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PROSE What Spies DoMy dad is a rock. He is solid, he is powerful. He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder. He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion. He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience. He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show. He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person.

“He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the stePROSE What Spies Do5 years ago in Literature Submissions

lOLlYpOp CoNtEst by me :B5 years ago in Art Submissions

The stalker speaks. PROSE.Every day I write him a note.

"Hi, all I know about you is that you always take the cheese off the cheeseburger. Just wanted to say that you're great", then say "Nah, he'll think it's creepy to have someone watch him eat" and throw it away.

I write one every morning, waiting to find the right one. Until then, I watch.

I like the little things about people. Don't we all? Most fall in love with the big picture and then notice the details, which they might love or hate. Most become annoyed by these little details. I become obsessed.

"Hi, all I know is that you love the existentialist movement, and I think that's wonderful. I love you". "Nah,The stalker speaks. PROSE.5 years ago in Literature Submissions

-keystroke rhythm- VISUAL5 years ago in Art Submissions

PROSE- -Golden Hallucinations When she woke, a startling bird encased her vision, like a face pressed up too close. At first she thought she was still trapped in sleep, she blinked and blurred the figurine then hoisted herself up. Three centimeters in height, it was shaped by wire with a golden, almost skin like fiber wrapped tightly around its form. The bird, so detailed, she lowered herself to its height and peered at its beady eyes… Its intensely shaped beak, open, waiting. Tiny wings spread out, each feather visible, so real. It was perched, ready to escape. Clare plucked it off the stand and got ready for work.

The golden bird bounced agPROSE- -Golden Hallucinations5 years ago in Literature Submissions

the quiet loud of nightIn the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.

You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breathing, hear ththe quiet loud of night5 years ago in Literature Submissions

Excuse Me Sir - POETRYThe doctor checked my eyeballs just
to see that I saw straight
then checked my throat with popsicles
that he already ate.

And then he looted through my nose
and found that it was bare;
he hoped to find my boogies but
I flicked them on his chair.

And when the doctor checked my ears,
his eyes got rather wide.
He shrieked and looked at me and then
he looked right back inside!

“It seems to me that in your ears,
I can't believe my eyes,
I spy a case of polka dots
that's speckling the skies...
Though I just can’t believe it for
it all seems quite absurd!
A cowboy with a water gun
whose swimming from a bird?
Pirate sExcuse Me Sir - POETRY5 years ago in Literature Submissions

Flickssticks5 years ago in Art Submissions

VISUAL: Sunlight5 years ago in Art Submissions

POETRY Secret Stairs5 years ago in Literature Submissions

I SPY entry POETRYOne sheet of puff pastry lined with milk,
placed on the bottom of a thin based bowl.
Water poured in, till its filled to the brink.
The other sheet of pastry left ready to roll.

A tool taken slowly from the oak wood drawer
and then raised lethargically to the organ of sight.
Into this was plunged the cold pewter skewer;
no vision but a very wholesome meal tonight

Into water sploshed the peeper for the pie
Into freezer slipped the newly created dish
Then, egg glazed pastry placed on top to finish
Ice Pie with My little eyeI SPY entry POETRY5 years ago in Literature Submissions

Mission Impossible - POETRY

A double agent in a world of intrigue,
I have been forced on by the responsibility of a people.
Having never known you before meeting you,
I have always thought you a spy of our most opposing enemy.
Today as I stand waltzing you in this beautiful forest of dreams,
Our walks reveals more misunderstandings than your simplest self.
A bland beauty behind clouds of bitterness,
I found a heaven where the only guilt of lies makes hard my failing heart.Mission Impossible - POETRY5 years ago in Literature Submissions

VISUAL: I SPY5 years ago in Art Submissions

POETRY: Something BadIn the orphanage where I was raised
Many a year ago
I was known as the Dark Angel
Of that small Catholic-run home.
The other children
Light and Fair,
Turned their heads from me
While I, the boy
Of colors black
Cried alone, so no one could see.
Yet one day, I was given hope
Someone wished to include me
In their game.
And I sat down
In the circle round
With all the other children.
And one said…

“I spy
With my little eye
Something…
Bad.”

And as I glanced around
Eager to win
The voices chimed in.
“The stain on the wall?”
“The spill in the hall!”
“The demon etched in the glass?POETRY: Something Bad5 years ago in Literature Submissions

Beginning with M - POETRYSomething beginning with M

Ladies! Quiet! If you'll look this way,
the diagram on the board explains
the raw, dirty process of extraction
of nylon from crude oil. Essentially
that thong you put on for the lads
is refined filth gripping your hips.
Turn to page twenty - put down that magazine,
look at me! I am not grading your handbags.
Pens down, everyone, and eyeliner pencils,
all eyes on the front. Try and focus
on the man with the outsize labcoat
robes of a magician. For my next trick

picture me naked:
white flakes flurry like a powder-puff discharge,
mole heads peek between lumps of dimpled skin,
nipples jungled in black veBeginning with M - POETRY5 years ago in Literature Submissions

Canvas - VISUAL

Earth is a canvas
a painted rare beauty
wonder and awe
inspired at a glance
the Artist ordained
all colors be bright!
Displayed for all to see.
My upturned eyes blink, wink,
Bright white wisps race above
floating above my bright eyes.
Butterflies dance between flowers
flirt among yellow daisies
birds soar high above
dancing among the trees
like many colored jewels.
The valleys stretches before me
bright painted canvas. Many colored.
My roaming eyes see
Lazy willows swaying, drooping
their branches into streams
The Artist painted them so.
Mountains tall he made,
stern majesty. Mist shrouded.
Beauty beyond compare
BlCanvas - VISUAL5 years ago in Literature Submissions

POETRY "I Spy"I spy

“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with C.”
“Champagne.”
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R.”
“Roses.”
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with D.”
“Diamonds.”
“You’re good at this.”
I am.

Your thoughts tick loud.
Your face of flattering smiles
Matches a sly voice of lies.
This is a game that runs through my veins
And my little eye is sharp.

Don’t bother.
Taking me out,
Giving guilelessly,
Chameleon changing under a hawk’s eye,
Hiding under the innocence of a child’s game.

I spy with my POETRY "I Spy"5 years ago in Literature Submissions

being5 years ago in Art Submissions

POETRY - The Sniper PostThe Sniper Post

The shell-shocked troops, exhausted from the days assault
Lie spent upon the broken trench floor
Or piled down in the dugouts with the rats
And I, the lonely sentinel, watch over all
Spying on the desolation amidst the darkness
I do not sleep
But, catching my mind dwelling on the outcome
Of the fruitless, futile day that’s gone before
I swiftly return my gaze to the mud pits
Stretching out around me on all sides
My rifle’s gaze drifts with snipers precision
Across the fields of wire and mud and blood
Towards the distant dugouts of the Boche
Another twisted, ragged line, like ours
Beyond the pockmarked POETRY - The Sniper Post5 years ago in Literature Submissions

I Spy - Prose -We sit in silence, staring uncomfortably at the floor, not letting our eyes meet.

We know that if we look at one another, we will start again, start an endless litany of excuses and apologies that we both know have no real meaning, justifying what we have no justification for.

The silence is stifling.

“So...” I try to break that awful silence. It feels like a kind of noiseless echo, some awful, resonating soundlessness.

Except I can’t think of anything to say.

“Let’s play I Spy.” he says. I almost forget our argument, almost jump up and stare at him, almost exclaim; “What?”

I consider the idea forI Spy - Prose -5 years ago in Literature Submissions

POETRY - Our Little Game"I spy,
with my little eye,
something that is red;"
cherries, strawberries
and pomegrantes
splayed on the table,
and in need of another clue,
"something I'm attracted to,"
her reddest luscious lips,
and that sealed the deal.

"I spy,
with my little eye,
something that is white;"
snow banks, drifts,
and fluffly clouds
in the inky sky,
the starry sprawls;
"something that creeps and crawls;"
hoarfrost on the window pane
slowly obfuscating.

"I spy,
with my little eye,
something that is blue;"
rising tide, clouding sky,
once brilliant eyes
that no longer shone;
"something that wants to be alone;"
and for once the proper gPOETRY - Our Little Game5 years ago in Literature Submissions

They spy, PROSE‘What the hell are you doing here?!’

‘I could ask the same thing to you.’

Bourne remained silent. Growling under his breath, it took all of Bond’s self-control to not throttle the man who stood in front of him.

The game suddenly shifted slightly. Suddenly it wasn’t about insults, wasn’t about out-witting the other. It was about staying alive.

Bond shifted his weight and began to walk about the room. He moved slowly, as if Bourne was a wild animal, and sudden movements would set him off, but never breaking eye contact. The man’s dark eyes had nothing in them, as if he no longer cared about anythThey spy, PROSE5 years ago in Literature Submissions

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