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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
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
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
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