[x]

torn. Half of my heart is wrapped delicately in ribbon and lace, layered softly in crinoline. It's naïve and romantic. Childish, it believes in soul mates, and love at first sight.
The other half is scarred; black, fraying lace draped lazily, sloppily around it. It's bound in ripped fishnets. It's old and wise and cynical. It's adorned with cuts and bruises.
My naïve heart is persuasive. It whispers quietly 'He's different. This one's different'
He never is, he never is, he never is.
You'd think I'd learn.
I never do, I never do, I never do.

Come What MayI like grass.

Simple statement, I know. I'm not usually one for keeping things simple, but when I'm here, and you might be, I feel speaking my mind is a little less cluttered.

It's not like anyone hears me, anyway; muttering away to myself under the trees, bathed in the scent of the new daffodils and the low thrum of the bees. You could call it cliché, but a summer for someone who rarely sees sunlight is a commodity as rare as love – almost just as cherished.

A summer with a sprinkle of love, however, is gold. We can eat that peppered steak on the crumbling bench, share a vanilla float in the dusk heat or count the different type

For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,

You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.

You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to

MesmerizedShe was seventeen, complete with
sun-kissed cheeks and
dancing eyes.
Auburn hair tickled her face and
fell gracefully down her back.
Sometimes, when it rained,
she would slip away with bare feet,
living her unspoken ballerina dreams
under streetlight spotlights
and laughing the world away.
Each translucent drop left her
mesmerized.

He was eighteen, tall and lean
almost to the point of
gracelessness.
Black hair framed his
indecisive chocolate brown eyes.
When it rained, he would often
glance out his window,
hoping to glimpse the girl.
She twirled down alleys
without a care in the world,
and he was
mesmerized.

One partic

i dream in lovei felt your hand on me last night

it was just below my rib cage, right below
the subtle bottom rib, your fingers interlaced
around the bone and gripping as if
i would turn to dust

without you.

your breath caressed my heart last night

fluttering at the nape of my neck, i could
truly feel a single strand of hair, unruly in the wind
of your exhales, unable to rest

with you so near.

i longed for the freedom to taste you
to chase you and put my hand into the cavity of your
skeleton, hold your bones and let my breath flutter across your pulsing heart.

i turned to tell you this,

but found only an imprint in my lonely sheets.

gluttonyi am starving
a little bit more
with your every glance
and grimace
and your every swaying step.

you are cutting
off my airways with your
eyes and slitting my throat
with the
tap,
tap,
tap
of your tongue as it
hums offbeat harmonies in my heart.

i am watching you recede
and wandering in the wasteland
of want, wondering when you
will lend a morsel to a
lame beggar.

please provide me
with some substance,
because you are starving me.

The Man in the Coffee ShopThe man who works at the coffee shop looks like you. I noticed this some time ago and have since frequented the place. He recognizes me now. He smiles at me when I come in. His smile even looks like yours. He doesn't say hey though- you always said hey.

I still work at the library even though you're not there.
Sometimes I look over to your desk and expect to see you typing at your computer, but someone else is there now. It's not you.

Sometimes someone will come in who looks like you. Maybe he will have the same hair, same stature, same profile, same laugh, same voice. It's never been you.

Sometimes I drive myself crazy. I pull at my hai

ChaseI am undefined,
I fall, thin as water, and,
Sink into shadows.

IntensityAll you had to do was say hello. Words may not be anymore, but the music of your voice is. I can hear all the notes you play, up and down your vocal cords, up and down my heartstrings.

These are the days when balance is unheard of. Harmony transcends all, and the brazen call of your trumpet voice stands tall and proud over the rest.

My heart sounds like the whole percussion section tried to drown it out, and the timpani is still pounding over it all. It's tattooing a permanent bruise inside my black-and-blue chest. Boom-boom. Boom-boom.

The lull of your gaze. The saxophone croons in the distance. There's more in your eyes than I have ever

Some Lovers III died on a cold
day, numbed fingers flexing,
grasping at the last traces of embers
withering in the grate.

I died holding your hand,
the hand I accidentally fractured
when I pushed you  too
harshly near an edge
and you flailed to find
a more elegant way
to fall and then
I heard the scaphoid crack –
but I didn't. I heard the cry
first and the pain came later
but you held my
hand anyway.

I died with my arms
held over my head,
pinned down to the sheets by your solid
mass, fingers entwined
with yours until I
could no longer tell which bones
were my own. I baked
in the aftermath of the dying
heat and fe

comme des enfants.dear h.
i know i'm being ridiculous. of course i am. i mailed my fifth letter yesterday, and here i am starting my sixth. and you said to expect a three-day delay. and .. it's been three weeks. so. i know i'm being ridiculous. but i also know that a) there aren't enough ridiculous people in the world, and b) i couldn't care less.
x

dear h.
kaye and i went on a magical adventure today. well. it wasn't the magicalest. i mean, we went exploring, and we both got bugbitten and scratched and sunburnt and we tried to climb the tallest tree in the forest but we were too short to reach even the lowest branch, and we both fell in the swamp. but i

Take Your Revolutionxvii.

She is seventeen and she is going to change the world. She's doing her part even now, as she puts all of her rejection letters in the recycling bin instead of throwing them out or ridding herself of them by way of her father's industrial-strength paper shredder.

Since she has her heart set on changing something or other, every night she sacrifices to Microsoft Word, spilling everything to her screen: her hopes, fears, dreams, words, and lukewarm cup of tea. She doesn't like tea, but she is training herself to drink it.

She is seventeen, and one day she has an epiphany.

xxi.

She is twenty-one and done with school, a diploma on h

Highway DreamingThey're living on cheap ramen and hopeless dreams. He wants to be a world-famous brain surgeon and she wants to be more things than she can count on one hand. Sometimes they fight about her leaving her lipstick in the sink or when he doesn't pick up orange juice at the grocery store. But they're happy, even with the cracked paint and terrible plumbing. Every morning at 7:08 he catches the 7:15 train to the university and she takes their battered old Sedan to her job at the highway tolls. She likes to make up stories about the more interesting cars to tell him later. The bedside lamp is on, her voice humming low in her throat, and he drifts qu

A Life Lesson on How to Livei.

Learn how to hear when there is no sound. Listen to the last heartbeats of a dead man, for they will tell you how to hold on, and how to let go, but you are the only one that can choose between the two. Hear the sorrow of a silent criminal at a confessional, because it can tell you where the line is and how to cross, but it's up to you to decide if you want to or not. Listen to the chemistry between two lovers and you will learn how to appreciate the love in everything people do.

ii.

Uncover how to see in the darkness, because it's a whole lot more important than anyone ever expects. Look at the hues of red in the night sky and the neon

BlackberriesNo one asks where I am from.
I make up to seven coffee runs a day
for up to eleven different people.
I cannot afford the Prada pumps,
nor walk in them, for that matter.
But Dad's old brown loafers,
with the stitching coming undone
along the sides,
are good enough for me.

No one can speak my name.
If they did, they wouldn't be able
to pronounce it anyway.
I know four languages,
none of them American.
When spoken to, I answer in strained English,
the sharp sounds tripping over my tongue.

What they say must be true;
I am meant only to carry a clipboard,
to fetch papers
spitting viciously out of a machine,
to

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In Yonder SkiesWhat can you see in the dark pool of sky?
In the dragonfly ripples and the deep water?
Ink runs on walls
Like poems,
Bright and shining.
The raw beauty of words.

Quicksilver stars and the moon of tomorrow.
I love the view from here.
I am fulfilled
And you are beautiful.

Multae Vitae MutationisI adore these precious skies.
Beware, for the open windows serve
As gateways for the wistful songs.
How far do the wings of summer love spread?

Stare at the picket fence outcasts.
I hate myself for every delicious smile,
Every discarded candy wrapper,
Every muddled grocery list.

Petal colors
And the many lives of change.

I let the blank hearts trickle between my fingers,
An offering to the waking sky,
As I sit where my roof slopes down
To meet the shores of the empty air.
See the patience reflected in those clear blue eyes.
In the melting snow that flows into the stars.
There is beauty in the purging of the sun.

Untitled IIIfrustration
[at the empty scars left
by last nights silent conversation]
clears out the demons
from every wrinkle
in the sheets.

i let the hopelessness
settle in my lap
[make yourself comfortable]
in spite of everything i believe.

there is patience
in the bitterness
and the closed heart
[welcoming every excuse
to stay that way]
reflected
black
behind my eyes.

i loved flowers once.

CowardThe girl
With the most beautiful high-heels in the world
Click-clacks down the hallway
And your eyes follow her
As they always do,
Wanting to slip inside her perfect jeans.
And you won't even look at me.

Honey-sweet dreams
Wake to the end of questions.
I'm not brave enough to hold my heart
In my outstreched hands.

I spread my heart on paper
And let the words take the blame
Instead of my comic-book dreams,
Burned at the stake as heretics.
But I guess that doesn't work anymore.
Not for the person who was once so proud
To be a coward in a world
Of saints and martyrs.

Eight Prayers: Truthi.
watch the brilliant cacophony
the clever din that hides
the purest whispers.

ii.
the violent secrecy
keeps my dreams alive
hard-wired into the cold machinery
of a hospital room.
staring at the cold
blank
walls.

iii.
let the apocalypse motions
sink in.
5-4-3-2-1 Judgment Day

iv.
seize up in ice-cold stone.
living the world alone.
gone.

v.
what do you read
in teacup hearts?
the honest tea leaves
tell the tale of words gone by.

vi.
do
watch the magnificent skyscrapers.
what hides behind their iron shells?
beware the anonymity
of city streets.

vii.
faces
and lights
flash past the graffitied mirror
of the subw

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The Dream-Makers

by =AzizrianDaoXrak, Dec 1, 2007, 7:18:17 AM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy

   The clouds are beautiful today.
   I watch them from behind someone’s eyelids as she sleeps beneath a tree with a book in her lap. For a while I imagine the way the trees must feel as the breeze sways them; I have not felt a true breeze in so long. And then I turn back to the depths of the girl’s mind and carry on with my work. After all, dreams do not create themselves.
   I don my black shawl and turn to the little dream form of the girl. Falling into my character, I cluck my tongue and point at the forest that materializes in her subconscious. “Beware the monsters that live within the woods, my dear.”
   “But why?” Her dream self looks puzzled and calm as only dream people can—they have no real danger to fear.
   I shake my head, following whose directions I will never know, and merely say, “Beware the monsters, my dear, especially the ones with pretty faces.”
   And then I am gone.
   I drift for a moment in smoke and daydreams, and then solidify again. I am a gypsy woman. Yet again. Why does everyone have gypsy dreams? The only ones who don’t are gypsies themselves! Ah, and their dreams are beautiful. Their dreams are wildness and the earth and the sky. In those dreams I am the wind, or the swaying trees, or the sea. Those dreams give me life again. I grow weary of telling fortunes.
   But I return to my task, seizing the palms of the woman who materializes before me. I scrutinize them for several minutes, then look up to her with tears in my eyes.
   “What is it, grandmother?” she asks.
   “You are destined to live a long life, my child,” I say, and stroke her cheek. “But you are destined to live it alone.”
   Her husband sleeps at her side, and it takes but a moment to vanish into his mind. His is the kind of death that so many long for. In his dreams, I gently take his hand, and lead him off into the darkness.
   We are the grim reapers. We spend eternity echoing other people’s lives.
   It is strange, knowing that we make people’s destinies.

   We, the dream-makers.

The Dream-Makersby =AzizrianDaoXrak

Literature / Prose / Fiction / Fantasy

EDIT: Please note that I have started submitting the expanded version of this story. You can find part I here: [link] Enjoy!

*Starrphyre Jun 30, 2011 Hobbyist Digital Artist

First I want to say wow, your imagery was really incredible. It gave your prose the sort of flow and rhythm one usually only finds in Poetry. The Title really caught me, just the idea of dream makers is great! and then it turns out to be grim reapers!!! even more awesome. One thing I would say is near the end, though it is very short, it gets kinda hard to distinguish the POV. I can't really tell the difference between the protagonist from the dreams they are entering. Other than that, I can't tell you how much I am spazzing over the concept! I wish I'd thought of that!

=AzizrianDaoXrak Jun 30, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you very much

I'm actually turning this into a longer story as we speak.

Well...I was. But then I moved and stuff. So I'm SORTA working on it! lol

Glad you enjoyed it ^^

~ProvenParadox Jun 13, 2011 Student Writer

I like this because it shows us a brand new mythology and metaphysics and presents them wrapped in one. And since it agrees with every story we've told ourselves, it just sounds beautifully right.

=AzizrianDaoXrak Jun 13, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you ^^

~silver-moon14 Jun 10, 2011

This is so dang beautiful! I love it!

=AzizrianDaoXrak Jun 10, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

thanks!

~Solarune Jun 6, 2011 Writer

Hallo! I'm so sorry – I meant to comment on all your featured pieces straight away, but stuff has been piling up and I didn't get round to it. Here I am at last!

I really love the mood of this piece. Even though it's older writing than some of the other things in your gallery, it has a special charm about it, if that makes sense. There are strange feelings of longing, loneliness and freedom, all wrapped up together.

I particularly like the gypsy idea – almost like fortune-telling – and this part – "The only ones who don’t are gypsies themselves! Ah, and their dreams are beautiful. Their dreams are wildness and the earth and the sky. In those dreams I am the wind, or the swaying trees, or the sea."

Beautiful.

Do you ever plan to expand on it or anything like that? I mean, it's lovely as it is, but it would be interesting to see a whole story/world with this concept in it.

=AzizrianDaoXrak Jun 6, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

Oh my, I have no idea how I would expand this. I'm afraid my mind has not been in a place for fiction for a while. If I do ever decide to expand this, you will be the first to know!!!

~Solarune Jun 6, 2011 Writer

Aw, no worries, but that's sweet of you to say, thank you.

~ilyilaice Jun 5, 2011

I still somehow wish you did make this into a longer story. But yes, this is pretty and profound the way it is. Great job on this. It was so descriptive in its simplicity. It reminded me a bit of The Sandman. I love those books. And I love your story as well.

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