[x]

two:string.He asked her out with, of all things, a piece of string.

Or rather, five pieces of string, deposited on her desk over a week. She didn’t find out until long after how they’d gotten onto her desk in the first place.

She thought the first one, a heart made of a two-inch snip of thread, had been a rare thoughtful gift from her brother. When questioned, he’d asked her politely if she was crazy.

Not her brother, then.

It was followed the next day by a simple picture of a sun, draped in vibrant orange thread across one of her papers. In the mail that afternoon was a panorama of a mountain range, silhouetted against a gorgeous sun

counting to infinity     i.
     capitalization is bad for days like this, because when the sky is gray who needs grammar? grammar is rules and rules are a box, a great glass box with no seams—seamless, faultless, perfect, unbreakable—like rules are supposed to be. rules are what kill you, because the words are like light, they bounce away from the glass and are lost.
     but if you are content without the words then rules are what save you, because too far from that box and you are not safe anymore; you will be shot at, you are a target, and you will never run fast enough t

transatlanticismThe sea air will be good for you, the doctor says, looking at her face with a poorly disguised expression of worry, and she turns away from him without saying a word.

And now she is sitting alone in a bright, pleasant room whose walls are hung with paintings, whose windows are open, whose drapes are fluttering prettily in the sea breeze, and she is angrier than she has been in years because she has always hated the ocean.

She always hated the ocean, because the salt smell of it reminds her of her mother's boat, the wood of its hull darkened by years of sun and smoothed by years of water. She remembers watching its prow slicing cleanly throu

the passage of timein that moment you fancied that you could hear her heart, each beat enough to shake the ground beneath you both. you imagined that the bass-hum of music was the slow labor of her muscles, rhythm and rhyme. you wondered if it would go on beating forever—if she were somehow keeping the time of the universe. slow. slow. slow.

half-light threw the topography of her bones into relief, and for long moments you watched the pulse at her throat. slow. slow. slow. it made no leaps, no bounds, nothing but the measured march. slow. slow. slow.

you thought about touching her, wanted to discover if you could make that heartbeat race. your fingers re

happy february 16th.

love
is less a
flutter and
more a thud,
the thick heavy
sound of things
(like your heart?)
falling: the sound of
realizing, "this is it."
because, at last, you
understand heartbeats
and why yours always
does aerobatics when you
are too close, and whose
heartbeat you want with
all your frail (beautiful)
human heart to beat
alongside yours
forever.

generosityHello, love.

(Voice like velvet—eyes so bright—
By what name goes this faery knight?)

She can't think of anything but inane rhymes—poems from someone else's childhood.

Such a cold greeting, precious. Won't you at least say hello?

It really is cold, she hadn't noticed—there's the white-hot glare of snow and ice all around them. Or perhaps the ice is only in his eyes; she can't tell anymore. Nonetheless she shivers.

He's unperturbed as usual, devastatingly composed—oblivious, she supposes, to the biting cold. The wind whips up the worn edges of his white cloak, gives him wings for just a moment. An owl, perhaps, bu

different names...when you told your friends
you said "fucked",
because there was no better word for it
not in their company;
(because there was a better word
but they would not have
understood it.)

when I told mine I said:
" "
(because
I did not tell them).
what would you have said?
I asked myself, alternating
thoughts
with breaths
to stop myself
from choking on tears.
I would have said made love with, I lied,
but your heart was never in it,
and really the truth
I knew all along was that
I'd only ever been making love
to.

india inkfor some reason she’s dipped a paintbrush in ink, taking a thick oxhair brush and soaking it with a cheap replacement for india. “you see,” she says as she drags the brush across an enormous piece of banner paper, “this is art.”

no it’s not!, you want to scream at her, because something in you is rebelling against this scarring of a clean white sheet, at this waste of ink and time. your fingers ache to rescue her brush.

the curve of her lip when she smiles at you is another name for irony: you know she isn’t happy with you and the smile is a lie. she keeps smiling, though, maintaining the mask as she makes

acta non verba.It is raining, again, and the temperature is eleven degrees lower than predicted. They promised the weather would be fixed by this week, but of course it isn’t. The gray sky is depressing, and she turns away from the window, leaving it frosted with breath.

He is standing in the doorway behind her, quiet. I’d like to be told I’m beautiful, she says, wistfully, more to the window than to him. She is, after all, young enough to remember romance, or at least the idea of it, when it was still allowed.

You are beautiful, he says. Like birds. Like the sun.

What am I worth to you? she asks. She is ashamed of the question almost as s

several confessions.i.
I admit that sometimes I want you.

ii.
I admit that sometimes I watch you from the corner of my eye, watch you to make sure you are watching me as I smile at someone else. I laugh effortlessly, stretch, sweep back my hair, and hope that to you it looks real.

On days like this, every movement I make is calculated, designed to taunt you. On days like this I am weak, worthless, easily conquered—one touch, one glance would ruin me. And then I look at you again and want to be conquered.

iii.
I admit that you make me breathe faster. My lungs respond to your nearness with panic because to me you are a threat. You are a predator, you ar

geography lessonand here we are
again,
breathing in this ocean-sharp air, the taste of it rough against our throats. we blame it for the sudden absence of words, as if sometime in the night when we were sleeping in separate rooms there was a thief, reaching his shadowed hand into our mouths and twisting the letters and sounds from our tongues, leaving us empty, and dry.

when you open your mouth, fishlike, you gape because you are lost in this desert of your own uncertainty, without water. you are

lost.

if you are a desert, harsh and vast, i am the sea, chaotic and just as vast. we will die on opposite ends of the world&#

a love letter

I've been thinking about this letter for a long time now, trying to figure out how I'd begin, how I'd end, what I'd say to you in the too-short space in between. I suppose I could tell you about the nights I spend imagining what your face will look like, or about the way the thought of you makes me smile, because you already make me happy.
I could try to explain that ache that hits me sometimes, that desperate longing for you that's impossible to shake—but I don't think I ever could, not in words. It's painful, indescribably so, to want so badly something you've never seen.
You could be anyone in the world, when I think

project penpal

1) your best friend.
I don't know who you are, and most of the time I don't mind. but sometimes I wish I could put a name to you. sometimes I get a little lonely.

2) your crush.
you don't exist for me right now! haven't since I got to college. I'm pleased about that, I must admit. normally you do nothing but cause me trouble.

3) your parents.
I'm going to make you proud, I promise, I promise--you just have to give me time.

4) your sibling or closest relative.
you're shaping up to be better than me at a lot of things (everything), and while that still scares me, it scares me less than it used to. sometimes I am angry at you because you'

fairgrounds

We make our farewells at the fairground, and the ferriswheel spin of our days and nights grinds to a cold and silent halt. But, you promise, we will have one last ride. One last day to ourselves. One last day to remember.

And in the crushing golden haze of summer's dying days, we leave our regrets with the sullen ticket sellers, the sullen customers, the sullen children squirming in the heat. We laugh past them like the summer breeze and pretend to be happier than they could ever be.

We enter the raw cacophony of it together. Our brightly pasted smiles belong instantly, wholly, to the savage relentless pursuit of amusement that ebbs around

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one:saved.she always felt as if he were the one
who had saved her,
pulling her by the very tips of her fingers
to safety.
as if she had been hanging over the edge
of an abyss, dark as a secret,
and one sl
ip—
would have been fatal;
as if he had arrived in the nick of time,
armed with ropes and helicopters
and his own strong hands.

and when she felt those hands
take hers for the first time,
the abyss dropped away
and she was on ground again,
solid like the bones of his body.
she looked up and saw the sunlight as it streamed through his hair
and she was happy.

and so when at last he decided
he did not want t

last night on earthAt last, everything was ready. The ship was ready—he had dragged it and pushed it and rolled it to the clearing, and after a long week of struggle, it was finally in place. He had stocked it carefully with food, even taking some special treats for himself in case he got bored with normal food. (He prided himself on being a good planner.) His goodbyes had been said, with much sniffling and hugging. He had left what little possessions he had with his closest friend and protector—and at last, at long, long last, he was ready to leave.

For this would be his last night on Earth, the last night he would ever spend looking at these stars

he rationed his breaths

In the ICU she promised she would be back no later than July first, and of course she would visit as soon as she docked.

That was the last promise she ever made him. Her boat was delayed four days.

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the topography of faces.

by ~austheke, Jan 12, 2009, 11:43:18 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

when you are angry with me your face caves into furious hollows. there is one in the corner of your left eye, dark and defined, sharply. it reminds me of crevasses, on snowy peaks wreathed in clouds made of smoke and dreams, where men slip on treacherous ground and fall, to die and shatter. it reminds me of the bottom of the ocean.

under your lip there is another; you press your lips together and a tiny shadow forms underneath, gently rounded, as if weathered by the sea. it is there i am reaching for when i put my hands out to you, i would like to put my fingers on your mouth and whisper to you,

“i’m sorry.”

i would like to put the harsh creases in your forehead under my hands. i would like to run my fingers over you, feel the dark angry lines dissolve, soften, slowly, until you are perfect again. i would like to smooth away the hollows, like pockmarks or scars on your skin, until they melt back into the topography of your face and you are whole.

the topography of faces.by ~austheke

Literature / Prose / Fiction / General Fiction

_{This began from just the word topography. I mentioned it once, and then this started unraveling its silly threads in my brain, and here we are.

I originally wanted this to be longer, or go on, but now that I've finished this much of it I don't know whether that would work or not. I kind of like this one--it's too bad it's so short.}

~Captain-Introvert Jan 12, 2010 Hobbyist General Artist

Man, you are good!
This is one big metaphor! I love it!

'wreathed in clouds made of smoke and dreams'

*sigh* You are a genius…

~austheke Jan 12, 2010 Writer

-metaphor!overuse-

XD Thank you so much~ <3

~Ish-Cat Dec 5, 2009

GAH! AH-mazing. As per usual. I'm getting jealous of your mad skill.

~austheke Aug 21, 2010 Writer

Hey dear, I'm sorry for not!replying to your (lovely) comments--I'm not very good with being prompt.

But THANK YOU!! Your comments are so sweet, haha. <3

~Ish-Cat Aug 24, 2010

Big fan... as you know.

*Eve-Francesca Nov 8, 2009 Hobbyist Writer

I love the way you worded this. It's so descriptive and beautiful. Excellent job!

~Sunburstspark May 23, 2009

Just because it's short doesn't mean it's not powerful!
I think this is a lovely piece, and the comparisons you employ create some great imagery. Visualizing the face as a map, filled with landscapes and all, is a fantastic idea, and I think you pulled it off marvelously

~austheke May 26, 2009 Writer

Thank you so much! Yeah, I was worried about that at first, it being so... tiny. I posted it and was like "...damn. that's really short." But I'm glad you liked it, and that I pulled off the metaphors! Thank you~

!Iyeshana Jan 23, 2009

One of the prettiest things I've ever read ^^ Honestly. It was so blatantly honest and emotional.

~austheke Feb 1, 2009 Writer

Thank you, dearest. I'm so happy you liked it so much~

_{"One of the prettiest things I've ever read." -honored-}

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