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The Lighthouse Mermaid“Minerva!” whisked into the wind from the door of the lighthouse. Ginger strands fluttered around bobbing pig tails as the girl turned back to the faded milk white house and her mother at its base.
“I’ll be back lata, mom!” the child called back, repositioning her book before running off. The battering lull of a bell pushed the mother’s words back into her kitchen with her five other children fighting over dinner. “Whut if don’ want to read anotha love story?” Minerva said hotly, picking up the hem of her faded blue dress as the waves groped her antique brown rock, rings white around her. “Oh, but please,” cooed the voice as tender as a pigeon. Lola lowered her thick lashes over her dark eyes, and smiled down her thin nose. She grabbed Minerva’s leather boots, and gave a quick, teasing jolt to them, causing the girl to almost lose her balance. “Hey!” she screeched, reaching over to pull Lola’s blackened hair. But Lola just slinked under the water, her body shimmering against the grey green water. The tips of her pale rose fins tickled the water top playfully, and the gurgling air bubbles and rocking currents did not bother her. “But please, Minnie, just one more,” the mermaid said lovingly, framing her elbows on the rock. “I do love them,” her slanted eyes removed her almost perfect human relation with its double lids, the horizontal and the top waxing and waning like a lizards. “I already read you most of um,” the girl huffed, sitting crude cross legged as she flicked through her classics, finger prints, sea salt, and water accelerating its aging. “How about the Rape of the Lock,” Lola said, lifting out of the water enough to lay her torso on it as to peer over the book. Her rump shimmered in the overcast, jelly fins running down the sides and a small hint of human showered, making Minerva uncomfortable enough to look away. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mina & DemetriusMina & Demetrius from Jessica Mercado on Vimeo. A little boy named Demetrius finds something quite different in his untouched attic. He finds an old spirit named Mina, the spiritual guardian of his house who is looking for a successor so she may enter in the afterlife. Demetrius gives up his life to be this guardian because he loves the house and he wants Mina to be free. #Unreal #StopMotion #Animation #Photography #MinaAndDemetrius #Spirits
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a note from your secret ivyi love the way your hips stretch your dress, raising your hem above your thighs, so that you make even the gardenias , with the cheap seats, blush. #Unreal #Poem #Photography #RacyWords #SexyPoetry #BlushingLovers #FalseModesty #Shutterbug #Scribbles Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Found Out this is what I found out: people can really let themselves go you’d be surprised how early we could’ve arrived but didn’t arrive steel tongue high each and every afternoons coy threat banshees looking like flags captured under discretion, advised not permitted a snake eyed bluff we fall quickly and often in slow motion polygon peacekeepers insurgents androids dancing to pacify their acceptance into the attention whore spectrum Bodies and bones trash bags and shopping bags,save a life/kill your apps battery powered orientation or overnight dojos post genre justification, not justice #Unreal #Poem #Poetry #ContemporaryLiterature #FreeVerse #FoundOut #LetYourselfGo #CellPhoneApps #Technology Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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In the House of Kali“That is such a curious thing, Jonathan. Your watch—it runs in reverse. Strange I didn’t notice it before.”
“You’ve a keen eye, Eliza,” said Moyers, carefully presenting the olden pocket watch. Like its owner, the odd watch had a fair share of patina upon its worn surface. “She helps to remind me that I always have time left to find. Makes you feel a bit younger, no?” Eliza took another swig of her gin and tonic. She couldn’t help but smile at Jonathan; his attitude was refreshing, invigorating almost. “It is a charming notion, no doubt,” said Eliza. “But no less so than yourself.” Eliza blushed at her forwardness. She was feeling loose and energetic. The thrill of the night had seeped into her and infected her soul. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time. “Lord, help me. If only Patricia could see me now,” she thought, pleased with her flattery. Just then, the lights dimmed and the band cued again. The exotic young beauty, Kelly Burkman, emerged from the black curtains and took to the stage. She was an enchanting one. Her red dress glimmered like a thousand rubies under the spotlight, nearly blinding Eliza who was fascinated by her. Kelly marched with conviction to the microphone; her heels trampling the surreal mural painted upon the stage floor: a sprawl of men lying beneath her. At the fore of the stage, she stopped imposingly before the crowd, dug her heel squarely into the chest of the last painted man, and belted the lyrics--Time is running out. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
SaltLast week, I awoke in the middle of the night. I gasped for air as if I had been told that I hadn't used my quota, and if I didn't use it now I'd lose it forever. I felt a distinct hole somewhere in the pit of my being, a foreign feeling I couldn't pinpoint that had been decidedly absent the lifetime of days before. It was as if I had been split down the middle and left unaware of which side was the real me. As a person in my early twenties, I had been in that mystical period where I felt self-aware and almost immovable, roots firmly planted within myself. As an actor, this feeling was multiplied thousandfold. My classmates and I had been through too many exercises in finding the self, trusting every instinct, moving in the manner that felt right. It was no surprise, then, that when I awoke with the feeling that a piece of my emotional inventory was unaccounted for, I skipped my classes the next day and called in sick to work. This small, begging feeling would take over my being until I placed it, squashed it, and returned to myself.
I can admit that sometimes I am a tad dramatic, and though I'd love to place all the blame on my chosen path, that would not be true. A dramatic edge garners the attention that playing it straight simply does not. Though the feeling still nagged at me from within, after giving myself one day to sulk and spend an entire day in bed feeling shaken, I felt worse. I decided to peel myself off the mattress and carry on as normal. I had to consider it my latest acting challenge, or run the risk of being swallowed whole. There were other things that needed my attention, and I had put them off long enough. I had ignored an assignment that had the potential to change my life, when I really should have been throwing myself into that, instead. I'm currently attending my dream college, the acting program I reached and pushed for all through high school, far away from my hometown and my parents, finally to get that acceptance letter. Three years and some change later, I'm graduating in a few months, and I can feel the real world steadily approaching, breathing down my neck. In order to prepare us while simultaneously terrifying us, all acting seniors are sent to New York to perform in front of dozens of agents and directors. If we're impressive enough, the real world breathes a little quieter, and our potential isn't lost in casting rooms among hundreds who look and feel just like us. It's called showcase, and it's basically the capstone of our college careers, the stepping stone between student and real actor. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Suburban CloisterThe thought was to roll up and transform into a mollusk, free from light and madness. Triple-lock the door, shut the blinds, and ignore the fights breaking out in the hallway. Your hobby is self-preservation, you would say to yourself, because you never had company. No one understood the clam and the clam did not wish to be understood. The clam never talks except inside its mind. The clam never argues except inside its mind. The clam never shouts except inside its mind. The clam lives only and entirely inside its mind. Sputtering spats are only for old cartoons. That is why you exist and subsist within your studio apartment. There is no world outside the darkness and the dankness you know. One day you will burrow far into the ocean floor and never emerge. You will never see a strip mall or SUV again. Night-night, Clammy, bye. #Unreal #Poem #CreativeWriting #ContemporaryWriting #ContemporaryVerse #Cloister #Secluded #HiddenAway Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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PricksI've never been good with needles. I never feel good while getting them, mostly because I hate looking at my own blood. I'm generally nervous and on the verge of breaking down when I get a vaccine or blood drawn. Although I've since grown out of it, I used to cry all the time when I got them. I replaced that with teeth clenching and internalized profanity. When I was in my early teens, I had to get an injection for something I can't remember. I was nevous about getting a shot, and even told the nurse that. She understood, and went ahead to give me the shot. I turned away and gritted my teeth as she stuck the needle in me, wincing as the tip pierced my flesh. I could feel myself shaking as she removed the needle from my skin. The nurse decided to comment in the most sensitive way imaginable. “Wow! You're a bleeder!” I broke down crying. #Unreal #FlashFiction #CreativeWriting #ContemporaryLiterature #ShortStories #Doctors #FearOfNeedles #Injections Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The Animal InstinctLouisiana Film Resources, LLC is based in New Orleans, Louisiana and is focused on creating films that deal with "real" issues. Our goal is to start conversations. We want to help people talk about tough subjects, and our vision is that conversation will lead to productive solutions for all involved. These films take on complex issues, and we are do not believe we have the answers...yet. They were created by an all New Orleans based cast/crew for almost no money and we are proud to offer our "conversation piece" to you. Thank you for watching.
#Unreal #Film #LouisianaFilmResources #NewOrleans #TheAnimalInstinct #SouthernCinema #SouthernFilmmakers Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Marie Curie and a Broken Heart By Laura Steadham Smith QuailBellMagazine.com The fetal heart thrives on sugar. Tiny muscles need glucose, need something sweet to keep beating. Claire hovers over her Petri dish filled with heart cells too small to see, and she injects sugar through a syringe. The opposite of a diabetic’s treatment, this one. She pours sugar into her Petri dish and imagines a heartbeat. Her apartment is in East Baltimore, a few blocks from the university and the hospital, but she rarely sleeps there. There is a pullout couch in the graduate lounge, and she falls asleep there more nights than not, though sometimes she stands guard over her heart cells until the sun comes up. Marie Curie exercised similar devotion, Claire knows, starved herself to pay tuition at the Sorbonne. Arrhythmogenic right ventricular dysplasia. It’s the disease Claire sees in her sleep, on the seminar room wall when she zones out during meetings with her supervisor, but still not in her Petri dish. She keeps hoping. She will inject her heart cells with sugar and chemical cocktails until the embryonic cells become sick adult cells that crave fatty fuel but can’t metabolize it. A disease in a dish. Over-zealous, her mother calls her. Her mother calls once a week to make sure Claire is eating, that she’s depositing the rent checks her mother sends from Oklahoma. She complains about Claire’s sister, about Claire’s father, then admonishes Claire that she’ll never be happy so far from home. Sometimes Claire doesn’t answer. She hits ignore on her cell phone and stares at the Petri dish instead, at the heart cells that at some moment may seize and stop. “This medicine is bad for you,” her mother says in a voicemail. “You don’t have to be so fanatic, you know.” Claire deletes the voicemail. Her work is not some blind religious devotion. Think of all the things she could do, the lives she could save. Claire mixes chemicals in a glass vial meant to catalyze maturity in the heart cells, to force them from infancy to adulthood. The chemicals look innocuous, a quiet yellow. Nothing orange, nothing radioactive. Marie Curie was so devoted it killed her. The radiation she studied seeped into her bones and changed her. Her own body turned against her, her marrow balking, refusing to follow the rules. If she had been squeezed into a test tube, red vials of blood and platelets under fluorescent lights, you could have seen that the cells stopped dividing. No new erythrocytes, no more little carries of oxygen to pulse through her veins. Claire calls her mother back and holds the phone with her shoulder while she squeezes the yellow into her Petri dish. “I’m making it come alive,” she says, and she hangs up. #Unreal #MarieCurie #ShortStory #ShortFiction #CreativeWriting #ContemporaryLiterature #Science #Medicine #HeartCells Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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