Hound: Sir Henry Baskerville and Mrs Laura Lyons by SCFrankles, literature
Literature
Hound: Sir Henry Baskerville and Mrs Laura Lyons
Sir Henry Baskerville:
When he wants to do a task, he will.
Nothing will keep him from his ancestral home.
Even if the devil does let his hound roam…
Mrs. Laura Lyons
Loved the worst of the Baskerville scions.
She never picks the right type.
And so she’s left to typewrite.
An ode to you; a grateful nod to Snapchat
You sent me a Snapchat from Engadin St. Moritz,
a phone message from the Swiss Alps, thinking
of me in the midst of there, of all places:
wish u were here xx
The picture was beautiful, but only because
the frame was filled with your face.
Eight seconds wasn’t enough to
take it all in, but afterwards I could still see
you with my eyes clenched closed:
a smile like lime juice—fresh and stinging and sweet—
lips the blood of berries—made that way
by the cold, no doubt—lips I wanted to trace with
my tongue, lips I wanted to pore over like
a map of somewhere I wanted to go&mda
This night is lifewhite;
pirouetting nautilus frost
on ice milk skin,
coveting a coven.
The boughs of trees
through the city,
resting,
fingers still, touching.
Sleep wanders.
Great angels watch,
silver arrows,
bows of sky,
as light as light,
clean and clear,
sitting on the bookcases
and reading Charlotte's Web,
pacing the floors,
guarding the window's view,
one sings a childhood song,
one fletches arrows from wings of Silence.
The stars
in their sweeping chorus
with their clarinets of night
rub the shoulders
of the world;
the endless lullaby
of worthy, worthy things
the Night's song
of mockingbirds
and diamond rings.
I will liv
e as I was
born, mad
e of pure
light like
you. I wil
l err as o
ften as I
pleasefor y
ou are mo
rtals and
you do do
not obey.
I will n
ot obey.
And you c
annoterror
take my br
eath away
from me wi
thout a gr
eat pain t
o yourself
. You and
I must coe
xist despi
te our com
petition f
or metaphy
sical reso
urces. I l
ove you. I
envy you.
To err is
human. To
errcommand:/
break.code
.burn/code
.link.tran
sferdata/
thirtyone.
break?noi
s humerror
an. To err
is human.
To forgive
, divine..
. You cann
ot tame my
desire to
be as free
as your mi
sguided lo
ve.
PRESS ANY KEY TO CONTINUE...
Punk Rock (Paper Scissors) by Third-Coast, literature
Literature
Punk Rock (Paper Scissors)
"I'm quitting drinking."
Punk rock's her other lip shade.
New leather jacket.
---
they broke radios
as though the deconstruction
found them better bands
---
The noisy neighbors,
the heathen gods live upstairs,
loud on a school night.
Like Math, but with Less Numbers by AnonDesu, literature
Literature
Like Math, but with Less Numbers
She was like a New Yorker cartoon without the class. Dry, unfunny, and useful for impressing people who were easily impressed. We met outside a bar named after an Ivy League at five past two, when no one's in any particular hurry to grab their car before the pay lot closes.
We had a grand total of nothing in common. She wore her hair short and smoked reds, I wore my hair long and smoked Spirits. She read Dostoevsky, I read Kafka. She liked her martinis shaken, I, stirred. She struck a match as I grabbed the lighter from my cigarette case.
"Show was pretty eh tonight, huh?" I said, realizing both of us were waiting on DDs who probably weren'
Mr Edwards doubted he’d be able to remember what Miss Smith looked like once she’d left the office. In fact, he doubted he could describe her now, with her sitting in front of him. She was average. Absolutely and perfectly average. Which was what gave it away to the professional eye. Patently an alter-ego.
Mr Edwards couldn’t believe his luck.
Arch-Enemies was… discreet. No website, not even a sign on the door. After all, it was a highly-specialised introductions agency and all suitable clients found the place through word of mouth. Business rivals made their first acquaintance here, bitter enmity spurring each side
The Heart Dances Even as It Breaks by TheGlassIris, literature
Literature
The Heart Dances Even as It Breaks
Atop the clouds of Amherst
Emily Dickinson rules the garden
surrounding the blue in slanted light,
ringing Sylvia Plath’s
three-volume edition of hell,
where she sits enthroned
like Ereshkigal, Sumerian
queen of the underworld
a typewriter at her feet
and a boiling percolator of coffee
brewing in the far West.
Queen Mother of the Western Paradise
cradles a cup brimming with tea,
watching the rolling hills of Whitman
as he stands atop the green waves
hiding the sun beneath his love.
Mark Twain smokes a pipe, poking fun
at the swollen American Dream, which seethes
over the Fitzgerald palaces, where King Minos
dances both foxtrot and