I want you to know something. I need you to know something... My feelings towards you are so strong. I want you to know that I think about you... I think about doing things to you... to your body... Bad things... Naughty things... Sometimes... I think about killing you... murdering you... taking the life from… Continue reading pretty little horrors
The aliens came in ships Big hulking things Moving slowly We don't know from where But it was from afar
I miss the way you look when you are staring at something you love The awe in your eyes The gentle curve of an alomst-smile on your lips Your brow smooth, worryless. Me: Sally You: Jack I miss your gentle touch The way you gather me up in your arms... Me: a dandelion seed You:… Continue reading Yet…
I cannot decide which novel to concentrate on. I literally write a paragraph of one then change my mind and switch. Please, cyberfam, advise me on which novel I should put my efforts into. Epic fantasy series, dark, piratey, demi-gods and goddesses, strange portals that cross over to our world, backstabbing, people getting stabbed in… Continue reading I need your help/advice
As I return to my pour table this week after our many travels, I have found myself asking myself "but what does this piece say?" My art normally says nothing unless my medium is words, because I choose not to use living subjects. But this is of course not what I fucking mean, is it? What I mean is "what am I trying to say?"
The books I've read have always explained blood as smelling "coppery" or "metallic." They're not wrong, but they're not right either. Yes. I could detect that old-penny tang in the air, but there were other things too. They never mention the rot of it. The butcher shop meatiness. The piss and shit part that will undoubtedly be there. Because if there is so much blood you can smell it, then someone is either dead or about to be. A bandaid would no longer help them. Blood doesn't just smell like loose change. I should know. I was covered in it.
She jumped into the passenger seat, never looking away from his dark eyes. She might have to keep them. She had a jar that would suit them perfectly.
Chapter two of my short story Milk
As my hand passes through the barrier it begins to melt and change. Skin turns to shells. Bone to tiny legs. Muscle and nails to wings and light. I scream. All I want to do is go home. Why won't they just let me go home?