Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Skreezus  Jul 2015
Untitled
Skreezus Jul 2015
I feel like at the end of Fight Club where the narrator and Marla
are holding hands staring out the window
watching the financial institutions explode and crumble
all that destruction
not gazing through the glass but staring at our reflections
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
The typewriter misses one of its keys
Every word is an orphan, and the lines
Wither away in an unfurnished room
Above a garage infested with ghosts

          Life is an unreliable narrator

The phone that isn’t connected doesn’t ring
While past-due notices fight among themselves
And on the hot plate macaroni boils
Sometimes you can see islands in the steam

          Life is an unreliable narrator

You’ve got a gift; that’s what everyone said

But

Your worn-thin sleeping bag is still your bed

          Life is an unreliable narrator
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
I have always been the poet, the narrator.
But you,
You make me feel like the poem for once.
A poem every day.
04-11-19
Anna Miller Oct 2017
I.
It was the beginning of a mild Indiana summer, the kind when your lips are still recovering from being chapped through the inconsistently cool Midwest spring and your skin starts to stick to vinyl when pressed against it for too long. It was a summer of cold-sweat chronic nightmares and letting go. This is when I told you I would be leaving that fall, said I was doing it for myself, said it would be good for you, too. I’m not sure if you believed that. I’m not sure if I did, either.

II.
I spend the morning of the move on the living room floor with all my things strewn out in front of me, figuring out what to leave. I watch the light filter through the blinds, shifting across the floor, trying to guess where it would end up when I finally depart. I clean the bathroom for an hour, trying to leave everything prettier than what I had made it. Don’t worry about it, you said, it will all be a mess later, anyway. When I shut the front door behind me, it sounds different. Absolute. I circle the cul-de-sac three times trying not to cry, watching the trees start to shed their skin. I wonder if you saw me.

III.
We play phone tag for weeks as I try to put off the inevitable. In a stroke of bad luck, the real you answers on a bitter Sunday evening, instead of the recorded message I had heard so much it now sounded like a dirge. I say nothing at first, and then everything I possibly can. I did all I could; I tried to make it up to you, you reply, ambivalent. I agreed even though I hadn’t wanted to.

IV.
We took a Polaroid of our hands clasped together the last day we saw each other. I later cut it in half and threw it out with some rotting orange peels. I had wanted to burn it but remembered how I get around fire. I retake the photo somewhere on the west coast with my new boyfriend. I call it a memorial. I finally say goodbye to your red sweater long after I had already done it to you. I wash it five times trying to get you out of it, pressing it into my skin to make it all mine. When it doesn’t work, I throw it out to rot in refuse with the Polaroid and the orange peels. I call it giving up.

V.
I am such an unreliable narrator, how I paint myself tragic victim in every story, and you, culprit. I wonder if I’ll ever let you be the martyr. I think maybe you were the one who suffered, even though I’m told that can’t be true. It’s just Stockholm syndrome, my therapist says about the way I condemn and praise you in the same breath. I still don’t believe her. I think about my grandmother and her mother and my mother and me, and all their bad blood in my body. I tell her victims can be monsters, too.
Nadia Jun 20
Don’t lie to Nevada Baylor
It's a waste of your time
On a magic alternate earth
She's a truthseeker prime
Head of the family business
And a private investigator
When Houston is in danger
She’s tasked to find the perpetrator

One hundred fifty years ago
The Osirus virus gave
Magic talents to some people,
Mostly the rich and the brave
The virus was discontinued
Due to unpleasant results
And to keep power with Houses
- Think families plus cults

The dynastic Houses feud for
More than money and fame
They breed for powerful talents
To bring their Houses acclaim
Some powers are obvious
But some are understated
Then there are people who can’t
Control how they’ve mutated

The Baylor family is insignificant
Not of the Houses elite
Their talents are powerful
But they need to be discreet
They don’t want to play
Dangerous House games
Yet Nevada finds herself battling
to save Houston from flames

Read for adventure and romance
For banter and magic powers
Stay for the family chemistry
I could read Baylors for many hours
The whole series is fantastic
The audiobook narrator is great
If you’re into urban fantasy
Go ahead, one-click, don’t wait
Review in rhyme of a book I love
memory is a story.  it's not a
clean story.  it is a story without
a beginning, middle or end.  it has
many words and pictures that are unclear.
plot points can be revealed at awkward times.  
supporting characters become leads and
leads become extras.  the narrator can
be unreliable.  rising action
can build to an underwhelming ******.
quotes seem to appear from unknown sources.
it is full of story threads that don't go
anywhere, like romances that never
bloom and confrontations that won't happen.
many problems are never resolved and
there are stories within the story with
no discernible meaning.  the hero
confronts many obstacles, but it is
uncertain as to whether a goal was
achieved by doing so.  despite these flaws,
the story reveals a truth, like all good
stories do.  the reader is the author,
and the author the reader.  "and so on".
Gant Haverstick 2019
Next page