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Firebird            The radio was the last thing Gwen packed.

           It was an afterthought, an act of impulse. She’d been in the pantry, raiding every scrap of non-perishable food she could get her hands on. She shoved granola bars and bags of pretzels into the folds of the clothing that was already taking up the majority of the space in her beat-up purple backpack. She’d had the backpack since she started Kindergarten. Joel had never cared enough to buy her a new one.

           When her bag was bursting at the seams, Gwen jerked the zipper closed, using her knee and the side of the washing machine as a makeshift clamp to hold t
The Finest Casket (Complete Story)The chandlers, grocers, butchers, clothiers, and every other merchant in Chantsville was yelling in the streets outside the shop where I was studiously working. Their ruckus combined with the bleats and squawks of livestock wandering underfoot, creating a bustling racket that would drive the unfamiliar ear to distraction.

I was used to the noise, however, and I was so engrossed in my work that I would have sworn the world was silent save for the sound of my chisel biting into the oak box before me. Delicate curls fell from my worktable, collecting in small drifts upon the dirt floor.

I stopped to wipe sweat from my face. The pause gave me a
my howls are silentI, too, see the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. We are decomposing too early, our souls dying before our bodies can catch up. We are silently ravenous, a quiet craze in our hearts, not quite the same as your generation, Ginsberg. We do not shriek "Holy! Holy! Holy!" as we burn. We drown soundlessly.

The overeducated, proud products of postmodernism dissolve in a lukewarm soup of ennui, bored balloons filled with hubris rather than helium. Fragile dolls with flaking bones and hair and skin like flowers wilting, weighed down by indomitable wills and insecurities... these plastic girls starve to death and diabetes in the car b
Across the Sea and Around the KotatsuSpring

Taco Rice

Mom starts with rice. Japanese rice, one, two, three Japanese cup-fulls of rice grains into the cooker, because Sis eats a lot of this stuff. It's one of her favorite dishes, taco rice, and Mom's always happy to make it for her because it's the only way Sis will eat her tomatoes. But back to the rice. "You want to rinse at least three or four times, until the water's kind of clear," Mom says as she cups her hand under the cooker pot, letting the cloudy water wash over her hand.

Rice cooking's easy though – just fill enough water to the point the rice's covered, punch in a time (or set it to "Quick Cook," which with our cre
This Common BloodI am young when I first hear the word 'adoption'. I am so very young, perhaps three, maybe four. I accept it easily when my mother sits me down and explains that I did not grow beneath her heart, but rather in it. I nod my head, smile big, and ask when I'm getting a little sister. My mother kisses me on the forehead and puts her hand on my head as she stands up. "If you wish on a star, Sarah, maybe she will be here very soon." I practice my wishing until night's companions wink merrily in the sky.

Dear Anna,
I turned seventeen just recently. I thought of you when I woke up, and I wondered if you were thinking of me. I like to think that you
a ribcage drenched in dust i have your ribcage, you said.
what should i put in it?

i told you i'd always wanted a fire,
the kind that would fill my eyes with starlight
and pump my blood full of passion, but

you're made of wildflowers, you said.
a fire would burn you to ash.

you wanted to fill my chest with
the sound of a train, whistling
far away in the night;
with the sound of rain smacking leaves;
with the sound the wind makes
when it seems like it's trying to speak

and you wanted to throw in the
smell of midnight in august
and the feeling of sand being
sucked out from under your feet
when the ocean inhales,
and the strange little moment of
bitter
open letter to my first holy communion teacherdear miss bond,

you may or may not remember me. you taught me religion at my local church, we called it First Holy Communion but i always secretly thought it was brainwashing. you were so passionate about it, you seemed to make it palatable. it is only in later years, seeing what religion is, that i have recanted my faith. but you - when i think of you, i still feel my fingers twitching to bless the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost. i think of the lace squares that you would give us, your children; your flock, when we learnt a prayer. parrot this, child, and you shall be given pretty, clean edged doilies. white lace, it was rough on our finge
SouvenirsWhen her mom went to check the mail at breakfast, she returned with a thin box in her arms.

It was a package from her father.

Her dad was sort of like a traveler... at least, that was what she assumed he was. His job always had him jumping from city to city, country to country. He'd been to almost everywhere around the world, and every few weeks, he would send her a letter with a little souvenir from his stay. This time, it was a miniature Eiffel Tower.

So he's in France again, she mused, studying the two-foot tall replica. A small chuckle escaped her lips. It was about time he remembered to get it for her! He really should've thought of b
Gnome Noir  "I did it for the money and I did it for the girl.
        Well, I didn't get the money – and I didn't get the girl."
::  Walter Neff - Double Indemnity
So I point the flintlock at the guy – and that's no easy thing, big musket like that on a little gnome like me – and I peer down the sight. Not many people know what it's like to stare at a man through a glass. But in those sacred moments, the whole world takes a breath and it's just you and him. I line up the shot, and I think about the girl, and--

What? That is the start. What do you want, Sheriff, my life story?

Alright, well, I'm Gniles Brody the Third – that's
AntiquatedYour rose petal hips
Will always demur
To your ivory lace slip,
The stockings climbing
High on calves and thighs
Like a garden trellis
Near the blooming soul
Between your open legs,
The place where he
Could love you the most
A Pocket Full of SkyWhen I was young, my father would take me to the highest tower of Notre Dame precisely once a year. It would be cold. Freezing. But we'd stand there, and take deep breaths of air, and peer down, towards the tiny ants of people below. Down, towards the sprawling city beneath us. It was always winter, when we'd go. Always cold. Freezing, freezing. But however cold it was, and however dull and bleary the weather, my father would ask one thing, and one thing only: that we adhered to tradition.

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The Solipsist's LotThere's something about yourself that you don't know.  You probably don't remember the circumstances very well, but I do.  If you enjoy things the way they are, if you revel in even the smallest speck of ignorance, you need not read ahead.  I won't force you.  But from what I know of you, you don't like secrets.  Especially not when they are about you.

You see, when you were born, so at once was everyone else.  Your mother, she sprang into existence, just like that, the instant your tiny infant brain achieved the smallest semblance of self-awareness.  Woven out of the ethe
It Bit Me"And tomorrow we'll install the kitchen cabinets along this wall here," the man gestured into the adjacent room.

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The Cat on the PorchYou asked me why I do not believe in ghosts,
celestial at four in the morning.
     It becomes the common hour,
not a biting static shock in the eye veins like I anticipated
but dangerously vogue and precious
like a real diamond ring or sapphires on your breast.
No wood pecking or oil teasing or misshapen duck bills bleating
just clay, but lighter, lightest
and bright
seductive and crestfallen.

They bled Peter and Pangloss over a river.
I was wearing white for the funeral
humming 'home', the matronly letters
soothe me
clotheshorses and moonlight,
Mayan jewellery in my cabinet
the mother tongue kissing my molars better

     But then there
Nonno's GardenIt’s strange to think that you’re not here anymore.

I remember when we were younger and we’d arrive to see you. The first place we’d go was to the window, pressing our faces against the glass to try and catch a glimpse of you. We’d look out, and you’d be there. Like you always were. In the garden.

Each trip was different, an adventure. There were rows of neatly sown lettuce seeds, bean stalks twice as tall as we were, ripe strawberries just waiting to be found by our greedy little fingers.  Tomatoes would be taken and made into sauce, lemons would be squeezed to create limoncello, grapes transformed into
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Golem

:icondamonwakes:

We remember when you dug us from the riverbank, but we forgive you. The water was cold and the people had need of us.

We remember when you divided and shaped us, but we forgive you. We were without form and the people had need of us.

We remember when you put us in flames, but we forgive you. We were soft and the people had need of us.

We recall the day when you sent us against swords. This we forgive. The people had need of us: we would not desert them when foes were near.

We remember when you broke us with hammers. Even this we forgive. The battle was won, and the people had no more need of us.

But though shattered, we remained on the hillside, for no people came to sweep the shards away. This too we forgive, for our eyes remained littering the ground and it allowed us to see.

We saw you crowned and we rejoiced though our own heads were shattered. We saw rings on your fingers and we applauded though our own hands were lost. We saw robes on your shoulders and we were glad, though our own backs were broken. We saw your image raised in the square and we were happy, for though we were given no such thanks, yours was sculpted from clay and in that we saw our likeness. These things we saw and these things pleased us, scattered though we were.

But fired eyes do not close if they are not swept away, and we saw too things which did not please us. We saw that crown shine upon your brow while the faces of the people became lined with care. We saw the fat bulge beneath those rings while the fingers of the people became calloused and bony. We saw the splendour of that robe grow while the clothes of the people wore to threads. We saw your image in the square and knew that the tyrant had claimed the city, though the bones of him and all his men rested amongst us on the hillside. These things we saw and these things we do not forgive.

We know that a foe is near and so, though shattered, we stand. We are cold once more, but the people need us. We are without form once more, but the people need us. We are broken now, but the people need us. Claymind and kilnheart, we stand once more, marching on the city we would protect.
We will dig you from your palace.
We will divide you from your wealth.
We will bring the flames of the people's anger.
We will send you to the swords of the river's flow.
We will break you to pieces.

And the people will not know to thank us, for we will sweep away the shards.
:icondamonwakes:
Well, it's been July 2nd for a little more than an hour and a half. Here's my flash fiction for the day.

Daily Literature Deviation: July 14th, 2012.

And a Daily Deviation on February 20th, 2013! Enormous thanks to ~joe-wright for suggesting this, and to ^Beccalicious for featuring it. If anybody is interested in reading more of these Flash Fiction Month pieces, I've collected them into a free ebook: [link] . And if anyone fancies having a go at Flash Fiction Month themselves, ~Flash-Fic-Month is well worth a look. :-)
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Daily Deviation

Given 2013-02-20
Golem by *DamonWakes ( Suggested by ~joe-wright and Featured by ^Beccalicious )
:iconmariandalton:
Critique by *MarianDalton Feb 20, 2013, 9:44:50 PM
This is simply marvellous. You've captured the implacable nature of the golem that is so frightening, while still imbuing it with the kind of patient forgiveness that can only come from something crafted from earth.

The voice of the golem is utterly believable - not overly dramatic, but not sugar-coating anything it sees. And the image of the broken clay scattering on the ground still watching what goes on is chilling.

The repetitive nature of your lines lends this piece an air of oral storytelling - solemn, almost ritualistic. It evokes the image of the shattered pieces whispering to each other.

The idea that the clay, once shaped and fired, cannot simply be broken and lose what once gave it purpose is something I've never come across before. Usually the golem, once its form is destroyed or animating words removed, becomes inert once more.

You've created something quite remarkable here. I'm looking forward to seeing more from you.



:blackrose:
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:iconaelorn:
Critique by ~Aelorn Feb 20, 2013, 5:32:30 PM
This is a beautiful tale of heroism, forgiveness, betrayal and maybe even a little bit of loss. This feels like a fully fleshed out story with a whole world of characters and places, but at the same time, nothing is missing, and the reader is left satisfied at the conclusion.

While the story of the golem is an old folktale that many have at least heard mentioned, you kept it very original, and gave your own flair. The work evokes strong responses, and the reader wants to hate the tyrant for abusing his (or her) power over the people in such a horrible way.

All in all, a very well rounded work.
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:iconthegexxonatr97:
~TheGexxonatr97 Apr 10, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
:iconwhoaplz:

This piece conveys so many different pieces, yet in such streamlined a stature. It's got a melancholy yet upbeat reminisce of the past, an uneasy and almost somber look at the present, and the unmistakable heat of hope and fierce vengeance over the horizon of a future rigid with certainty.

Well done, good sir. Jolly good show! :iconthumbsupplz:
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:iconcarnie-vorex:
*Carnie-Vorex Apr 5, 2013
That's why I love golems. Such selflessness. I wept while reading.
Reply
:icondamonwakes:
*DamonWakes Apr 6, 2013   Writer
Thanks! I'm pleased to hear you were so invested in the story. :-)
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:iconroskvape:
~Roskvape Feb 23, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Strong use of structure and rythym! Excellent story, too. If I ever get a kingdom, I want golems in it! :XD:
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:icondamonwakes:
*DamonWakes Feb 26, 2013   Writer
Thanks! :confused: Though personally, I'd like the option of becoming all corrupt and evil. What's the point in power if you can't go mad with it? :dummy:
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:iconroskvape:
~Roskvape Mar 5, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
LOL!
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:iconrovanna:
*Rovanna Feb 21, 2013   Digital Artist
Wow, that was awesome. :D Amazing you could tell such an interesting story in so few words. The voice of the Golems really makes this; the repetition is really ominous.
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:icondamonwakes:
*DamonWakes Feb 21, 2013   Writer
Thanks. :-) I went to quite a few creative writing workshops while I was at university (often with fairly tight time limits for exercises). It's been good practice for this sort of thing, and it's surprising how few words you can get away with, really.
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:iconkaaslave:
~kaaslave Feb 21, 2013
Awesome. :)
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:iconllirbwerdnadivad:
~llirbwerdnadivad Feb 20, 2013
...wow. Just...wow. This was amazing, and it details well some ongoing problems with society today...in my opinion, at least.
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