[x]

The Slave Trader“Good evening, Herr.” The man’s voice was small, accented in Spanish. He was wearing a pair of glasses and an old tricorne hat colored dark blue. The table he was sitting at was laden with papers and scrolls, a few inkwells and enough quills to make me think a goose is running around completely naked. The room was empty save for him and me; a number of candles resting on the table and a few shelves around cast the room in odd shadows.

“Wie gehts? Diese ist eine gute Nacht, ja?” I replied sitting in the worn out armchair across from the bespectacled man. A small smile broke out on his face at the remark.

“

The Truth about Birds He showed me a painting of a bird. Swift movements, smooth angles; the essence of aerodynamics. He told me that flying is the act of perfection. He told me how birds are freedom itself. He regarded them as delicate, perishable beings that disappear if touched. To him, birds were the ideal that you can only earn towards, but never reach.

"Do you now understand Birds, my child?" he asked me.

"I do. I've always understood them. I've always known the Truth about Birds. You, however, do not. You only see them as a Symbol of the Humans."

Real birds, however, are neither delicate, nor perfect. Real birds are rough and tough. Real birds need s

Pile of AshesHerman Mildew, the devious bastard who hung a match, blazing with life above a manuscript that took me five years to write? Yes, I know him…and yes, I remember the remnants of his jealousy, a pile of ashes left smoldering. Years of work just gone.

I can recall that evening like it was yesterday…

The sweltering July heat hung over me like a scalding blanket. My mouth was dry with a parched passion as my hands worked diligently curving the pen as I wrote the last words, the last sentence…the last thought of my manuscript that would waft me up to the stage in front of thousands of people where I could proclaim my genius.

the strawberry tartOne afternoon I bought a tart for thirty dollars.

Didn't seem like much at the time, just a couple of bills out of my back pocket, for a tart about three-quarters the size of my fist, laden with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.

I popped a strawberry in my mouth and I liked it, so I took another bite. Didn't like the whipped cream so much. Ate the strawberries, the edges of the chocolate pastry, and threw the rest of the tart away.

When I turned around and strolled back home, I felt the sunshine on my face and I thought that this world could do with a little more happiness, this bliss of a bright afternoon, more often.

Then I rounded

A Butterfly Flapping Its WingsThe letter was clutched in strong fingers which, had they belonged to a lesser man, might have been trembling.

Application successful.

It wasn't happiness or elation that he felt. There was a vindication that scratched on the edges of his thoughts, but the only thing really resonating in his mind was, 'what now?' It was the first time in a long while since he had heard anything beside the scornful echoes of his father's words.

It was a dream.

Almost a decade had passed since they'd been said. He'd shyly expressed his fondness for art as a schoolboy, and his father had promptly crushed his meek hopes with an iron tongue. "Fool," he had sai

Remover

She decided a young woman like her had no business being imperfect. Impurities had to be expelled from her life, no matter the cost. A universal remover promised to be her savior. It lived up to its commercials, doing away with the stains that disgraced her floor and some of the walls.

Would domestic hygiene free her from being flawed? Doubtful. This product guaranteed to exterminate any kind of filth. Could it go beyond the material things? She rubbed the substance on her forehead, and conjured as many negative thoughts as possible. They were recalled, only to vanish from memory a second after.

Satisfied? Not quite. Even the good recollect

Heart, Have No PityThe train sways from side to side, gray subway lights washing away all color from the world, and the shuffle on his music player is playing only the songs Jesper hates. He hits the skip button again and again, tries to keep his briefcase pinned between his legs. There is a coffee stain on his shirt, but he did not have enough time to sprint to his bedroom and change before he had to leave to make his train on time. He cannot afford to be late again.

Skip-skip-skip. He should stop allowing his sister into his apartment; she always deletes his good music and replaces it with pop that Jesper despises. He thinks he hears his station being called

Mrs. LubonekNobody knew how old the Luboneks were, but they’d lived at the top of Pecan Hill since before Cumberland was built, and the town grew up around them. Mr. Lubonek had a voice like gravel and always smelled of engine grease, sweat, and the gritty scent of someone whose friends were machines and whose family were the tools he kept in the shed. Mrs. Lubonek was airy as a bird and every bit as flighty, yet there was a sharp, witty glint in her eye that you only caught if you were looking for it.

The Luboneks lived a simple, dusty life atop Pecan Hill. Mr. Lubonek ran a small mechanic shop out of his garage and Mrs. Lubonek sold baked goods.

ResearchSome writers frequently delete browsing history.

MemoriesI remember lying in bed with you, longing for a deeper connection. You would always sleep with your back to me, in an almost fetal position, as if you were physically guarding your heart. All I wanted was to touch those scars that ran down the center of your chest, but you told me you were not okay with someone else's heart beating within you so I let it be. The look in your eyes when you woke up in the morning; the sleepy surrealness of a dream playing at the corner of your lips, and the early morning light goldenly surrounding your messy hair like a halo was enough to quench any thirst I had for you. It was enough to resonate in me for a lo

The Tapping Next DoorFor most of my life I had lived in the same apartment. It was on the third floor and overlooked the busy city. It was also directly next to another apartment, which means you could hear everything going on behind the right-hand side bedroom wall.

I would occasionally hear faint noises coming from behind the wall. There would be scraping, which I assumed was the sound of a chair being pulled along a wooden floor. Sometimes voices could be heard. I guessed they were either from the residents living there or from a TV or radio. And then there was the banging.

The banging was a rare occurrence, but whenever it happened it really annoyed me. Why

A Battle of Extremes(MR. CYNICISM, MS. SINCERE, and DR. PASSION congregate for battle.)DR. PASSION
Where's all the booze, guys? Where's the music? I thought this was supposed to be a party.

MR. CYNICISM
This is a battle, not a party, good doctor. You may want to remove your lamp shade so you can be prepared to fight.

DR. PASSION
I didn't hear anything about no violence at this here get-together-battle-party-what-have-you.

MR. CYNICISM
That is the definition of battle: Where two or more parties come together and -

DR. PASSION
- come together and make a whole lot of excitement between them. See? That's what I'm saying.

MR. CYNICISM
I should have anticipated s

Preparations"Honestly...I'm a little scared," she admitted.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured her. "It's nothing to be afraid of."

"It's different for you; you've done all of this before. I-I haven't. It's my first time, so I have no idea what to do." She was so nervous that she was shaking, but at the same time her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

"Stop worrying, babe. Just follow my lead and you'll do fine."

When she looked at him, she could see it in his eyes. He was ready to go, but she was holding him back. She was still afraid, but he was worth it. If he was ready to go there, then so was she.

"Alright then," she took a deep breath in a

Shakespeare's Tragic PlaygroundCome one, come all to the newly opened theme park based on Shakespeare's plays! Are you daring enough to live through the infamous lives of the Shakespeare's characters? Experience the heart-breaking tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, the anxiety-filling betrayals of Richard III, the anguish of Hamlet, the trickery in Macbeth, or the back-and-forth moral fight of Othello. At Shakespeare's Tragic Playground, anyone can experience the tragedies that Shakespeare envisioned, only with a thrill of a theme park.
"Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I never saw true beauty till this night." Everyone loves a good ride based on the honeymo

ParricideChris loves his new doll.

Its china face, with delicate hand-painted features, is framed by curling golden locks. He likes to trace its face with careful fingers. He can see his murky reflection in its glistening shoes and its dress is so soft he can't stop running his hand over the sapphire blue cloth. His parents aren't sure who gave him the doll, but six-year-old Chris can't be parted from it.

When he asks for black patent leather shoes, his dad glances up from the bills spread on his desk and his mom starts looking for her Caravan's keys.

When he asks for his chestnut hair to be bleached, his dad's head tilts and his mom takes him to

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A Primrose's Beauty - Chpt. 2Chapter 2

I know some people with disabilities think nothing of it. That's because they are used to it, those people have never experienced life different… I've lived long enough to understand both sides.

I try not to dwell on this but some days it's worse than others. I am thankful that the accident nine years ago didn't kill me, but still… When I see all the other kids walk, run or simply do things any regular person should do the empty feeling begins to gnaw away at me once more.

Thankfully I have a loving mom and dad, and my friend Jennifer to help me get by. Talking to people w

Hand in HandOur intertwined hands

They resembled the strength of our love, the bond of our hearts

And yet

you let go

Why

What did I say? What did I do?

Tell me. I'll fix it, I'll restore it, I'll save it! I refuse to let go! Not now, not ever, before ITS-

-your hand was nowhere in sight

Poem IIHow many times have I imagined you're voice in my ear again

The sweet melody of it

I haven't heard it since you said goodbye

That was three months ago

And yet, every single day, ninety days now

I have thought of you

I wish for what once was, that feeling of bliss

Longing to call, to pick up the phone

Do I try and rekindle what once was

Or continue to let the ice of my heart grow and take over

Until there's nothing left of me

R.E.DI never would of known how much could change at hello
Thoughts full of this warm feeling
Heart captured
All control gone
A sun's rays
The sign of a brand new day

This new feeling deserves a name
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Love?
I am not sure
But I do know many things

A new song my heart has created from its steps
The tinge of pink upon my cheek
Bubbles filling my head
Leaving me dizzy, weak
The world spins around a new center

Complete bliss

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Photograph

by *dwkeiko, Dec 23, 2012, 11:07:54 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

Six year old Rose decided that today would be the day she asked her grandmother about the painting.

It always held her interest, magic upon a canvas. Perhaps it was the rich colors that shimmered under the perfect lighting. It could have been the girl captured within the painting. Maybe it was all of those things, but she had an idea on what it truly was—the eyes.

They were created by the tip of a brush, but carried more life than anything she had ever seen. Color of ice blue, they carried familiarity, warming the inside of her chest. The more she stared, the stronger it felt.

Rose entered her grandmother's living room to see her standing motionless below the giant painting, which stretched over four feet on the wall. Every day Rose spent the afternoon over here, her grandmother would stare at that painting, not a single world falling past her wrinkled lips.

Rose tugged on her grandmother's sleeve and asked," Grandma, how come you look at that painting every day?"

Her grandmother looked down at Rose and smiled. She placed a single hand upon Rose's shoulder. "Somebody once told me long ago that the woman in this painting is the most beautiful girl in the world."

Rose thought to herself for a moment and spoke again. "So why do you look at her every day?"

Her grandmother too paused, her faded blue eyes distant. She found her smile once again and placed it back on her lips. "When I do, I hear him telling me again."

Rose stared at her grandmother, taking in her words. She pursed her lips and nodded before reaching for her grandmother's hand, grasping the long fingers with her own. "I think you're the most beautiful girl in the world."

The two of them both stared at the painting, held by familiar eyes of their own definition of beauty.

Photographby *dwkeiko

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

I've been trying to write flash pieces every day by using prompt ideas. This one was inspired by "photograph;" although, this really isn't about a photo... Meh, it's close enough XD haha!

~Vainamoinenian Dec 29, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

This was so lovely! The scene was so vivid I felt like I was standing behind Rosie and her grandmother, looking at the picture...

*dwkeiko Dec 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

:3 Yeahhhhh!!! Thank you so much!

=DailyLitDeviations Dec 29, 2012

Your wonderful literary work has been chosen to be featured by DailyLitDeviations in a news article that can be found here [link]
Be sure to check out the other artists featured and show your support by

ing the News Article.

*dwkeiko Dec 30, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Oh my gosh, wow!! Thank you so much!!

~PhoenixScribe Dec 25, 2012 Student Writer

Very sweet and touching. Love it!

*dwkeiko Dec 25, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you so much!!

*SubjugatedSandwich Dec 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Awwwww.....that was beautiful. T.T

*dwkeiko Dec 24, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Ahhhhh!!

Thank you!!

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