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For Old Time's Sake - 4. SantoriniThe sun was beaming generously over the little village of Oia, tracing gentle warm rays over snow white, cubistic buildings handsomely divergent against the bluest of seas, the yonder islands seen as darker indigo shadows in the distance. It was one of those serene afternoons when nothing really happened save for the ticking of the clock in the tower of the old court house across the street. Even the tourists were sparse this time of the year, when the season had yet to begin in earnest.
So for the men by the small bar the sound of the motorcycle made them all perk up from their glasses of ozou. It was a heavy Yamaha, large as a bull and bright red, but the brawny man riding it was handling it with astonishing affluence as he rode across the square and over to the sole parking lot in a place where the alleys were too narrow for motorized vehicles. As the monstrous machine came to a halt, the rider and his female passenger stepped off with ease and with graceful movements they relieved
For Old Time's Sake - 3. Comes MorningStruggling through a maelstrom of dreams, one more peculiar than the other, Hera was making her way towards awareness again, as if swimming towards the surface of a deep sea, fighting the kaleidoscopic currents with forceful strokes. With a jolt her eyes fluttered up – to a startling view. She was definitely not in her own bedroom in La Casa Dolorada in Venice, Italy. Daylight radiated from the wrong direction and the texture of the bedding felt different, the duvet too thin. Not to mention that the mixture of smells were dissimilar – yet oddly familiar in their lush muskiness, triggering a torrent of remembrances one more bittersweet than the next. Most of all, she was not alone in the bed, there was someone asleep next to her, someone who's warm chest her head was resting next to, the rhythm of his heartbeat in her ear, a strong arm encircled with such an astonishing ease around her waist.
The next millisecond it all came back to her. Zeus. Tokyo. Zeus. Leaving Venice. Ze
For Old Time's Sake - 2. Strangers in the nightStill the same Zeus in several senses he knew that she was still the same Hera in as many. Therefore he took her to another part of Tokyo and a traditional restaurant of the upper-notch kind. One of these locations where every single platter of food was an exquisite piece of art and the flavours and combinations were outlandish yet appealing to Hera. They received their own tiny section, a room more than an alcove, softly lit and secluded by rice-paper screens and sans chairs around the low table but with soft pillows covering the tatami floor. As Zeus was conversing in Japanese with the headwaiter, marvels began happening in a swift and almost unnotably way, two lovely young waitresses in traditional kimonos and hairdos started producing delicacies, lit candles and incense and poured sake and other beverages, everything selected with the cordiality of the greatest care. Hera might be unfamiliar with Japanese culture but she sensed these things in the air more than recognizing them.
For Old Time's Sake - 1. EncounterLong, slender hands with silver-painted nails were holding on to the steam of a glass with white wine, large and almond-shaped dark-brown eyes shadowed by thick lashes regarding how the light bounced off the liquid as she slowly spun the flute around with gentle hands. The inertia of the wine was causing intricate effects of light and shadows on the dark wood of the bar desk and upon her pale, slightly olive-skinned hands. She had been looking at that glass now for a while, with melancholy tainting the beauty of her eyes, but hardly taken a sip of the wine. Looking at it but not quite seeing since her mind was wandering, plowing through tons of remembrance. What was she searching for, what was she trying to recall? Honestly, she didn't know other than that she sought something to banish the boredom and the forlorn loneliness that was grating at her old soul.
She didn't know what was worse, what she regretted the most, the things she had done, or those she never did. There was just one
Patient ZeroIt wasn't aliens they hid at Area 51…
Cliwe Brenning sat in the living partition of his mobile home, listening to the sandstorm raging outside of his confined compartment, while staring at the text he was scrolling through on his laptop; proof reading it one more time, before he was going to send it off to the paper. The Interview with Dr. Alison Sinclair, expert on means for biological warfare. According to her the biological agents used in biological weapons could often be manufactured quickly and easily. The primary difficulty was not the production of the biological agent but the delivery system in an effective form to a vulnerable target. According to her, any idiot could make anthrax, there were even recipes found on the net.
So then why all this secrecy? What had they been hiding in the infamous Area 51 at Groom Lake alias Homey Airport for so many years while urban myths and legends had been flourishing like weed in the society? Was it a crashed alien space ship c
The Nobel LaureateIt wasn't even three 'o clock in the afternoon, still it was dark as midnight. That was something Esaiah Skanze found delightful. A Stockholm decorated for Christmas in millions of leds and powdered with a pristine white coating of snow, there was hardly anything as beautiful in the eyes of Professor Skanze.
The Professor was standing by the window, hands folded on his back, gazing out over the narrow and tranquil side street, where nothing moved save for a pair of crows looking for something edible outside of the kebab joint, and a few strollers headings for destinations he couldn't care less about. The piano sonata from the stereo system was filling his head with its mellow minor tunes, calming his nerves and smoothing his stage feverish discomfort, while he was waiting for Jelena to finish getting ready upstairs, so they could leave. He had donned his frock ages ago, it felt, but Jelena was always taking her time with her looks. It was a woman thing, he knew, and he should have lear
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
Ideationlocked in a room
with only one escape,
or so it seems.
your hands shake and you drop the key.
Suddenly you're unsure.
Do I want to pick it up?
Do I want to find it?
Do I want to leave?
you think to yourself
there's no other choice.
find the key or corrode, or rust
wear down the hinge
use sadness as the key.
You have the answer now.
Just open the door.
Just walk outside and don't look back.
Let yourself leave with no regrets.
And yet you can't.
You're afraid, you think,
but you are actually strong.
Don't run away.
Don't take that leap.
my bedspread is white and so is my coffin.i can feel
the night closing
the stars are breaking
empty glass bottles
inside of my
mouth, and they taste like
ambien. bitter, then
but you still can't close your fucking eyes
little blue pills for
eyes– it was winter and i
dreams of nothing more than
nothing. the devil
tied chains around all the
vessels in my
body. laughed, and by god i
laughed too (and laughedandlaughedandlaughed).
this will all be over soon i swear i will take everything off your skin and bones and burn it up
and then january took the world
in it's grip and i
drowned in the snow that
will never hydrate the
can you hear that it's the night and it's so beautiful so come here darling and we'll watch the sun rise and set and rise and
Blue BlanketsIt rains tonight
Life is a black and white movie
The gutters are wet, reflecting the neon
Red letters and below them some blue
marketing a brand of beer which tastes like pee
One letter missing
If fizzes and spatter static
And the stray cat hails the sound
Beleiving it an enemy
But there's no enemies here
And old memories
Stored away dreams in a cupboard
Crashed sagas like trojans on a harddrive
Allahs prison is that old computer in the closet
A PC from 96 with the plug pulled
And the hull yellowed by time
The dustworms live there now
Checking their email
Cuddling up for the night
Borrowing our memories
And giving them back
Retold like fan fiction
of outgrown old religions
and gossip of yesterdays stars
those lies which were our blue blankets
in that childhood we don't want to return to
It rains tonight
Life is a black and white movie
Michael Jackson is dead
And so is Marilyn and Elvis
The Loch Ness Monster has gone missing
The Alien returned with his saucer
five hour energyi suppose
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More