melancholic by Lychalis on DeviantArt

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Lychalis

Published: Jul 6, 2016

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Literature

eulogy for a fly

I watched a fly caught in layers of webbing behind the blinds, heard the fruitless buzzing, muddy and frantic, as it struggled and pulled to free itself, ripping off a leg with its efforts. The short, stunted whirrs of effort sounded almost despairing, like a fly could lose hope amidst its chaotic pathways. All through it, the tiny spider darted around, trying to wrap up the feast, trying to bite. The fly ripped itself free of the lacy trap, and crashed down to the windowsill, where it struggled, legs still trapped, and expired – so both were left without.

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2: the first question

The first thing I noticed was the fez on her lap. I saw it as I scanned the tube for empty seats; a flash of red in the corner of my eye. It perched delicately on her thighs like a small, unassuming puppy that stared at passerby with large eyes, silently daring them to challenge its right to be there. I gaped at it; the train started forward with a jerk and I had to grab onto the metal pole in front of me to keep my balance. The ungainly motion of my body lurching forward caught the eye of the fez's owner; I saw her look up at me quickly, then duck her eyes down to her hands, which were diminutive and pale and folded neatly in her lap, ju

Literature

a conversation

i welcome sleep as it is - a long lost friend returning home from battle, arms draped over my shoulders, weeping. i held it close and whispered - as if it were my only friend, being the prince of the sky, asking of why i cling to my possessions like a dog to its territory, why i harbor insane notions about silly things - "we are all barren, stripping the land, looking for love in white-capped waves of our own destruction." i asked why mother nature was pulling me by the roots of my hair, and being as i am, a girl who speaks vague classroom french and stands at the waterside passing small thoughts like stones as the brine and tangling seawe

Literature

Of Half-Filled Words

She is not a flutterbird. Her fingers are skittish, her smile is not. Do not fear that you will drive it away. Sadness is her fumbling limb. It is unwanted, yet necessary. When it is January she will tell you, "I am still struggling. And I am becoming so many people all at once. A conglomeration of beauty that I have managed to mangle. Please, do not be sad for me." Sometimes her sorrow is meant for you. But mostly her. Those specks and spots of ocean storm lulls reveal her truths: ones she does not want to extract from herself. Her heart is not a rabbit. When it beats faster, faster, faster, you need not run harder

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On self-love

Maybe who she really loves, is the name of the boy she thinks of, while she lines her chatoyant eyes with charcoal maybe the name she really needs to think of, is her own.

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Unaware

When you are two and five and ten you are unaware –– of the cactus in the windowsill, how, fragile, each quill bends and breaks and falls apart.–– Twelve years later, on a Tuesday, you dream about a boy who bumps his head on an iron slate and you wake in a cold sweat. You are twelve when you are always bumping shoulders. Twenty-two years of Thursday. There is nothing at all. And you wonder (and you wonder why) each time you wake. The cactus in the window bleeds with you when you bump it. No one ever mentioned frightened things bite. So you have always been unaware.

Literature

ripples on a blank shore (#15)

in rainbows with a petrichor veil; you've caught my breath in palms covered in dandelions' dust, my longing, an uncovered explosion of drafts hidden from the both of us. but i reach out, knowing wind-chime silence is a possibility as it has always been; knowing the doldrums of my harrowing echoes could be the only reality i'm pressed against, but i'm more than willing to risk my heart and expose it to the weight of sorrow if there's a sliver of a shot that we can be together. suspended in the contingency of the unknown, i hope your wrung hands red with distortion & blue with disappearance, make your way back to the greying soles of my

Poetry

MysticSparkleWings on DeviantArthttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/https://www.deviantart.com/mysticsparklewings/art/Day-1-of-365-613953421MysticSparkleWings

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most of us go quietly

with birth we are 'opened' - death we are 'shut' we cooperate - generally live 'flowingly' - but some exist to be fondly recalled - we suppose others are purposely popular - in nice clothes unless one invents 'the better mousetrap' receives The Nobel or whatever nice crap is amazingly famous - or infamous-ly known our one parting shot will be on our gravestone beneath it - we'll molder away for a while after keeping this mindful thru-out our last mile: the cosmic and random had brought us thus far we were never the focus - truly - never the star llp - dA - mar2022

Literature

poetry: spring of dreams

unfettered lies liaisons of beings fear of the truth my crystal tears maiden in white tufts of dandelions no fury, no agony close your eyes symphony of purity kaleidoscope of peace breeze embalming the body sweet, sweet dreams when I die play this song and think of me as I dance at the spring of dreams

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Thanks for Nothing and Everything [Izark x Noriko]

The world Noriko had accustomed herself to had strange holidays that made no sense to a modern, Tokyo-fuddled mind. Festivals for spring, summer, for winter... they were similar in some ways, but generally based on concepts completely unique to the culture. Especially the fall Harvest festivals rampant the continent over; they were quite kin to the American "Thanksgiving," but still celebrated differently. The thought of "staying home with family" was absurd. Every man, woman and child was out and about in town, hurriedly preparing for a massive celebration; the food, the drink, the fellowship with friends and comrades, the overwhelmingly

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Happy birthday Adrien

Another day, another akuma purified. Like Clockwork almost, Ladybug and Cat Noir worked together to defeat the "Collector" who had wanted to shrink landmarks and people for their collection. After the token fistbump, they prepared to go their separate ways, but before she could swing off, Cat Noir grabbed Ladybug's arm. "Say, doing anything tomorrow, m'lady?" She looked at his hand then back at his face, "Not in particular, why?" Cat let go of her arm, scratching the back of his head nervously. "Well, if you're not busy, I was wondering if we could hang out or something." Ladybug frowned, crossing her arms. "Asking me out on a DATE?" C

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Miraculous 16

Marinette couldn't believe it; she would be turning sixteen soon. A lot has happened within the past year. Meeting Tikki and becoming the hero of Paris, Ladybug. Gaining a fantastic, albeit annoying, partner in Chat Noir. Meeting Adrien and forming the biggest crush on him but having a hard time speaking to him. It did get better though; through her best friend Alya's encouragement and a few partner assignments, they have a more comfortable friendship but she still was afraid to tell him her true feelings. Well, that will come when she's ready. Right now, she's trying to decide whether or not she wanted a party. She went to Chloe's Sweet 1

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FlashFictionMonth

blues flashfictionmonth

I really wasn't sure what to title this. Oh well. Here's my entry to FFM Day 3 - god damn I haven't been feeling it today.

Was hoping to finish catching up but nnnnnope! Oh well, it was fun messing around with this theme. Managed to find some inspiration in Tom Odell's 'Sparrow' as well.