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Alyssa Beddoe Aug 2012
that's what I hear all night
Zooming over the waters edge
Thud thud thud
My heart pounding with excitement of the treasure I see in
The distance
Thud thud thud
When we stop and climb abored
All the feet's racing here and there looking for the crates
Thud thud thud
We take of on the vast bumpy ocean
The wind in my hair
Thud thud thud
My jorney is yet over tonight in till tomorrow's adventure
Thud thud thud
Of the machine gun bolts flying by
Thud thud thud
Of my partners hitting the ground
Thud thud thud
Of my heart a racing
Thud thud thud
I hit the ground
Thud thud thud
Is all I hear in my head
I think of what a fun time ive had on the bouncy water
I lay still listing to the last thuds of my heart beating
Thud thud thud
Thud thud
Shanath Apr 2017
The last three days were hammer on a nail,
A nail that doubt planted.
You went thud thud thud
And the nail burnt a hole in my heart.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I moved not an inch,
I gloried at the sight of blood
That sipped to validate my fear.
Thud thud thud.

I was clamped up in terror and pain
For months past now,
Words I counted before sending them on.
You scoffed at them
And wielded the first thud
You screamed at me
Two nights back.
I smiled and fainted to a sleep
That lasted until you dragged the hammer
With a screech,
The nail rusted a bit with my blood
But it stayed.

I grasped my words tight to my throat
Only muttering a handful of them now,
You played with your other tools
And I happened to see a weapon in them all.
A sharp edged knife,
A gun with bullets,
A cannon from a war,
I was crouched in a ball
Still looking at you.
Thud. Thud. Came the second blow
You whistled at a bird across.
The nail bent a little to the right
And made it far beneath my skin.
The blood now formed a wall,
Like concrete and bricks
Blood and rust.
Thud thud.

I shivered between sleep and wake,
Flinching as you dragged your hammer,
A bolder screech across the wall,
Like your voice before you speak.
And then as if a habit
You raised your arm
And dropped was the hammer
On the nail,
Thud thud thud, the last blow you made.
You said how I was made to mend,
By a hammer in your hand.
The nail tore to my bones
And lodged itself as a note.
The hammer ringed in my head,
Blood didn't flow like sleep out of my bed.
I cried in silence
And was gone unlike before.
You dragged your hammer still,
I know.
Thud thud thud.
It rings,
You were hammering my memories.
Thud thud thud.
I was gone now.
Thud thud thud. Stop.

There is a nail lodged in me
But that will be all,
Thud thud thud
I walk on.
Anya Dec 2019
Thud-thud-thud thud thud-thud
Me and my silver owl glasses
And the silver car with the broken hood from when I ram ram
Ramed into the light grey garage and the pale
Blue fire hydrant
And now it goes thud-thud-thud
Thud thud-thud
And me and my owl glasses
Squint up at the sky while the car goes thud-thud
Thud thud-thud
And my skin basking in the sun’s glow,
Rudolph’s luck it was only his nose!
And with a little jingle,
Time to take the baked potato out
Bright red and ready to peel,
Leaving behind an ugly little thing,
In her silver owl glasses and thud-thud silver
With the dented hood
This came from a really weird mood.
Josh Morter Mar 2015
Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble.

My whole innards begin to tumble, whirr around like clothes in a dryer. Pockets not  checked, so their contents are set. Set to begin a cycle of being flung from side to side, swishing around, drowning in a swirl of cleanliness which should of course, ease the pain and wash away those steeped in stains and cleanse a spirit that's been pulled apart. Like a cotton thread. Slowly being pulled away from a wooley jumper as its caught.

Okay, it's caught on a zipper. from an old pair of jeans. Whose paths have crossed many times in outfit combos but now tumbling around together they no longer meld, together. They clash like; tartan and polka dots and conflict each others path to rightful cleanliness.

Basically I'm broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds. Crush. crack. Crunch and crumble

Alas, the thread is now long and wearing thin. It has lost its shape and would have to begin again. Once aired out to dry its a mound of mess, a cotton bundle looking all distressed. It tried its hardest to fight the emotion, the tug, of its strings to maintain its strength; but bowed down to defeat when knowing full well that it was beat. How could it now go on in life when it's torn. Torn to pieces and now ceases to exist in a form that would generally state: It! Exists!
Exists as a life form and a living part, how can things continue to breathe without a beating heart.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

Trying to mend the cracks with this battered *****. Mangled with regret and forlorn with spite, how can this reassess itself until it is right.

Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat, thud thud. My heart.

It takes time to mend a broken ticker. Time passes by and memories become bitter, tainted with a brush that's tarred, marred with the longing for those moments to still occur. Not for your mind to now blur.
Blur those memories you once held so dear, remembered with a chuckle or a wry little smile. How can you comprehend these again for a while?!

You can't.
You shouldn't.
You couldn't.
So don't.

Thump thump. Beat beat, thud thud. It starts. Thump thump, beat beat. Thud thud. My heart.
broken, shattered, pulled apart and torn to pieces, shards of sharp shimmering glass amass into a clump of crunching sounds.
This is my newest poem first in fair amount of time.
Decided to take a bit more of a spoken word vibe with this one. Still unsure of the titl. And whether it runs linear enough through the middle... Any advice or criticism welcome.
Graff1980 May 2017
In deeply disturbing dreams,
Heavy metals thunder
strikes lightning quality
inciting tension,
inducing exhausting levels
of stress.
Till, fatigue and anxiety
snaps a fragile mind.

Thud, thud, thud,

“God, please no more.”

Thud, thud, thud,

“Make it stop, I just need
thirty minutes of sleep.”


A single trigger sounds.
The breath of brothers in arms

A softer bounce, rattle, and thwop.
as one tired body finally drops
of its own accord.

Thud, thud, thud.

Other adult children move forward,
while the self-inflicted sorrow
stains the hollow fox hole.

Thud, thud, thud.
Graff1980 Mar 2017
In deeply disturbing dreams,
Heavy metals thunder
striking lightning quality
inciting tension,
inducing exhausting levels
of stress.
Till, fatigue and anxiety
snaps a fragile mind.

Thud, thud, thud,

“God, please no more.”

Thud, thud, thud,

“Make it stop, I just need
thirty minutes of sleep.”


A single trigger sounds.
The breath of brothers in arms

A softer bounce, rattle, and throp.
as one tired body finally drops
of its own accord.

Thud, thud, thud.

Other adult children move forward,
while the self-inflicted sorrow
stains the hollow fox hole.

Thud, thud, thud.

Spoken Poem
Molehill to earth
Thud, thud and thud
Molehill to grass
Hair flying

Heart to breath
Thud, thud and thud
Heart to head
Feet hurtling

Hummock to leaf
Thud, thud and thud
Hummock to sky
Arms flailing

Foot to root
Thud and thud
Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2017
A ****** of Crows
By: Yitkbel
A muffled nosing
The crow calls at its cradling twilight
The crinkling of the raven’s vigorous grin
Invites a palpitation even from beneath the ledger
Thud, Thud, Thud
Nearer and Nearer
Storm or thunder
Thud, Thud, Thud
Nigh or Yonder
Fear and Wonder
Thud, Thud, Thud
Who’s there
Answer me mister!
Are you a messenger of the night?
Are you a angel of divinity’s right?
Thud, Thud, Thud,
Even louder!
“Come hither, come hither”
Who calls, in that lustful whisper
Only us,
The Mistresses of death,
A flock of crows?
A ******
A ****** of crows.
Lawrence Hall Feb 2019
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Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Graff1980 Jan 2015
I beat my feet against the floor
Thud thud thud
Till the dark red blood
Spews from my new nubs

I bang my head into the wall
Thud thud thud
Till the crimson drips
Drop silently into the mud

I punch the glass window
Thud clash crash
The glass shatters and my fist
Fly’s past the panes

Again and again with no end
In sight
I rage against the night
Violence incarnate
Fury in human form
Flesh and blood storm
No sanity for this mad refugee
Just blood and gore
It was confused and dark, dark, so dark,
dark like when Charlie got drunk for the first time, came back, and stumbled-open the door long after Sam had screamed at everyone to leave her the f--- alone.  

And Jesse is standing there, swaying slightly with the beer and the pounding music, and Charlene feels her ribcage shiver with each bass beat.  The pale light oozing off the stage silvers Jesse’s angled face like water, soaks the black shapes around her, pools in each eye as the constant ripple and shudder of the crowd shifts her hips.  Somehow her thin, bare shoulders speak her excitement, and in the dim shuffle of the audience she’s half drunk and lovely.  “You know that calc test is tomorrow,” Charlene screams over the straight roar of chaos. “Don’t remind me! God!” Lovely Jesse laughs and her hand sketches a lazy gun that jerks at her head -- don’t remind me, God don’t don’t don’t --  and Charlene clenches her eyes shut and still that flashes, dark dark dark, her loose-jointed fingers flicking up, twitching in sickening unison with her mocking head, again again again-- don’t remind me, God,
don’t remindmegoddon’t remind megod god oh God,
Sam loved drinking herself sick, stumbling home with her arm ‘round Charlie’s neck, slurring alcohol love and despair to her ‘bes’ fren, besh’ roomate evr, Charlene a.k.a. Charlie.  And “a.k.a.” as Sam loved to call her, was always there to pick Sam up and clean Sam up and sober Sam the **** up.  And every stupid drunk party night that semester she told Charlie over and over again: ‘listen, a.k.a., here’s a funny story: a girl went to buy her mother aspirin cause her mother had a terrible ******* headache and she bought some from her dear second cousin Kurt the cashier who was a trublueblooded Eagle scout mama’s boy back from college, that sonofabitch and she came home, but her momma didn’t have that headache anymore and gave her a mostly delicious popsicle and it was red strawberry, the end.’  And every stupid drunk party night that semester Charlie watched and listened as Sam made up new stories about aspirin (always ending with popsicles).
See, Charlie was always there. Charlie never drank.  And Charlie, she always listened to the stupid f---ing drunk-strawberry-popsicle story.  And Charlie never gave a **** about Sam, did she? She sure didn’t, no, Charlie didn’t.  

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom” Charlie screams into Jesse’s ear and plunges out into the sea of dark shadows circling her.  The door struggles open, then she’s crushing it shut, crushing splinters into her palms, she’s bending over the counter, both hands white-pressed onto its imitation marble, choking down these sharp sparks of nausea bursting like fireworks inside, and the music’s faded out, its just the thud of that ******* drum that pulses over and over and over --god stop it-- fills the room, rattles the stalls, over and over and Charlie’s convinced its a heartbeat, its Sam’s heartbeat, thud thud thud, god its going on and on and pounding, OH GOD, charlie screams, IT STOPPED, no no no no SAM no SAM SAM SAM OH GOD it stopped no no GOD
next song. drum starts again. and the room is inside of the drum, it is the inside, the taut air’s quivering with each beat, taut ribcage quivering with each beat. Charlie is inside a drum. beat beat beat drumbeat heartbeat thud, thud, thud,
god I look awful, Charlie’s looking at her face in the dim vibrating mirror: blue shadows under her dull eyes, pale, dead-tired, dead-drunk, and so f---ing dead-alive,
she goes back to Jesse, wriggling through the black lumps: lovers making out, heavy spellbound listeners, uneasy loners, angry drunks, drunk as-- drunk as Charlie’s first drunk night.

Sam was so ****** that night and Charlie dragged her home to their dorm, sick of Sam’s tangy alcohol breath and her sagging, skinny weight on her shoulder. “I’m sick of your breath, Sam.” sick of it, god Sam, just stop it, wish that breath would go away, I mean,
it was blowing all over my cheek Sam, cause your **** beautiful face was lying on my neck-- that’s why I said that, I didn’t mean that, Sam.

And then you said ‘well, all right Charlie, I’ll tell you a funny story Charlie,’ and I said ‘oh god Sam, not again,’ and you said ‘no, its different this time’ and you said ‘one day there was a little girl who went to the store to buy aspirin for her mom and the cashier took her into the back of the store and hurt her and she came home and told her mom and her mom slapped her and told her to stop talking ***** and shut the **** up and then that little girl’s throat sure did ache, Charlie, even after a popsicle it did. And Charlie, Charlie, a.k.a. Charlene, sure did hate her breath. see, that’s my story and isn’t it a funny story...”
you drop your drunk roommate on the gritty hallway carpet, give her the key say
‘’bye Samantha", goodbye samgoodbye, bye bye Sam, "I’m going to go get drunk don’t be too much of a ***** while I’m gone.’

floormates told Charlie later that Sam screamed at everyone “hey, all you motherf---ers, leave me the f--- alone,” then laughed, slammed the door. and they did leave her alone.
Charlie came back *****-drunk, touched the doorknob and heard the shot, the door opens,
Sam’s falling and Charlie watches her beautiful, bony wrist flick back as she gets blood all over and ruins her face and Charlie sobers up really f---ing fast.  She always was good at that.
There's a note on the desk in Crayola washable marker (purple): "well, a.k.a., I guess I am being way too much of a ***** while you’re gone. you’re welcome. sorry for ******* it all up again as usual"
*Thanks for that Sam, thanks a lot Sam thanks thanks f--- you
I wanted to write a short story in a realistic voice other than mine, so here's a hard, obscene, despairing 20 yr. old?  Its pretty dark... not sure if I like it, but it was interesting and different to write.
Kelly Selvester Nov 2009
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.
Thud, Thud.

The heart could never stay calm,
Not at a time like this.
Whispers spread along the line,
Did Miss Jones just say "Good Luck"?
I dont know, I wasn't really listening.
Remeber what happens, I tell myself,
Dont look into their eyes or you'll forget.

Five minutes to go, how much more
Do I have to bear this?
Four John Smith has
Just passed out.
Three Emily Watson has
Just passed out too.
Two minutes....I think I might just follow suit
And join the unfortunate ones.
One mintute to go, now i can't bear
this much longer.

How much more do I have to bear this?
A sound is heard,
Lights suddenly brighten
Silence then follows.
My feet lead me forward,
But I can't remember a thing.
I looked into their eyes.
Wished for darkness again
Sophia Gaffney Aug 2015
It’s dark.
No, more than that, it’s entirely stripped of light.
The hairs on my arms are rising.
The air strikes the back of my throat, freezing my esophagus, as it penetrates my lungs.
I hear a thud.
It’s slow.
Cautiously I step.
My hesitant footsteps echo.
As I creep the thud gets slower,
It surrounds my body, seeping into every crevasse, breezing through my hair, running under my fingernails, crawling onto my knuckles, climbing into my ear canal.
I continue creeping.
With every echo I am coming closer.
My breath is hushed,
A single red light flips on, shinning down on a glass box.
But I cannot make out what is inside.
It holds the thud but my eyes cannot see what is ringing in my ears.
I reach the box.
I see It now.
Barely pumping as Its blood is wrung out, dripping, covering the bottom of the box.
It is captured,
Caught in a hand with a grasp too tight.
It’s fading quickly.
I glance down at my chest,
At the jagged hole releasing my insides.
I need It back.
Panic sets in.
Enraged, my jaw clenches, and I kick the glass.
It sits still.
Seemingly cemented on its stand.
I kick and kick and kick and kick.
My hands ball into fists, held tight, arm swings back,
And I release.
I hit.
I hit and hit and kick and hit
And nothing changes.
It sits, still, encompassed in glass, with ever slowing beats.
With all my weight I push,
In hope of forcing it off the stand to shatter on the ground.
It will not move.
It wells up in my throat and I scream.
I scream and kick and hit and fight as tears flood down my face
I fight.
To retrieve what is gone.
It is in your hand.
Why did I give it to you?
Tears flowing, arms flying, breath heaving, I fight
and fight but I cannot break the glass to release your grasp.
I stop.
Blood rising in the box and covering It up,
Thud… thud…. thud….. thud…… thud…… thud…….
The light shuts off, stripped back.
Tears freeze to my flesh.
And the emptiness is all that resides.
bobby burns Nov 2012
heavy, deep and dark.
louder, louder;
the twofold pounding
of clockwork respiration.

thud, (thud-thud)
goddess arms hang
into the abyss, like
dead weight.

depth obscures,
lesser life forms
meander on their own,
unaware of the wayward colossus.


a shroud of antiquity
suspended --
veiling the secret
of ages.

thud, [thud-thud]
percussive life
continues alone,
out of time.


The love bug
A venomous bat
here to **** away all of what I know
a ****** of all hopes
here to **** away all of what I desire
I remember her teeth
clenched onto my neck and ripping off my skin
here to **** away all of who I am
is there anything more insane than love?
now this infection is spreading throughout my entire body!
everything that I saw as real has been ****** away from me.
now my mind is transforming,
all I can think of is,
"what am I willing to do to earn your affection?"
I am willing to top Van Gough
I'll cut out my heart for you
put it on some strings and proudly place it on your petite neck
and when I get near,
I will finally show you what my insides feel like
and when I get near,
you will feel the seizure of beats pound against your chest
and when I get near,
my heart will  hit, hack and **** against you
and when I get near,
you will finally feel what I feel.
this is how I will stop the madness,
because when I get near
I will finally feel what you do,
A repeated beat that will fade into beautiful emptiness
I will wear a plastic smile
I will have a plastic heart
Those beats will get to comforting for me
I will kiss you
to feel those soothing rhythmic beats
the beatings we will share
in unison.
For the first time
my words will hush
and my actions will have a rhythm
a steadily increasing pound
like a drum-line.
there is no way to feel this
that ****** of two lips colliding
all I have to do is close my eyes
and believe the pictures in my head are true.
you are my dream girl
but my dreams are a virus.
reality ****** away from me
and because of this
I gave you all of me
all of what I am
all of what I desire
all of what I know
I hope you continue to wear that necklace
and feel my heartbeat thud against your chest
Thud, Thud, Thud
against your chest, whenever I think of you.
So you will finally know how great that music feels on your body.
that light percussion of my little drummer
will always beat for you
Thud, Thud, Thud
and I will
finally feel
what you do,
I. awoke  to silence  at. 2. In the morning ,
no banging of car doors ,
no. Thud , thud , thud , sweek BANG !
        thud. Thud  thud. Sweek BANG  !
          Thud. Thud. Thud. Squeak BANG !
Chatty neighbors. back from the theatre , or a meal in town .
at. 2 in the morning .
Not even to the sound of friends late night party , chatting over a few drinks in a nearby. Garden , at 2 in the morning .
Or Lovers fighting , broken glasses , pots and pans and crazy plans .
Or lovers making out between the sheets of wild intent .
to disturb me at two in the morning .
There was no tap , tap , tap ,      Tap , of a. dripping tap
Or humming fridge
To disturb me at 2 in the morning .
No mouse  to come in from the rain which pelted against my window pain ,
and scared Mrs Hubbard  who was found in my cupboard ,
Afraid of the big fat spider who happened to see the fly , who just passed by ,
and in the wink of an eye found a web , and a meal for the spider who had waited so long
beside her.
Not forgetting the wasp in the sock , which stung my poor foot , as  I got dressed in the morning .
Not the ticking of a clock could be heard , nothing ,
Until I slept ,
and dreamt a while ,
And dawn would break , to bird song ,
and a new day
at two am in the morning .
Graff1980 Oct 2016
It beats louder than I can stand.
Like a tale tell heart
I hear it going
knowing that the immensity
of what I hold inside of me
will either **** or free me.

I hear the sound of thumping.
A foggy night finds me bumping,
as I keep running from the stunning
sound inside.

Now it is deafening,
but no one else can hear it.
I rupture in side spewing lines
but no one else will feel them;

The poetry of love
thud thud thud,

The poetry of peace
Thud thud thud,

The poetry of compassion
Thud thud thud,

It is all the poetry of me
painted in red ink
working its way
in the form of a heartbeat
turning me inside out.
Charu Joshi Jan 2016
Winds from the south
Cars from the north
I headed east .
Thud thud thud thud
Thud thud thud thud
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I was born a sickly, screeching baby, two months earlier than expected. The doctor and midwife did everything they could to keep my little limbs moving and to keep my tiny heart beating, fluttering like the wings of butterfly.
“Is it a boy?” my mother whispered through her pale lips, as they bathed my naked body in hot water.
“No, ma’am, it’s a girl” The midwife struggled to add on something that would make the wailing creature seem more desirable. “With exquisitely shaped feet, so perfectly miniature”
She let out a croak of conflicting emotions: the joy and pride of a newly-founded motherly love, the fear of presenting a girl as a first-born, the relief that the hours of agony in childbirth were over and the dread of facing her husband once he found out about me.

My mother was not healthy after my birth for a long time; and when I was only one and two months old she fell dangerously ill, and the house whispered footsteps running to her room late at night and muffled voices of different doctors. Mercifully, she survived but was left barren and forever unfertile.
I can not imagine my father’s fury. He believed in having sons to carry on his old last name of thirty-one generations; it was his religion and had I been a son, I would have been worshipped as a god. I can imagine how my mother prayed and thanked her ancestors that her dowry was of a large one.

He could barely tolerate being in the same room as me during my toddler years. Every time he entered a room I was playing in, nurse would sweep me to our garden out side; answering to my startled queries, “Be an obedient daughter, don’t bother your father and don’t ask questions”
My body had been born frail, but my natural spirit was as healthy as could be, full of inquiries, wonders of the world around me and everyday I would learn something new just wandering around the neighborhood observing things, with my nurse trailing with a worried eye behind me muttering, “Girls are not supposed to be exposed to this” she spoke the words as if they were sour, “you should be sitting at home and accompanying your mother.”

Every day at dinner, the two females of the house, me and my mother, were silent while my father ranted on and on. My appetite being very delicate, I often just sat there as still as I possibly could and listened to my father talking about politics, jobs, money. Things he called ‘men business’. I longed to ask questions about these ‘men business’, especially ‘university’ for I had an inquisitive sort-of nature but was refrained with a sharp, piercing look from my mother every time I opened my mouth and sometimes, she pinched me under the table leaving purple splotches which flashed, “Don’t question your father”
Sometimes, he would talk about the future he had decided for me, “You will marry off, sixteen at the latest, to some one rich and beneficial to our family. You will do as I say till I marry you off, and then you will do as your husband tells you.”
“Yes father, for I should repay everything you have done for me” I replied as sweetly as I could.
“Yes, you’re a good daughter. Bear lots of sons for him and your house will be one of happiness.”
I was proud that he had given me a compliment. “Yes father, for it will make you joyful as I always wish to make you so”
My childish heart did not understand why my mother turned her head down while her left eyebrow twitched, and why that night, as she tucked me into bed, I thought I saw a tear roll down her cheek and why as she kissed me that night she whispered, “Do not love me so; love your father. The men in your life are your gods.”

My physical health would constantly limit the desires of my free spirit. I could not to do what others who were as free of spirit as I was could do, and couldn’t socialize with them and the rest of the children in my neighborhood had their siblings to mingle with, causing me to become the pitiful outcast.
I saw children around my age, around seven or eight, climbing trees and wanted to do so as well, but my white feet did not have grip enough to grasp onto the fat branches.
Father caught me once trying to propel myself up a tree and his expression was both of a resigned anger and sadness before he turned him and his face away and back into the house without a word.
That night, mother told me not to climb trees ever again. I noticed a faint bruise on her cheek bone that had been covered with white powder.

When I was eleven or twelve, and was allowed to wander further out into the neighborhood with my nurse I saw the boys fishing in the nearby pond and wanted to do so as well. Starting that day, every week I pocketed the three coins mother gave me until I could buy the best fishing rod in the little store and ran as fast as my skinny, weak legs could carry me to the pond. I mimicked the way the boys flung the fishing rod out over the water but the metal pole was too heavy for my pale, shaking arms. I tried over and over again as my nurse watched, biting her lip in anxiety. I held the fishing rod with trembling sore arms till  I felt a bite; I pumped my small arms to reel it in, but they were so tired and I was far too slow, losing the fish I had spent half the day trying to catch. “Ah, just bad luck, don’t worry! It was a smart fish, I tell you!” nurse exclaimed, though her eyes flashed a look of pity and I knew she knew it wasn’t just bad luck or a smart fish.
In anger, I sold the fishing rod to one of the boys for two-thirds of the price I had bought it for. He was delighted with the bargain and I watched with a lump in my throat as he caught three fish with the tug of his healthy, muscular arm within fifteen minutes. “This is a beautiful rod, and the pond is just filled with fish today, Little Sister!”
Wanting to spend the money jingling inside my pocket, money that to me was just a reminder of a painful memory, I headed off to the collection of little shops close to my house where I was guaranteed distraction. Nurse, sweating and complaining of the heat, followed me.
An ageing man with a bunch of filthy hair working away on a piece of thick, rough paper with wondrous colors inside a shop caught my eye as I peered inside the window. He turned the picture upside down and continued blending in the dark colors of the shape to create a shadow along the curve of it. I entered the shop. “What is that?” I asked of him.
“A face” he replied back absentmindedly.
“Doesn’t look like one to me” I confessed with my honesty.
He looked up at me, “No, it does not to you, and maybe, neither will it at the end. To me, it looks like an angle of a faded face. But slowly, with time, it will become clearer and clearer, yet only to me, and as it does, I will be able to choose more colors to make it yet more beautiful. The outcome of this painting is entirely up to me.”
I felt my challenging self rising up. “But what if you imagined a certain color in your head but couldn’t find it or be able to mix it to your mind’s perfection?”
“Then I would create my own paint color.”
“You know how?”
“No, but if I could not find the paint color already made I would make it myself, and no matter what, would learn how to. So far I have always been able to compromise and mix different colors to please me.”
“You do an awful lot of shadowing light colors with dark colors”
“Why do you think I do so?” he questioned me this time, with bright eyes.
I pondered for a moment to give as good an answer as he had given me and then told him my answer.
He nodded with impress, “Yes, yes, absolutely right. I never thought I’d hear that from a child” and looked at me with his head cocked in curiosity.
“What would you like to buy from here, Little Sister?”
Still deeply interested in our conversation I pulled out the coins I had in my pocket. “How much stuff can I buy with all this money? I’d like those crayons, I’ve tried them once before and they are so creamy and smooth.”
“Oil pastels?” he asked, a little confusedly.
Feeling ashamed of my ignorance, I nodded. The tutor father hired evidently bent to father’s strict rules of what should be taught and what would not be taught. Father disapproved of women painting, and would’ve dismissed nurse had he known that instead of taking me out for a little walk to smell the blooming daffodils, she in fact let me explore the environment around me to the best of my ability even in disgruntle.
The man gave my red-patched cheeks and undeveloped translucent frame a sympathetic look and when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Little Sister, I’ve a whole basket of oil paints that I’ve used but rarely and so are still in perfect condition. Would you like to carry the whole basket home for all the money you have in your pockets?”
I handed him all my golden coins, “But first I must see if I like it.”
“You won’t be disappointed” he chuckled and walked with an imbalanced limp to the back of the store. I noticed a wooden stump protruding from the bottom of his long, black pants. My heart throbbed achingly; he was ****** limited too. I turned to his painting and smiled from deep inside, a smile I rarely wore.
He came back tugging a huge brown basket filled to the brim with sticks of oil pastels, some longer or thicker than others. He lifted an orange one up and showed the tip of it to me, which was stained with a black mark. “Sometimes when you blend colors this will happen, but it’s easy to rid off. Just softly, and patiently rub it off on a cloth until it disappears.” He demonstrated upon his black pants.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you. But...I can’t carry this home myself. It’s heavy.”
I turned to nurse and smiled my best pleading smile.

The basket was toiled up as nurse undressed me from my shower and father and mother were otherwise occupied. That night, with my precious basket safely under my bed, I cleaned all the multi-colored oil pastels on an old shirt, and as soon as the house was ringing with silence, I locked my door and flicked on the lamp light, and started pressing the smooth colors into the paper to blend and make a picture of kissing colors on a relatively large piece of white paper. A thrill ran from my finger tips and along my arm, and made my palms tingle as I held the colorful sticks in my hand to the paper. I hid it underneath my bed just as a rosy sun was rising.
I was sixteen, and I was thought beautiful: for now, at this age, it was considered beautiful to be so pale of skin, so small of feet and hands, graceful to have tiny limbs and charming to have little strength for it was now considered ‘feminine’.
It was three weeks after I had turned sixteen and for dinner, father had brought over an ugly man with a bulging waist and shiny bald head who continually made ****** jokes at the dinner table while he believed I did not understand them. He was infamous for the two wives he had had (before they died from sickness), and how he not only hit them but kept other lovers too. Yet he was desirable for his vast richness. He leered at me obnoxiously, in an attempt to smile.
Father caught him looking at me, “She’s incredibly silent, never says a word of defiance and will be a most dutiful wife.”
“Yes, she is beautiful”
My heart froze and my brain was stimulated to work twice as fast. Him?! Him?! The man who’s wives were killed through an illness called ‘abuse, neglect and disloyalty?!’
I cast my eyelashes down in order to appear a calm, modest young lady while my heart hammered in fury, disgust and a rising hysterical panic. I shot a look at my mother whose left eyebrow was twitching as she stared down at her dinner plate, and I knew she was having the same thoughts as I.
“I would be glad to have you as my son-in-law. You would have no trouble with her, and would be embraced with open arms into our family.”
They continued this path of talk through dinner while he eyeballed me in a way that made me cringe. I felt his foot nudge mine under the table and in haste tucked it under the chair with a little gasp. His eyes glittered at my gasp and I was furious with myself for letting him feel a rotten triumph. Though I had always felt an extremely strong dislike towards him from what I knew of him and sometimes saw of him with an immoral lady, something pushed in the pit of my tummy, and I knew it was pure hatred.
When mother tucked me in she was being strange. On closing my door she whispered, “I love you… so I wish you to know… don’t ever contradict men”

As I was secretly drawing a picture as I did every night till dawn, I heard my father’s voice roar in the dead of the night. In a sudden, I shoved my portrait under the bed and threw all my oil pastels into the basket, hid it, and switched the light off. I heard his voice roar again, accompanied by a thud. I was wild with fear as I crept to my door and pressed my ear against it, barely even shocked at my own daringness as my instinct, love, took over- my instinct of must knowing what was happening to my mother.
“How dare you say I’m wrong!?” there was another thud, and this time I heard a soft whimper. “She is worthless to me, not a son. And I will marry her off to a rich man who can actually benefit this family.” He roared.
There was a whisper which I strained to hear, “He will **** her”
“From the moment she was born she wasn’t made to live!” he yelled.
A hiss escaped my tongue and I coiled like a serpent, flinching as a thud was heard yet again and an immediate cry of pain escaped from both my lips and my mothers’.
A fire awoke inside me, burning my temples and my whole body and my eyes stung with hot tears; tears that burned my face as they splashed down. My whole body was shaking and my tightly squeezed eyes were going through spasms. I was no longer wild with fear, but with anger.
I turned my light back on and tugged my basket of oil pastels out. I yanked my portrait off from a thick of pile of different pictures I had drawn.
My breath was coming in quick short breaths as I finished my portrait to the utmost perfection, using every oil pastel in the basket. Every time I heard a thud, I colored with more fiery… shadowing my jaw line with the fat black oil pastel, in the crook of my ear, the corner of my mouth… where the light shone upon my fore head, how it reflected in the color of my eye and glowed on my cheeks.
When I was finished, the house was deadly quiet again and dawn was breaking. I looked down upon it and realized something that changed my life.
In frenzy I swatted out all the things I had ever drawn and stared at them in an awakening.
The colors on them were the events of my life, the things that characterized it, the decisions. They were beautiful for they had been chosen and controlled by me … I had chosen the colors I wanted and thought best for my pictures; and spent thought over how to blend different colors to the color I wanted.
And everyday, as I worked into the drawings with time, they became clearer and clearer on what was the right thing to do, and how it should possibly look like in the next stage.
I leaned over and kissed the thin lips of my portrait that didn’t look exactly like me for not even the most skilled artists have complete control over what they draw.

Then I remembered what I had told the one-legged man in the shop a few years go:
“Lights not only illuminate, they also cast shadows. The contrast makes you able to appreciate the power of both.”
Now it was time to truly let the light illuminate my life, and let the shadows let me appreciate the light that shines upon me; I color my own life, and choose my own colors.

To pull out the colors underneath the darkness of my bed…
And spill it to the world outside.
Londis Carpenter Sep 2010
NOTE:  This is a short story; not a poem.  (author)

(Sometimes when you don’t know something can’t be done, you discover a way to do it.)

High at the top of a tree in Forest Park, Parker Squirrel lived in a nest that his mother had built from a hollowed out place inside the trunk of an old oak.   A large branch forked away from the main trunk and a hole in the bark conveniently served as a doorway to the outside world.  On one particular morning, Parker poked his head out from the doorway of his home and looked around very carefully at his surroundings.  It wasn’t the first time in his young life that he had peeked at the outside world from his mother’s nest, but this time he was more alert and cautious than he had ever been before.  Today he was orphaned and all alone.  Sometime in the dark of night, while he was hiding deep inside the nest, he was forced to watch in terror when a large owl came and took away his mother.  So today, feeling very timid and afraid, Parker made every effort to look in each direction before leaving his cozy home to explore and search for food.

Just ahead of him he saw that the rustic ranger station stood like a monument, to welcomed visitors to the state park.   On his left he could see the foothills of the purple mountain range.  He knew that these foothills and their woodlands were all part of the place called Forest Park.  Off to his right a dancing brook bubbled along the edge of a grassy meadow.  In its tall grasses he saw a white-tail doe playing with her newborn fawn. There seemed to be no danger in that direction, so Parker stretched his neck upward and watched as white, cotton-ball clouds floated across the azure blue sky.  Finally he looked down at the ground far below just in time to see a large toad quickly hop under the cover of some wild mushrooms.  Still, he sensed no danger.

Unfortunately, in order to see the forest behind him, it was necessary for Parker to leave his nest and climb around to the other side of his oak tree. And that was a problem for Parker, because the little squirrel was still much too timid to take such a chance.  Instead he stretched as far as he could to look around the wide tree trunk and into the woods.

Glancing back into the forest, Parker saw more tall oak trees with their strong, stately trunks.  He saw a scattering of white flowers that revealed the presence of dogwood trees.  A stand of sugar maples displayed their graceful branches and delicate leaves.  He also noticed some early spring flowers and wild mustard plants splashing bright yellow hues against the fresh green Indian grasses where a tiny meadow carpeted the outer edge of the forest floor.

There were no owls!

Even if they were hiding where he couldn’t see them, Parker would know they were there.  He would be able to smell their unmistakable odor.  To nearly all rodents, the owls have a peculiar stench that is putrid and foul.  And even a young squirrel like Parker would recognize it at once.

The young squirrel was fascinated by all he saw.  His furry skin tingled in the warm glow of the bright, noonday sunshine, almost making him forget the tragedy of the previous night.  Parker had only arrived into the world about six weeks ago, but in squirrel time that meant he would soon be approaching young adulthood.  He had always been cozy and comfortable, cradled in the nest his mother had built in the tall oak tree.  He had always enjoyed foraging with her for seeds and nuts.  The pantry was partly filled, even now, with acorns and hickory nuts, which emitted a woodsy aroma that reminded him of his mother.   He loved the wonderful world he saw from his perch and his heart was so happy that he began to chatter a new springtime song, which he seemed to hear playing all by itself inside his head.

Parker was so enthralled by all the new sights and smells filling his senses that he nearly outstretched the length of his body as he leaned outside the doorway to his mother’s cozy nest and suddenly he fell and tumbled onto the forest floor beneath him.  He landed with a horrible thud!  The little squirrel landed on his back into a clump of moss that grew beneath the tall oak, which only moments before had been his citadel.

  “Ouch!” chattered Parker as he recovered his breath.  The fall had knocked the wind from his lungs but as soon as he discovered he could breath again he checked himself all over to make sure he wasn’t seriously hurt.  Then he began to explore the forest floor.

The little squirrel was so excited, as he ran from one discovery to another, that he completely lost track of time.  Before he knew it, he was a long way from his mother’s tree and it was growing dark.   The little squirrel ran from tree to tree looking for his home and finally he stopped at a very tall oak.  Parker was certain that this was the same tree from which he had fallen, so as fast as he could scurry, he climbed up the trunk, searching among its branches for his mother’s nest.  When he failed to find his home in the trunk of the tree, Parker finally realized that he was lost. The young squirrel had exhausted all of his strength running through the woods.

Afraid and suddenly very lonely, Parker was also very sleepy and hungry.   Since he had no food and didn’t know what else he could do, Parker curled up into a ball at the crook of a branch and fell asleep.  Next morning Parker searched the tree again for his home.  To his surprise he stumbled upon a strange nest made up of branches and twigs of oak built close to the trunk of the tree.  This nest seemed substantial and well built.  The interior of the nesting cup was about eight inches across and five inches deep.  Although the nest looked crude from the outside, its bowl was delicately and warmly lined with a combination of moss, feathers and leaves. It was about seventy-five feet from the ground and two fledgling crows were sleeping inside.

An older squirrel might have killed the baby crows for food and driven off the adult birds when they returned, but Parker just climbed inside the nest, curled up beside the sleeping pair, and fell asleep to dream about where he would find his next meal.

Parker’s sleep was interrupted by the noise of the two young birds’ loud clamoring for food.  Their incessant calls were being tended to by the mamma crow, which had returned to the nest and was now busy stuffing their hungry mouths with an assortment of seeds and worms.  As strange as it seems and much to Parker’s surprise, the mother crow also began stuffing his mouth with food just the same as if she was feeding her own children.  Although he didn’t like the earthy taste of the worms, Parker was very hungry and he swallowed every bite.  He found that he was actually quite satisfied with the meal.

Parker soon learned that there had originally been six baby birds occupying the crow nest, but sadly four had recently been taken by the owls in nighttime raids.  Perhaps the loss of her own children was the reason the Mother Crow decided to adopt the baby squirrel and began feeding it along with her own young.  In nature there are many mysteries and not all of them have easy answers.  But, whatever her reason, one thing is very certain.  Parker Squirrel had been officially adopted into the Crow family and he now had a new mother and a new home, complete with a brother and a sister.

Parker’s new siblings were very close to his own age, which meant they soon would begin standing on the edge of the nest and even leave to nearby branches of the tree when they were being fed.  In the course of another week they would be leaving the nest and taking their initial flight while being watched, tended to, and protected by their adult parents.  So Parker had a great surprise awaiting him. He didn’t know it yet, but in just a few days Mamma Crow would be expecting him to learn to fly.  Of course, squirrels, by nature, are curious and quite acrobatic and no one had ever yet told Parker that he couldn’t fly like a bird.   So when the time came for Parker and his siblings to make their initial test flights, he spread his arms and began to flap them hard, as though they were wings, as he leaped from the nest.  Naturally the little squirrel tumbled down once again onto the forest floor with another thud.

Encouraged and nudged along by Mamma Crow and by taunts from his new brother and sister, Parker tried again and again to fly.  Each time he tried flapping his little arms like wings and each time he fell to earth with a thud.  Soon his whole body ached with painful bruises from his many falls.  But even more than the motivation and prodding from his new family, Parker wanted to fly.  There was something inside Parker that made him want to keep trying.  Parker really did want to fly.

Immediately after being adopted, Parker had begun foraging for his own food by pure instinct.  When he found acorns and seeds he brought them by mouthfuls back to the Crow family’s nest.  But now the urge to fly was almost as strong inside him as his urge to scour the forest floor for acorns and nuts.

At night Parker dreamed about flying.  As a younger squirrel he had often dreamed about being a “super squirrel” that flew around the forest, from tree to tree, doing good deeds and fighting off the evil owls with his super powers.  But the urge he felt now to soar through the air was different from the wishful thinking of a childhood fantasy.  Parker felt that he had to fly.  He just had to.

He thought about why he wanted to fly so badly.  It was more than the fact that his new brother and sister could fly.  There was some important reason deep inside him that made him yearn to soar from tree to tree.  As time passed Parker met other squirrels in the forest and he knew very well by now that he was not a crow, so why couldn’t he just be content to be like the other squirrels and forget all about this nonsense of flying after all.  He thought that perhaps it was because he remembered what the owls had done to his mother and what they had done to those siblings from his new family that were taken before he even had a chance to meet them.  Perhaps now, he thought, he was just afraid and only wanted to fly so he could escape the danger of the owls.  Maybe he was just a coward.

The next night when Parker went to sleep he dreamed again of flying.  But there was something different about this dream.  In his dream Parker was not flying like the crows fly.  He didn’t flap his arms up and down like wings.  Instead he just glided and soared with no effort at all.  In this dream he could actually feel the wind flowing over his body as he glided from one tree to another.  When the sun came out and awakened him from his sleep, Parker couldn’t wait to try again.  This time when he jumped from the nest he would not flap his arms because, after all, arms aren’t wings are they?

Before anyone could stop him, Parker leaped from the nest.  He began to fall straight down, but instead of flapping his arms up and down, he stretched his arms and legs out as far as they would reach.  Then, suddenly something happened.  Instead of dropping to the ground with a painful thud, Parker started gliding.  He didn’t fly far enough to reach another tree, but he was able to glide to another branch on his own tree.  After recovering from his own surprise, he looked back to the nest and he saw his mother and brother and sister all standing on the edge of the nest with looks of amazement on their faces.  They were all calling out to him to try it again. This time, having learned what to expect, Parker glided all the way to the next tree.  After a few more tries, Mother Crow was flying right beside him.

One day Mamma Crow told him to follow her.  “Come with me,” she said.  “I want to show you something.”   And he followed her, gliding from tree to tree.  She led him to a new place, deeper into the woods than he had ever been.  Soon they arrived at a place in the forest that almost seemed enchanted.  He was very surprised to see that were lots of other squirrels gliding from tree to tree just like Parker.

“This is your new home,” said Mother Crow to Parker.  “You’re not just an ordinary squirrel, you know, you are a flying squirrel.”

Then she told him, “From the day I first adopted you I knew that you were special. But you had to discover by yourself who you really are.  Here in this place you can be safe and make friends of your own kind.”  After saying goodbye and wishing him well, she waved at him and, looking back one more time, she flew away.

Well, that is how Parker learned to fly and how he discovered who he really was.  After that he continued to live a very happy life with his new friends.  The owls never seemed to trouble him in this part of the woods.  But he never, ever, forgot about Mother Crow and the family that adopted him. Even to this day, Parker often stops by the nest with a mouthful of acorns and nuts.
copyright by Londis Carpenter
Word count: 2414 Views: 29
you will be 14 the first time a boy surges his way inside you
like a battering ram, unyielding at the castle gates
and you'll cry quietly and forget about it until you're 17
when a leering grin is the only precedence to fingers like knives
that scale the walls searching for whatever treasure that is rumoured inside you
you will be unable to dismiss the fear that swirls like animation-show thunderclouds above your head
when its dark outside and you've still got 10 minutes left of your journey and right here, this alley
cross the road to avoid it because you can't trust shadows in places like these
and hell, you'll still be afraid the next day at 2pm walking home from a doctors appointment
hearing the loud thud thud thud of footsteps behind you and they speed up with a thud thud ThUd THUD
your heart crazy and rioting like a bird in your chest but its just a man trying to get past you because of his long, long legs, and heavy footfalls
you haven't felt safe in the places you should've and that scared you for years until you made it to 17
layers of memory peeling back with the catalyst and you know now why arms always felt like iron bars
because you see a smile storm past your eyes when you close them
and hear the soft laugh of the older boy
as you squirm under him and no, you haven't told anyone
too late to make change and too late to stop being afraid
this, your secret shame,
you will be 14 when you let yourself get *****.
d Jan 2016
it started as a polite knock
tap tap tap
always three times
my heart asked timidly to leave my body
tap tap tapped
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see

soon my heart progressed
thud thud thud
always three times
my heart started raising its voice
thud thud thudding
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see

then my heart was angry
wham wham wham
my heart pounded in my chest
wham wham whamming
on my ribs
always in three
my heart has ocd you see
Chris Arias Jul 2014
Vulnerable blue veins lurking beneath pale skin.
Longing, begging, pleading
to be opened,
to be spilled,
Lies and heartache released,
peace and silence gained.
Deeper, farther, less afraid,
one step closer
From temporary release
to eternal silence.

Trembling hands.
Shallow breaths.
Silence is so near,
So simple,
but so

but hesitant.
Longing to go,
but needing to stay.
A constant internal war.
Do it.
I can’t
Stop it.
I won’t
End it.

Fear seeps through,
slow at first, but then all at once.
Realization creeps through.
Horror dawns.
Disgust arrives.
Self hatred.
A glimmer of relief.
Still here.
Still beating.
Dyanova Sep 2014
When clocks strike twelve and trainings end
— lurk not, they say, in school at night.
Age-old stories tell of how there’re
things that throng in fluorescent light.

In toilets silence screeches loud,
for when school’s empty, they arise:
Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing,
with cleaner-uncle poltergeists.

For now I sit on chilling white,
resounding prayers in my mind;
my heart racing with dire wish
a friend of Casper’s I won’t find —

Then eeeeeeek!
Is that a door creaking?
Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind,
Hinges sing as they fly open!
Thou who entered, oh be my kind!

A thud thud thud as shoes traverse
across the glinting marble floor;
and louder,
louder as they get
much nearer to my sacred door!


or so I wish!

But a loud knock takes my breath away.
The unlatched bolt lies there lazing

A hand thrusts in so hard and swift,
door’s open ‘fore I can react!
I’m facing now a girl my age,
She bawls at me with little tact —

Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated,
I dash out of the girls’ toilet
before she tries to castrate me.
Hahaha wrote this for the fun/pun of it.
Jonny Angel Jun 2014
Accented voices
interrupted the starry pitch
& Reilly whispered,
don't light 'em up,
use your blade instead."

And we did quickly,
buried them to the hilts,
sticky warmth ran swiftly
through my fingers
& we heard thud thud.
elle Mar 2012
Tick.    Thud.    Tick.    Thud.
Can the audience hear that?
                                                  The sound of my heart beating syncronously with the metronome
I hope not. Because all I hear is the simultaneous thud/tick of nerves.
                                                                ­                                                              Don­t show your nerves

Can the audience see that?
                                               The sweat that's accumulated on your palms
I hope not. Because all I feel is a cold slimy instrument in you hands. Slipping like butter.

Can the audience feel that?
                                               That frantic look you're giving everyone
I hope not. Because angst and apprehension don't go over well with spectators.

                                                               ­                                                                 ­              Just don't show your nerves.
      ­                                                 And take some deep breaths.

Inhale, tick, thud, exhale, tick, thud, inhale, tick, thud, exhale tick, thud
Inhale, tick, exhale, tick, inhale, tick, exhale
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale
Inhale, *play
Sam Clemens Mar 2014
Pressure is a privilege
  I tell myself
Measure the space between the thunder claps in my chest
They closer they are, the closer I get
  Im almost alive again

A buzz runs through my circuits
   To my spark plug fingertips
   But cant drown out the heavy silence in the air
   My breath runs from my lips

Theres a convict clinging to my rib cage
  I think
I can feel him stomping to get out
  Thud thud
   Thud thud
    Thud thud
Shackled in iron wrought expectations
And the unwelcome warmth
  of familiar faces
I cant let them see me fail
  But what if I fail

Have you ever noticed
The ground looks like a fuse from up here
   In my mind?
   I struck a spark the second I started running
I lit the fuse
The flames are licking at my worries
  Melting away
   The world around me
     Consumed by fire
I like this

Apr 7, 2012, 6:08:21 PM by ~OmegaWolfOfWinter
Journals / Personal

"Name: Amelia Weissmuler. Date of birth: June 6th, 1920. Test subject number 314-X. Specimen: Tiger." Amy heard all of this through a haze of sedatives that had begun to lose their already poor effect. She turned in the direction of the voice and saw a fearsome **** SS General standing behind a white clad scientist with a heavy accent. The general said nothing but listened and watched as Amy was strapped down to a cold metal table, completely **** with various wires, tubes and needles protruding from her flesh. She groaned painfully, the needles were extensive, and the **** scientists had no care of decency or respect. she was hit with another sedative and before she lost consciousness she heard the scientist, who she guessed was Dr. Heismeiller, say, "Name, Mordecai Dansker, former Major of the Third *****. Date of birth: September 19th, 1919. Test subject 14-W. Specimen: Wolf. As you
can see, Heir General, these are both healthy specimens, as are the test subjects." Amy heard a
rattling of cages. Her vison slowly went dark but not before seeing the doctor's face, uncovered and psychotic.
* *
When Amy woke up again, she was being suspended from the floor, the tubes and wires accompanied by menacing electrodes. there was an unnatural blue and white crackling of electricity around her, illuminating the other suspended tables nearby, the bodies in various grotesque positions and levels of decay. she tried to scream but found a machine unceremoniously shoved in her mouth, stretching deep inside her. she looked and saw nothing but obscene machines and various glass tubes of colored bubbling liquids. she tried sluggishly to break free but to no avail. what little strength she had was useless against the torturous devices emplanted in and around her. "Doctor, begin the experiment."
"Yaboe!" She heard a solid click resound through the room and heard a male scream in another room. the screams echoed for a long while, then nothing. she heard a gasp of releif from
the doctor and, "General! Subject 14-W... he has... Survived!"
"Good. now start on the frauline." there was a large thud from outside the room. "Quickly! this facility is under seige!"
"Yes sir, heir general. Test subject 314-X prepped and ready. Begin phase 1." she cried out silently as the needles burned hot inside her and the tubes boiled her insides. the electrodes soon incapacitated her and she fell unconscious.
"Phase 1 complete, heir general, subject is ready, proceeding to Phase 2."
Amy felt an intense burning around the needles, and an electric fire through her veins. the machine had been taken from her mouth, but she doubted she could scream any more, as her throat was raw from the silent screams of Phase 1. She felt her body shake uncontrollably as more electric shocks were administered. she was left panting and slumped over. "Sequence complete, the bonding process was a success." there was another thud and sediment from the roof fell to the floor. "Get her down now! They will be through soon!" She was lowered to the ground and unstrapped from the table, picked up, and placed on a stretcher. she raised her hands on front her face and nearly fainted, her hands, or paws, resembled that of a tiger, and as she looked, her whole body was covered in a slick orange, black and white fur. She was put into the backseat of an armored car with a simple blanket draped around
her. Amy felt nauseated
as the car sped off. It hit a bump in the road and she moaned painfully, clutching her furry belly and retching. the **** next to her turned away in disgust. the car ride was long and sickening, and she lost consciousness twice, and finally she tried to lay down in the cramped space. when the armored car finally stopped, she was pulled from the back seat and carried over a soldier's shoulder and into a small bunker. Once inside, amy heard a metal door open and was laid down onto a stiff bed with a single pillow and a single cover. There was a small window in the cell, a drab, grey stream of light shining in her eyes. She propped herself up on her elbow and shielded her eyes from the blinding contrast. Once her eyes adjusted, amy noticed that things had a particular sharpness to them and she had an acute awareness of things based on scent. she stood shakily, and noticed she was almost
six inches taller now, and her new tail swished back and forth along the concrete floor. she stepped
forward and grasped the iron bars and peeked out, seeing a black leather messenger bag and a black uniform lined with white. she couldn't quite reach the uniform, but was able to get a claw around the strap of the messenger bag. she pulled it closer to her and saw that her initials were monogrammed into the leather. she pulled it through the bars and opened the bag, pulling out a small, blank, leather bound journal and a pen. still ****, she sat on the bed and practiced writing, tearing out two pages of scratch paper. She began her journal with, "I am no longer the person i once was. i am something new, something... different."
• * *
The **** captain stepped into the bunker and saw amy, half lying, half dangling on the bed, the leather journal clutched close to her chest. he stormed into the cell and backhanded her awake, snatching up the journal as she cowered in the corner, her tail wrapped around her. the captain flipped through the pages of the journal and then closed iit with a snap. he glanced at it and dropped it on the bed. "it is yours now, Frauline. you are very special to the third *****. the fuhrer himself has asked for you to be placed in the Waffen SS and trained." amy glanced at the uniform on the table outside the cell and he nodded, "specially tailored for you, frauline. he stepped outside the cell and grabbed the uniform, setting it down on the bed. "you may Change into your new uniform and join the rest of us outside." he stepped outside and she was alone. she donned the simple uNdergarments then
slipped into the soft black trousers, after which she put on her military boots. next she put on the black and white jacket signature of the SS. the jacket was sleek and menacing, though it did little to flatten her chest, but that, she supposed, was one of her feminine charms. last was her hat and armband, both adorned with the *******. she gathered the leather messenger bag and stepped outside the cell, where a mirror stood, giving her a chance to see what had been done, the black uniform was a dramatic contrast to her brightly colored fur, and her new black stripes added a fierce look to her. she grinned and flashed menacing white teeth. she turned her body, looking at herself from different points of view. she slipped the **** armband onto her right arm and turned to leave. she stopped when she encountered a high pitch noise right next to the door. for the moment she just walked past, opening the door and adjusting her vision to the outside light. the layout was grey and barren,
as it always was in wartime. the captain was waiting for her along with a small squad of SS troops. a
Few laughed and remarked at her appearance, making cat noises and wolf whistling at her. she glared at them with a bright white snarl carved into her soft face. *they will fear me...

she saluted the captain and said, "heil ******." he returned the gesture, "heil. you are now part of the Waffen SS, frauline Amelia."
"please sir, its amy."
he noted her directness and ferocity, "very well, amy. before we assign you a task, though, you must prove yourself." he addressed the squad, "they are all corporal's and sergeants. you are merely a private. you will gain a rank for each one that you ****. however, they have been told that if they do not force you to submit, they will be killed or sent to the russian front. so you best fight your hardest, private amy."
as he finished, the squad set down their Mauser 98K's and MP-40's and stepped closer to her. her eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in ferocious determination. there were twelve of them.
• *
Amy took a fighting stance and faced her attackers. she attempted a punch at the nearest one but was kneed in the gut, she was thrown back a few feet. she fell to her knees and clutched her stomach with one hand, holding herself upright with the other. tears sprung to life in her eyes and threatened to roll down her cheeks. she fought the tears back and stood, feeling her claws extend. she swiped at a soldier's throat, catching him right in the throat. blood splattered the ground as he choked on his own fluids. the remaining eleven were taken aback slightly, allowing her to pounce another soldier, punching and tearing at his gut with lethal force. her fur was bloodstained and she waited a moment too late, watching the cavity she created fill with blood. she was barreled over, the wind knocked out of her by a sergeant. she lay on her back, gasping for air as the soldiers closed in,
landing a few punches and sending her reeling back. she staggered back, struggling for breath. she
Bumped up against something and realized it was a bunker wall, she was trapped. she thought quickly and decided for a new course of action, she waited for one of them to gather his bravado and throw a solid punch at her, which was useless, she grabbed his wrist and smashed his head against the wall, filling his helmet with blood and brains. in the same move, she had grabbed his Luger and had downed three more of the remaining ten. in their moment of confusion she kicked the closest one in the fork of his legs and followed up with a pistolwhip. the man went down quickly and died by the heel of her merciless boot. the remaining six charged at her, one falling by her last bullet and another caught a swift kick in the ribcage, shattering the bones to peices. the rest of the men were sergeants, and they began to retreat, running into the open field. she was about to chase after them when she
heard another Luger fire. she turned to see the captain shooting the deserters. each fell, one by
One by the captain's gun to her surprise he let a single man go. "you have done very well, frauline amy. you have killed eight out of twelve men, not bad at all."
she was panting, her uniform dirtied, "why.. did you let.. him go?"
the captain smiled, "someone has to spread you're reputation, heir captain."
she gaped at him. "i am... captain?"
"yaboe, heir frauline. you have proved yourself worthy to serve under the fuhrer."
she saluted him, "thank you, heir captain."
amy wrote in her journal as they were driven to one of the Stalags: "my promotion to captain has earned me my choice of weapons, ive chosen a few, two long barrel Luger's, a cavalry saber, and a sixteen foot bullwhip. i also carry an automatic Mauser in my messenger bag. other than a few knives carefully hidden on my body, that should be it. ive become the fuhrer's favorite enforcer, though i feel as if i'm forgetting something..."
amy closed the journal and placed it in her bag with a soft snap.
Amy waited for a **** private to open the car door and let her out, tapping her foot impatiently. when he finally came, she had a luger pointed at his chest. "you're late. she got out of the car and shot him, holstering the pistol as he crumpled to the ground. the colonel in charge rushed towards her, "what is the meaning of this?!"
"your man on watch was late, and now he'll never be late again. and also, colonel, as i am a captain in the SS, i am your superior officer and you WILL adjust yourself accordingly or i will replace you with someone who will."
his expression was that of shock, "y-yes, heir captain, please follow me." he escorted her quickly to the main building. amy glanced around at the peering POWs, glaring at them with distaste as they whistled at her. "who's the kitty?" "what the hell is that?"
her hands fell to her lugers and she was ready to fire when she was beckoned inside by the colonel and she followed behind him reluctantly. "you should control your prisoners.
i find an overall lack of order in this camp. you're lucky i'm in a good mood, or i'd have you strung up for incompetence. lets hope my further evaluation of this... facility... does not make me any more inclined to do so."
the colonel stuttered again and dipped his head, "y-yes heir captain."
she stepped outside unopposed by any. she snapped her fingers and a sergeant rushed to her side and saluted. she handed him a journal logbook and he opened it to the page marked with the Stalag number. she entered the closed off areas of the stalag to inspect the barracks.
amy's fists were clenched with rag, a prisoner mocked her from within his confines. his fellow prisoners pleaded with him to stop. "she's lethal!" "she killed eight SS sergeants and corporals singelhandedly her first day!"
the prisoner ignored them and began gesturing at her. she snapped her head up and their eyes met for an instant, she growled through a gritted snarl and was over the fence in mere moments. once over,
the prisoner that mocked her was now on the ground, his throat between her fangs. he cried out once and then gurgled blood as she tore out his throat. she spat the flesh onto the dirt and stood, brushing the dusty particles from her uniform. the men around her backed away when she approached them, and watched her cautiously as she stepped back out of the fenceline. amy picked up her cap from the ground and brushed it off. one of the prisoners called for a doctor, and when one of the guards began to look for one, she merely said, "no, he wont survive. leave him be."
the soldier saluted and went back to his post. she walked up to the colonel and said, "your prisoner annoyed me, as do you, colonel. you have three days to turn this place around or you'll end up worse off then your prisoner over there."
the colonel had turned a pale white and whispered, "understood, captain."
she returned to her quarters and listened for a moment as the colonel shouted orders. "that was fun." she remarked.

Amy was asleep in one of the larger rooms in the main  building, her uniform folded neatly on the table near the bed. she kep one luger on her bedside table and the mauser under her pilllow. her other luger, her sword and her whip were next to her clothes. she was clad only in her fur, as she'd found that the most comfortable way to sleep.
she was woken up by a knock at the door. she blinked her eyes a few times. clutching the mauser handle with one hand and holding the blanket to her chest with the other, she said, "what is it?"
"the colonel wishes to speak to you, heir frauline."
she growled, "grrr... fine. tell him to make it quick." she clutched the blanket closer as he opened the door. she held the mauser aimed at him and said, "turn." he did so without hesitation. she slipped cautiously out of the bed and began to dress. "what is it you wished to speak with me about, colonel?" amy put on her undergarments and then pulled her trousers up to her waist, fastening the belt comfortably.
"there is an important telegram for you, heir captain." she pulled on the jacket over her simple shirt, tugging out any wrinkles. "oh? from who?" next came the holster belts, each hanging slightly lower than her first belt. her sword was another belt, and there was a custom clip there for her whip as well.
"Himler, he has special orders for you." her messenger bag was next to last, slung over her shoulder before she slipped into her boots. ""You can turn now. hand them here." she stepped closer to him and took the envelope with her name scrawled on the front. the colonel excused himself so she could read the orders, "captain amelia weissmuler, once you have completed your assignment at Stalag 14, please make haste to stalingrad as there has been a number of our own turning against the *****. see to it that they cause no more problems. -heinrich himler"
she read it through three more times before folding it and placing it in her bag. she hurried outside, grabbing her hat
From the dresser.
* *
amy went about her inspection, seeing nothing wrong today. "the condition of stalag 16 has improved, heir colonel. well done. now send my car around." the colonel grinned and motioned for the car.
the black car adorned with swastikas roared to life, coming up beside her. the d
Graff1980 Aug 2016
I got nothing better to give
no better angels in my soul.
Darkness is coming again.
It is a poker hand I was never going to win.
My heart sounds off beating
Thud da dud dud.

They stacked the deck and turned on the furnace
laid back and got ready to burn us
watching the ashes as they floated up
to dark thunder clouds.

Lightning flashes thud da dud dud
coursing through my burning blood.
Soldiers step on me,
while military boots stomp, splashing mud.
I hear them marching thud da dud dud.

In resisting despair’s darkest edges
I coopt that painful beat.
Strangers hear me singing thud da dud dud,
Till, I rest permanently in my defeat.
Corey J Grace Dec 2013
I stand on the edge of a growing storm.
Great clouds billow and burst.
Streaks of light chased by tremendous thunder.
But it's on the horizon.
I'm watching it shift and swirl.
I can feel it.
The ground beneath my feet.
That thud, thumping, thump.
The bass at your back.
The beat in your veins.
I pick up my youth right where I left it.
I forgot how to shake and rattle and roll.
Souls are earned not given.
There's a lie in alive,
when you're too busy getting it wrong.
I used to build and watch it break.
Now I'll break all I've ever built.
Ashes to ashes,
dust and rust.
I can feel it...
Burning, ebbing, glowing.
Sweet saccharine life.
A recklessness reserved for the young.
A wisdom earned by age.
Thud, thud, thump.
There's a rush only achieved,
when you've been bent and broken.
Crushed and cornered.
Taken right to the cusp.
And you fight.
You kick, you scratch, you claw.
You get on your ******* feet.
Thump, thump, THUD.
There's is blood under your nails.
Blood in your eyes.
Blood in the water.
You fight.
You win.
There is always a silver lining.
There is always a sunset worth seeing.
There is always a way back.
There is a way in always...
as long as you do it right.
John Carpentier Jun 2016
The heavens are salt gray
and the sound of soft thudding
is the only proof of me
in the vacant slot between night and morning.

Each thud presents itself to all my senses:
a heartbeat,
a blink,
the soft shock running through my knees
when my feet hit the sand.

I stop,
and so does the thud
as I pull in the pangs of sea air.

I try to remember if I was walking or running.

Thud, it goes.
Now felt by none of my senses,
something intensely non-physical,
without sharpness,
devoid of definition.

Crackling snow on a dusty TV,
suggesting an idea of lateness.

is the thud that comes to me.
My father
and how I feel him with every sense,
then none at all
as I lose him all over again
in every heartbeat,
and footstep.

Shapeless memories
are all we are offered of the dead.

Pictures that fade.
Stories too,
and even love.
But never the pain,
sensitive and senseless
always there
in every thud.

I bury my face in the wet sand
and kiss the holy ocean,
the only religion that ever brought me peace,
and I have swum in them all.

Yet even here I am unbaptized,
absent are my father’s eyes.
Ash now,
like his smile,
his broad chest,
that bitter, smoky smell of his.
Scattered over an infinite expanse of ocean.

But I imagine he is here.
Some chunk or fragment,
atom of molecule,
has worked its way here
between the salt and sand.

So I kiss the wet ground
knowing maybe,
even against infinitesimal odds,
I am kissing his cheek.

And here he is not trembling,
not soundless,
not empty.

Here I feel him
and I feel nothing.
Thump, tha-thump thump. thump, thump
you just walked past me

Thud, thud-thud-thud, thud, thud
hello just left your lips

Thump, thump, poundpoundpound, thump, thump
your skin met mine for a moment

Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep---
What would I do if you kissed me?
Maria Imran May 2017
Click click click thud,
click click click thud. Click click

Click thud click thud

Click click click thud.*

You place my dreams on a butcher’s board and chop them off one by one

As if they weren’t living cells of myself, as if they couldn’t see what you did

You pick one up, like you’d pick a grape, lick it and say too much

You never tell me what too much, was it sour or sweet? Maybe you’d like red if not green

I could have showed you another.

I could have showed you what I could do with them but you have me shivering against the wall,

I am too scared, too scared to move, and no voice leaves my throat or I would’ve screamed so loud the walls would have rattled, I swear the roof could have fallen if the voice inside of my body could only find an expression out

Just an expression out

I look at you and my eyes beg to say, but I know even they are red, just red, or are they green? – which do you like? –

I could have seen them ripen, I could have seen them take me out of this dingy, dark room to a different world and you saw that. I know because you took in the fragrance when you brought them to your lips and you shuddered but smiled, and you said

too much
Graff1980 Dec 2014
Thud drip thud drip thud drip
The plaster chips bulges and rips
Tears chunks and moistened bits
From the edges to the other tips
Crumbling as if this is it
Those creaky bits no longer fit
Bent the metal frames till they are ****
Thud drip thud drip thud drip
I cannot sleep through
Even with a pillow crushing my ears
I can still hear what I fear
The house is coming apart
Just like me it will all disappear
One, thud!
Goes down smooth
Comforting like seeing an old friend after years apart.
Excited for the adventures to come,
I drum on my chest and YELL,
im ready for the next.
Two, thud!
Rough stuff,
burning like a fuse on a stick of dynamite,
ready to blow at any second, I reckon,
this is a test, like chess, a game of wits.
Turn back now? Never, surrender is no option.
Three, thud!
Invincible, intelligent, strong,
the night is young and so are the women,
generous with my money, yet
not one **** was given.
Four, thud!
Floor? only if you bore, me,
I just want to dance,
liquid courage is all I need,
even if I dont exceed in my mission, at this point,
I wont be ******* about girls dismissing me.
Humorous in a way,
the decisions made to take things to the next level.
Five, thud!
Heavy bass treble, pulsating,
people laughing but I dont care, I cant.
This is the zone,
the night halfway over, yet not a thought of home.
I wander along, stumbling and spilling,
This song in the background speaks the truth.
The club cant handle me right now.
Six, thud!
Pressures proves powerful,
I...puke, phew!
Morning sun burns the skin
like water on the wicked witch,
I wake up to nothing but my hand in a trashcan
dead phone, and a voice in my head thinking.
Never again.
A Mareship Jul 2014
The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.
I don't generally write on the topic of being gay, although I write a lot about boyfriends etc.  Being gay is not really an issue for me, but every now and then someone will make a comment that will ******* enrage me, hence this poem. Let's stick together, doesn't matter who we fall in love with, let's not be ashamed of anything. x

— The End —