd react. He'd probably be happy about it, I figured. Probably think he was doing the Lord's work, saving an innocent soul from the likes of the damned or some bullshit.

I texted back, saying that was great and I hoped she and her new beau enjoyed their little bundle of joy.

Then she sent one saying the baby wouldn't know of me.

I told her that was just as well.

The next time she texted me it was the end of summer, and her text consisted of three lines:

His name is Joshua.
7lbs, 11oz.
He has your eyes.

She'd sent me a picture. I braced myself as I clicked on it.

It had been taken right after he was born. His skin was a reddish color, his eyes open to just slits. He had a dark tuft of hair on his head; that was the only thing of mine that I could see. I stared at him for a long time, then texted back with "He's beautiful."

I never spoke to Chastity again, and she never sent me any more pictures. But I kept the one she did send.

I look at it every day.

Her Name Was Chastityby ~TheEmptyChest

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Romance / Post-Teen (Mature) / Short Stories

No, I do not hate atheists, and no, I do not hate Christians. This is just a story I came up with out of the blue. Either enjoy it or don't. Whatever works for you.