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Literature Text
"Are you a robot?" The boy asked. He'd been thinking about it for a while. He'd been watching her. She didn't ever run, or stroll, or... anything. She just walked, and every stride was the same length, her arms always swinging just so. She spoke in sentences that sounded as though every word had been pulled from some repository deep in her head, and then assembled on her tongue. There was no inflection, no change in tone. They were always flat. Every movement had a goal - there was no needless motion - and she never fidgeted. When there was nothing to be done, she did nothing.
She looked at him, and her lips twisted in an approximation of a smile. It was the closest to emotion that he had ever seen her come. "Yes, I think I am."
She looked at him, and her lips twisted in an approximation of a smile. It was the closest to emotion that he had ever seen her come. "Yes, I think I am."
Literature
longing
i scuff at sidewalk bottle caps,
mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes.
once, the clock hands pointed north. they mock me now with each degree elapsed,
each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.
mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes,
i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads,
each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.
if only i could pull your name from this unmerciful stampede!
i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads.
every dull tock measures out those quinine
Literature
Blue Eyes in Flames
When 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, hold
Literature
Ice
When the glacier slides,
I'm the one
. . .
lost.
Wondering where the right path is, with doubt biting. Frozen memories, icy distances.
When the world grows colder,
I'm the one
. . .
cracked.
Standing on my own, with the past craving for me. Stolen, missing.
When the snow falls,
I'm the one
. . .
drifting.
Trying my best, to make sense of it all. Wandering, wondering.
When the hail storms,
I'm the one
. . .
walking.
Holding my guard, locking my heart. Smiling, pretending.
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Robot - from the Czech robota, meaning ‘forced labour’.
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Comments1
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A wonderful little write. I enjoyed the descriptions you provided in this piece. Well done! 