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Bad HabitsS.

She always rubs her mouth,
like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.

Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.
Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.
Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.
Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fall
Summer SalutationsEyes open, blooming flowers as the sun sets the sky on fire and burns away all traces of that damp, grey, world caught in between yesterday's end and today's beginning.

Shout with joy all you that are green and growing, all who shake off with gladness your pale night's wrappings and raise your selves in the most ancient salute to the beginning of long days of light and life.

Send skywards your tears, your cold nightly sweat, the sticky beads of dew still clinging to your outstretched hands, reminding you of the dead world before and keeping the hot light from pouring into your eager cupped palms and dancing across your starving skin. Let it
the butterflyYou sit down in a cornfield a golden ocean surrounds you.
When the wind blows, he creates waves and dishevels your hair.
It smells like summer. It is Julie and the sun burns, the clouds are gone.
The yesterdays rain dried already and so the nature, reborn, after the long winter feels fresh and new.
Birds are twittering.
You smile and stretch your arms as high as you can.
Suddenly something lands on your fingertip.

It is a butterfly!

With a colour like a piece of the sky.
Softly, slowly it moves his wings to tank the heat.
He did just escape his homely safe cocoon and is fragile as a new bourn baby.
You don't dare to breath.

So flawl
UntitledIn the days of old when my mind was ripe and fresh, I was a romantic whose mind lived in a far off place no physical being can go. I read books like they were the very meaning of sustenance; they and they alone could give me life and bring me comfort in the darkest of times. Intuition tells me I would’ve gone on like that forever - collapsing into odd positions and folding into worlds outside my own when I didn’t want to deal with life, as though if I read long enough, I’d disappear into those worlds - had society’s rules and school’s workload not pulled me out of my trance violently and unforgivably. I had to ma
Deadly silenceArguing?
No, silence is the killer
SkyHunterLet me get one thing out of the way right now.

I do not have a latex fetish.

Or a rubber fetish, or a vinyl fetish. Nothing like that. I had a girl ask me that the other day. I was working, bagging groceries at this little store on Beacon. She noticed my yellow-white gloves and she asked me did I have a fetish for latex. I blinked, and told her no, I didn’t, it was because of a condition. She told me that it was okay if I called it a condition, that other people liked it too and that it was a normal part of being human. She then told me that she was more of a bondage person.

Her mother’s face ran scarlet.

There were days when
Haunted"I'm sorry," she says softly. The sky is black above, speckled and marred by the bright scattered peaks of stars. An empty field stretches out from her on all sides, grass swaying softly back and forth in the breeze. The horizon is a flat plane in the distance.
She's all alone, but she doesn't feel like she is. She can feel the spirits all around her, filling up the field and then reaching up into the sky. She can hear their voices, quiet and stuttered as they are.
"--John? John, where--"
"--I just need to tell her--"
"--have you seen--"
"--Alice, can you hear me? Can you--"
All of them are looking for someone; a child, a lover, a friend.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs to them once more. "I didn't mean to bring you back. I thought it would be better for you this way."
They can't hear her.
She covers her face in her hands, weeping for the lost souls she pulled back from death.
"--I just want to see her--"
"--Is anyone here?! I can't--"
"--where are they--"
The girl beg
But Softly1. 
    I am an artist.
    I feel the need to create. 
    I explore the feeling. 
2. 
    Yet creation is impossible. The colors splashed onto a canvas are but colors; they need to be saturated, pumped with the essence of something.
    Words do not add the necessary element. They only waste ink and space. They are clutter. 
    Even sounds and motion and dance do not breathe anything more than dimensions. How can these things ever become more than the
    sluggishly industrious blood of the artist? How can they become thoughts, ideas, suspended but flapping dusty wings
    gently, how can art be more than residue?
3. 
    I bleed. 
    Images, material, sex, honesty, tears, purgative, travel, touch, music, struggle, nature, fear, depression, consumption, money, rags, paint,
    libraries, machines, schooling, risk
Visionary-CreepypastaI'm a visionary, you see. My ideas will save the world from an enemy, such a foul and lecherous breed. You can't even fathom the madness and depravity of these creatures... Well, I'm going off on a tangent, allow me to explain before you ignore me like all the other doomed fools.

Although they wear the mask of a civilised man, make no mistake, they are monsters born from your worst nightmares. They'll look at, no, they'll analyse you with their beady little rat eyes whilst they claw at your skin with their gnarled talons. They really are barbaric little parasites that root themselves into our society like a blasted weed, and they stick their
Midnight ramblings of an old manThe stars tonight hide behind the clouds. To think I would miss their glow as I do now. Tonight I wonder, had they even existed in the first place? I know that I have seen them for twenty-five thousand days, and their light had never faltered. Now, they were only gone for a night but why is it that I think every single star in the universe were just an illusion, that there were no such entities that burnt, fissioned to produce light and heat? Even the Sun which I cannot see in the dark night sky, one which held us so close and nurtured dearest Earth which in turn nurtured us; us who have been leeching off of our Mother.
What horrible children we are. To use Mother to our advantage through sucking her life blood. Soon enough we might not be able to see our Grandmother through the dust in our eyes. We become cold and shiver in the darkness, again using Mother's blood to keep warm and produce light, to see again and to advance further. Slowly Mother dies, painfully and sadly. Poor old Gra
The Parable of the Small Man          Once upon a time, in a peaceful village, there lived a man. He was small of heart and lived by himself. He was not a learned man, only a simple farmer. In this village there also lived a nobleman who had many riches yet was very generous. In his great generosity, he invited the small man to a wondrous banquet.
         Now the small man was very doubtful of himself as a person. He thought to himself, “I am but a simple farmer, and I have never been to any banquets, great or small; I would not know how to act in front of this nobleman or his other honored guests.”
         As he left his home, he saw the herder of the
Ink-Drop LiesWriters lie.

They weave pretty words and sentences and paragraphs like tendrils of ivy curling around your legs. The bouquet of spring was in the air outside the window. There was a girl with road rash knees conveniently reminiscent of childhood. Everything was big, beautiful, exciting, sad, terrifying, life-changing, wonderful.

Make you care, make you hang on their every word, they have your attention now. Something normal and unexciting seen through eyes heavy with a daylong hangover becomes a crumpled green mountain spine dipping into the mouth of the ocean as the sky bleeds red and pink sunset hues.

And you believe it.

You believe eve
Timemare“I’ll start with a knight.”
“I’ll go with a bishop then.”
“And now for the pawn.”
“In the end, aren’t they all?”
Quiet chuckling from both parties.

The setting sun highlighted the sky with colors that don’t exist. The plot of earth a thousand meters below bustled with life, if it can be called that. Here today, dead tomorrow. As with all reality.
The skyscraper overlooked the city. A city of a thousand names, from a thousand eras. It suited her, she who stood at the top of the skyscraper. A figure that could not be described, an impossible voice, and sorrow inexplicable.
Momentum"today I just want to be a housewife. I guess somewhere in the French Province. My only worries are to look pretty and prepare a nice tasty dinner when he comes back home. While I can hear him approaching the entrance door, I am sitting at the balcony's window with a glass of wine, red wine, smelling the breeze. "I am back!" He shouted after he entered. I smiled. I knew he reached before his actual shout. He smiled. He knew I am at the balcony waiting for the sound of his keys. And so the day became wonderful. We both knew. Yet, those unspoken thoughts, the unspoken knowledge, triggered this unspoken wonder."
EventuallyIn the cruelty of time, memories lost to the emptiness of the ever stretching void are the unmistakable whispers of weeping. A child runs through the marbled corridor, tears streaming down her face as she runs without hesitation, not checking to see where she was heading. The thunder storms gather, the last bellowing of battle drums before the great plunge in to the dance of war. Lightning strikes the cold earth sparking vicious fires and shrouds of ash and smoke. Lungs begin to shrink, the very oxygen becoming sparser and sparser as carbon dioxide envelops the atmosphere, coating the once blue sky in misty red pigment. Volcanoes tower above
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FutureCrown me with pearls under the glass ceiling where the successful have a catwalk in funeral attire. We breathe out clouds of evaporated dreams in twisting incense smoke.

The ropes of the swing hung on the last pine are falling apart, the square playground a desert among hives and graffiti trees. A rusted elf made of old car parts leans over the flowerbeds.

The children feed an apathetic crocodile crackers and stare into the murky water of its terrarium. The bald parrot's blue feathers have been stained with oil leaking through the roof.

In a tower made of dilapidated wood, a princess lifts up a sleeve and perfect azure pours from the wound
TransmutationA naked woman wearing a helmet with golden wings in the shape of a V draws the sign of Mercury onto the striped floor. The slanted glass roof resonates in the drizzle.

Lucid swirling colour is drunk from fine wine glasses raised while lying in a torn toga upon the divan in the entrance hall of the factory. One of the ladies sews two tails on a fox and wraps it in paper.

The blue cog is replaced by a red one and greased with fresh liquid extracted from the trees. The white-veiled ones inject a remedy that leaves gold marks.

Eyeless wooden masks float in a heap underneath the acacias in the water-covered courtyard. The windows act as sewers,
DissolutionSome butterflies reborn as kites made of rice paper catch on fire and charred pieces fall between my outreached fingers.

White paint is spilled onto the concrete as I run, scattering hope. The little lights that make up the wide monitors hung on the tall buildings melt in the rain.

A deer with red ribbon stuck on its antlers leaps across the border between realities, pearl necklaces hatch from the white shells of hens' eggs, red shoes dance in the display window at nights.

I am a storm cloud filled with static, a hissing cat running between the rain-soaked peonies, scaring the large ocean seagulls into flight above the statues.

The gypsum

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Pieces

:icontulinuotio:

When the light of many only barely known eyes and the feeling of dirty hands had faded, when the mornings naked by the open window sensing a hint of spring in the wind had run by like a passing train, I realized that the flowers I had grown in my hair had changed from vivid hues of red into a pale white clouded by dust and cobwebs.

I had given a sample of myself to all passers-by, little pieces of my heart to everyone, until its entire surface was covered in dark blue bruises. They put the pieces in their pockets and enjoyed them like breath mints, absentmindedly and comfortably on their way to work. I just watched them go.

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Piecesby *tulinuotio

DescriptionDetailsShare
Just something extracted from a longer piece, but I suppose this was the gist of it.

I think I'll rather write stream of consciousness like this for now, I have so much to express
©2013 *tulinuotio
Category: Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

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February 26
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:icontranse:
*transe Feb 28, 2013   General Artist
The metaphors are intriguing, and there's so much of emotion condensed in these simple lines.
I like the last sentence better (and I'm probably subjective) because I always that stillness is a fast-paced movement.
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:icontulinuotio:
Mood: Love *tulinuotio Mar 1, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you, I'm glad you could see the emotion, it was rather tough to write. :)
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:iconazul-din:
*Azul-din Feb 26, 2013
Breath mints perhaps to some. Jewels to others.
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:icontulinuotio:
*tulinuotio Feb 26, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Indeed. :)
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