Daily Lit Deviations for April 14th, 2012
On StoriesSome people write fanciful stories
Ephermal as a spider's web
Others write plainer stories
Famous only after death
Others write boring stories
Deeply set in granite-stone
Me, I write many stories
But only in my head.
blue baby bluesi.
peacock feathers of smoke
brush over my calves
the plumage working its way
through the stockings & skin
to nestle into the muscle
where it will root like an acorn
and grow into an oaken pair of wings
to lift my feet from hardwood floors
so i can dance
with my knuckles brushing against the ceiling fan
speak.i started biting my lips after it happened.
caught. we'd gotten caught. his body had frozen with his hand down my pants and mine had frozen in a clenched white knuckles position as i prayed for him to stop but no, he wouldn't stop, he never stopped though i begged him to stop. and then months and a trial went by but all i could remember was the smell of the moldy mop in that janitor's closet.
no one knows when it started. i didn't know it had started. i still don't think it happened but my bleeding lips keep telling me otherwise.
"it never happened."
sweetie what do you mean?
"it never happened."
they didn't understand what i was saying
61. Fairy TaleWhen Little Red met the Beast, they roasted three pigs upon a spit over the fire in the woods.
She confided in him that she'd grown weary with her mother's desire to control her each and every move and that her grandmother's mind was going more and more every day. "I've never told anyone else this," she whispered as she ripped some pork with her delicate fingers, "but I have fallen in love with a Wolf."
The Beast eyed Little Red's fingers as she licked the grease off of them, and he asked her if she intended to marry the wolf.
"No, of course not," she said, and explained that she had seen what marriage had done to her mother. She'd only
To My Father's HealerAn open letter to the man who saved my father's life
It becomes apparent as I open this letter that I can never begin it correctly. I do not know what to write, for I do not know your name. I know that you are a doctor, is that how someone is supposed to begin a letter to a man they have never met?
Nobody ever told me your name. I know, though, the other things they told me. Perhaps I could use them to fill the gaps, but part of me fears that removing the distance will take away some of the fascination. I know that you are more than just 'a doctor', I know that you are one of only four people in the whole world who knew how to do