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Unperceived DepthsThere is a bright and shining hope. The water shimmers and engulfs the view as glossy red metal subs plunge into the green depths. The mossy things under the waves, shrieking horrors despite the silence of the crushing darkness. Insanity lays siege to the lights. Duty calls every man to sit as the world slips away.
The surface will not miss them but they will long for the time they can leave the pressurized chambers. They feel it behind the walls. The crew know it is there even if they don’t look. If they study their screens hard enough, read every syllable of their books, dot every “i” on their formal paperwork; They still know the insanity that lurks just outside. They see it through their closed eyes. The insanity waits outside peering through the hull with their gouged sockets. The feel the men. They taste their fear and bite away at their control.
The things outside are little more than ghosts and much more. Few have hands left. What fingers were left were sacrif
The day, the nightThe day, the night, the standing light in the standing time between the day and the rhyme. No one suspects the ever living, ticking betraying stance of themselves. No one counters their own rebellions as the wage on in the soul and the sound of the hallowed ground. there aren't as many police as they think. the safety they imagine is just that because no one can save us from ourselves. Where the cattle and goats feed of the land, we consume our souls. We forsake what we hold dear because nothing else quite feels like it is worth the time to defile. there is an epidemic in my mind that reeks the whole mind and seeks to destroy the images of a boy and taint the stance of a man.
The girls with their pearls all rolling in the light shimmer in the glimmer of destruction’s light. Those that detect and collect respect that there are no boundaries for where the dollar has power.
Lies stack up and we experience truth through fictions. The only truth is true with the imagination. Relevant
Snow FallThe perfect snow drifts perilously to the earth. It twirls in the wind. Twisting in the air as the heat pushes past. the wind is always pouring from among high in an effort to find balance. The only result is turbulence. Breath of desperate pleas beat flakes and trees alike as the fall continues. Landing is most dreadful. There is no control for the frozen patterns. No means of reason to attempt to succeed. Cars blaring horns blaze on the ground. It gets close and the wind meets it and bends to the curvature of the hood. Flakes are tossed on a wave of movement. Unseeing and caring. Some lose their majestic form as they lie in puddles. They land softly, always softly. A perk of design and kindness. It hovers for a moment. The tension passes as the blanket of comfort fades away. Laying in water, dirt is pulled up over the crystals. It is warm now. Strange. It dissipates as a teardrop and mixes with that which fell before. Next time, a field perhaps.
Just because it is a cycle, doesn't mean it is allThe idea of quitting is nothing new. You let the words bounce around your head and then you let them spew. In private, alone. In the alley behind your home. you drain your throat of everything in your head and hope it leave you alone. but it breaks down into the soil and gets swept back up into the drains. and washing out into the oceans where liquid has few names. Until it is hoisted up into the sky and fluffs out into clouds that methodically pass you by. The ideas went back inside you and come down as rain but you stay indoors dry and insane.
The HikerThe snow fell in sweet silence on the serien meadow. The thin trees stood inches apart from each other filling the expanse. There is blood pooling in my sock. I don't know what to do with it. The others knew first aid. They were headed nowhere, though. This is the right direction. I know it. These surroundings are completely new. I am bound to hit land soon. I can take care of my foot then.
Oh. Apparently my shoe has soaked through. There are red footprints leading up to me. Life is funny sometimes. It is kind of hard to breath. I think I will sit down, take some nice deep breaths.
that is funny. My tan seems to be gone. I guess this will just let me get tanner. The guys at the office will be impressed. The office seems like a completely different reality from this place. Everything is calm. Nothing cares for what time it is. Things happen and succeed without demanding everyone's attention. Why do I feel like everything is looking at me?
I kind of get the appeal of nature, t
Our Dead SelvesTo all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don't even remember which of the husks was me. They don't stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves "them" and "it." We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn't last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those sho
Sitting Quietly in Pale WhiteSitting quietly in a pale white breakroom. You can tell a break room because it looks desperately and thoroughly used for fifteen minute increments several times a day and lacks any real distinction of style outside of borrowed furniture, lockers of questionable safety, and vending machines. It makes an obscene amount of sense that one soda company would be contracted to sell in the store but another would own the machine in the breakroom. The steadiest most desperate patrons would be employees. The illusion of choice in lieu of laziness. It is always easier and cheaper to bring refreshments but that is if planning was easy.
He sits there in the breakroom holding a red leather journal. Fountain pen floating centimeters over the page with the constant threat of leaving ink in strategic places that convey meaning to discerning onlookers. He stares at the pop machine and thinks about the illusion of choice and the its threat to free will. The clock is broken and the second hand twitches u
Heart Pounding my Brain
Today is the day. I cannot think about it, too long. Otherwise, I get sick to my stomach. I am going to ask out the obscenely cute girl, from work. Ambiguously single with at several male friends but she is proprietary single, none the less. I'm still unsure, though.
I have come up with a plan. I will get her attention.I won't bring up any other bullshit to talk about, straight to the point. I will ask if she is seeing anyone and I will request that we go out sometime. When do I take her out?
She has told me she is busy. Quite the busy girl, all the time. I am available late or early, whenever. I don't know when we both will be available. I could take her out at work. No, that would be unpleasant, embarrassing, and not at all romantic. Should I really be planing dates right now? That would look weird, right? If I go from being unaware of her relationship status to throwing times and places at her. I can only see that ending in dodge ball, I want to avoid that metaphor.
So, setting up a
The Beautiful ClownsThere is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even o
My mind deals with
Overcomes my judgement
Today it's no different
I can't take it anymore
Observing my image but
Nothing is revealed
I Saw a Burning ManIn front of my house, he sat.
Skin burnt off, now charred and black.
Hesitantly, I walked outside.
And he followed me with his watery eyes.
With steps as nimble as the snow,
I hid my fear and continued to go.
Now before him, the Burning Man.
I kindly offered him my shaky hand.
No malice nor vice leaked off of him,
rather sadness and agony which simmered below his skin.
I could feel it around me, the pain and despair,
yet, physically the man was nearly repaired.
For his scorched skin was not his problem,
instead the bottled emotions that devoured all of him.
“Would you like to come inside sir, and stay?”
In which he replied by looking away.
Again I asked, and received no reply,
and was startled when the man began to cry.
Unsure of what to do, I walked away,
Yet I’ll never forget what happened that day.
Be it from pain, or mute, or undisclosed desires,
I watched as the man was engulfed in fire.
I stood back in awe, with my mouth agape,
and feared that he had fallen into
little victories.when i was younger,
i thought i was the strongest
little girl in the world
because i could easily
beat my older brother
at arm wrestling.
it wasn't until years later
that i realized
To the person who holds my best friend's heart...I know that is is kind of weird
But I felt that I should write this down.
I need to tell you what I feel
And tell you what he means to me.
He's my best friend and he's a good man.
Please, give him the love and respect he deserves.
He may seem goofy but he's very sweet.
I know this because he was always there for me when I was sad.
Now, I know that you're not bad
Cause he would never choose someone who's mean.
But I still want to tell you just in case you forget in the future;
Please don't break his heart.
He's been through so much
And he doesn't deserve something like that.
He is the kind of person who smiles even when he's hurt by others
And would take any pain for the people he loves.
I know, I've witnessed it.
I know he may seem kind of childish sometimes
But don't let it get to you.
It's just his way of expressing himself.
He's very caring and I'm sure he'll do anything to make you happy.
He doesn't look like it but he's very kind and thoughtful.
He'll put your needs before h
in which I gain sentiencesave room
for doubt, in the silence between
religious guilt and stolen
body heat. I am made of helium.
in my dreams they
pop me and
watch me flutter. I wonder if everyone
else’s head is so congested as mine,
hyperactive with inattentive people.
you are never serious--
he stares at me in a different
set of eyes; there are words
I cannot say, there are
things I cannot tell you.
(twice a week
I watch the people I love
leave me for good.
spiders in my throat,
And There Was Lighti.
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
Can you look deeper?You see that girl you just bullied?
The one you harassed over her choice of art?
The art of a man beating a woman to death?
She saw her father kill her mother when she was five.
You know that man who likes to photograph himself in dresses?
The one you called a homo because of his choice of clothing?
Well, his parents wanted him to be a girl instead of a boy.
So they made him dress like that everyday to pretend he was a girl.
You know that woman who writes stories about child rape?
The one you bullied until she didn’t know how to cope with life anymore
Her uncle has been in jail for the past eleven years.
He raped her daily for seven years of her life.
What about that guy who favored abstract artwork?
Do you remember him he liked to use the colors red and black a lot.
He was nearly beaten to death when he was fourteen.
He only knows nightmares because he remembers seeing his blood on the wall.
What about me? Do you remember me? Even just a teensy little bit?
You bullied me because
You Ever Felt ItHave you ever felt it?
When you lay there broken
And feel yourself so guilty
Eyes gushing red
And you want to sleep in a coma
Your brain swelling with thoughts
At the same time empty with nothing
When you can't suit yourself
And see yourself a place among the demons
that moment when you control your life
The moment when you choose between life and death
And then you yourself can decide either way
It's when you're on the edge
And want someone to pull you back before you make another step
A hook, to rip all the insanity out of your body
And suck all the madness that is growing black dead trees
Have you ever felt it, have you known depression
Did you ever seek a source of help, and did you ever find it
Over IndulgentThere was a time for us. I haven't written about you in a while. There was a time when I wrote about you every day. I missed you. Now, I just want someone to hug. You don't hug me. You haven't hugged me in a long time.
There was a time when you hated people. You hated them for me and for my honor. You said that they disrespected me and you didn't like them for it. I was proud and happy and content with you and you alone. I was happy to have someone so devoted to me. Someone to ring my cause before I knew I had one.
I still have people that ring my cause. People that stand up for me and hate on my behalf. It is different now because they hate you. They hate you for what you did to me. For what you said. For the year of grieving that you did not deserve. They hate you and you will never be welcomed back to my cause. I vetoed your exile. I tried to leave the door open for your return. They came back with a super majority. The override came swiftly. You don't want back and they don't want
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More