Artwork of Cats

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...ruined my life,” I look down at my hands watching the blood drip and as each drop of the blood hits the floor it makes the puddle deeper. Surrounding my feet is a puddle of my cat’s blood. “The stupid cat I killed, by stabbing its little body eighteen times, was named Tiny. You see the problem with Tiny was that she loved to use her claws and dig them right into my skin. Which normally I didn’t mind but tonight wasn’t a normal night. It was prom night.”

“I hope you don’t think this is the first cat that I’ve killed. Let me show you the inside of my closet.” I walk towards a white, almost brown closet that towers over me, “it looks like it is rotting and slowly killing itself. It probably is. It is tired of being my hiding place for these little furry dead cats of mine. Well I can’t exactly lie to you and say these little cats are furry. I don’t want to start our relationship on the wrong...

By Maddy Cakes  

Twitter: @MsTidbits

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The Bar & The Car

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The ticking clock tocks
The talk ends and the car locks
Dead engine, dead time
Bad mentions, worse crimes
Arguments and fights
Augmented intents
Shit nights
Black out wasted
A tasteless, faceless, disgrace
Shattered glass
Bruises
The broken last
But remain useless
Flashbacks flash back
Buried beneath a bottle
Throttle, empty the tank
Hollow with a stare that’s blank
Tomorrow rewind, play back
Swallow the guilt that built up
Follow the hill to the top
Take a deep breath before the drop
Jump.
Roll The Credits, Please.

 

By Jeffry Crole

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My Ambition Up and Left Me

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My ambition up and left me, and now I’m really in a sweat.
The computer’s on, coffee’s hot, a CD’s playing, I’m all set
to write a story, poem or book until I start to write and then
my wandering mind goes quickly off to hither and then yon. When,
I wonder, will it come back to compose some poetry or prose?
Unfazed by caffeine and dark chocolate, my ennui just grows and grows,
transforming all my good intentions to pavement on that Hell-bound road.
I should be frustrated; I should be angry. I should pen an ode,
or rambling essay, or some fiction, or fictional non-fiction
praising my valiant deeds, stunning looks, and perfect diction.
Instead, I check my e-mail, look at Facebook and play solitaire
when I should be scribbling novels or love poems to a damsel fair.
But me? I keep on staring at the computer’s large, empty screen,
confident at this pace I’ll have a paragraph by Halloween.

 

By Tom Harris

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Bladder Up

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"A true horror story about the aging process that will never be told anywhere else."

A few years ago I was working in a career that is highly physical, requiring heavy lifting and a lot of walking and standing. During this time I was also enjoying regular Brazilian Waxes. Ahhhhhhh..They are fantastic and worth the reasonable, quick pain, and embarrassment. I got busy and missed one or two, therefore, I was shaving what I could reach and attempted to shave "down under" if you know what I mean.

 

With one foot on the toilet, a mirror in one hand, the razor in the other, I began to attempt this difficult task. Honing the mirror into the correct position, my hoo haw "down under" was in full, plain view. We have all looked at our hoo haws before (don't you deny it) so I knew something was wrong. Very wrong. I took a closer look and gasped out loud. I may even have cussed. What I saw put me in mild shock. There was a creamy white, pink veined, "ball" right inside my...

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Midnight Music

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The sounds of the piano playing interrupts the silence as the snow drops. The window leads to a forest now covered in white. She wants to go into the forest but it’s too dark out and the piano is still being played. She joins him instead. She says nothing not wanting to interfere with the musician. She sits right next to him as he concentrates on where his fingers are moving. She watches them dance madly as they create a beautiful melody. She closes her eyes and imagines they are the ones dancing to it. What’s important to her isn’t the music as lovely as it is. ‘Is this love?’ she wonders. She hopes so.

 

By Aubrey D.

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Play Day

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Two young girls draw and color their scribbles all day. The older teaches the younger about types of colors. And how the problem with being left handed when you color is the stain marks left on your pinky. The younger one noticed.

“Look,” she points at her sister’s dirty blue finger.

“Oh,” the older one responds and licks the smudge off.

“What did it taste like?” the younger one asked.

She thought about it before answering. “It tasted like blue,” she said.

 

By Emma Smith

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