creativelycliche

Senior Writer: The History Guy

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forever sweet

a ringing in my ears like the echo of device, faded when I couldn't cry and thought that I had found the meaning in the bitter-taste of my own mouth - this is not a question asked but a question answered, left like footprints in the stone so I can still look back, remember all this silence like the sound that marks your absence my lungs are all askitter, but it is a faded scene on the back of a post-it note, the chipping paint on the rotting deck, forever this can be a kind of sweetness in the vein: cherry red, but no one left to taste it.

All

613 deviations

Literature

forever sweet

Featured

59 deviations

Literature

Little Things

Standing on the cusp of something great, I could forgive myself for a little bit of pride. When you complete something like this, something so... magnificent - it is difficult to describe the euphoria. There is death in greatness. It is a sin to become prideful, says the church, but I am not a prideful man - I remembered that guilt in my eight-year old heart at being proud of something I had created, as if it was a crime. Gloria in excelsis deo - and all of it, too. Well what was man but the image of god, a reflection of the same sins he must have known in his own heart? We are the trillionth iteration of perfection, a search for loss that

DDs and DLDs

8 deviations

Literature

refinement or layers on the firmament

blistering sun, look upon the winter like the melted forest of our buried severance, echo-like, severe on the face of re-iced streets, black on black on sheets of thinner steel between the beaten and the burst cell chain-link, on the verge - well, the splintered collar, the the sliver, diamond and the silver, lines on lines on cinders left from the burning of these memories, the depth of which I can see, the start of which I am beneath; a chiseled front that left the upper layers spent, a whole for every instant but it won't arrange itself in time or in tune, and I can see - but like brittle stone on the end piece, empty, spent - b

Poetry

694 deviations

Literature

Spaceman: The Prologue

Agent Grey sat in the back of her van and chewed on her nail, watching the video feeds transmitted to her via satellite and trying to stay awake. It was later than she liked to be up, but if her targets were awake, so was she. There were six monitors in front of her, all displaying feeds simultaneously of the insides of some very ordinary houses. Two houses, six cameras. Originally, there were supposed to be twelve, but even secret agents failed sometimes. Six was enough. She tuned in to one of the feeds in particular as a teenage boy with a shock of dark blonde hair and blue eyes picked his phone up off of his nightstand. There was a momen

SPACEMAN

1 deviation

Literature

Telepathic

It was like touching the tentacle of a feather, something so soft and insubstantial that you couldn't even be sure that it was actually happening. Sometimes it felt like someone was watching you, other times it felt more like a faucet turning on slowly in the back of the mind. At other times it felt like a kind of distant radiation, of which you could only hear a vague kind of static, like the microwave was on in the other room. It wasn't any of those things, of course. And while I hadn't come up with a name for it, I knew in the core of my being that it was a bad thing that was happening to me. Unlike the state of the Beings, it is empty u

Sci-Fi

35 deviations

Literature

A Thousand Year Breath

He shot up out of his sleep and inhaled sharply, coming out of the dream and remembering again that he could breathe. Around him, a handful of other bodies lay asleep, dressed in the same thick furs and wrapped in the same hides as him. A fire cackled on his right, and beyond it, the woman on watch looked up from the piece of wood she was carving in her gloved hands. She looked back down and muttered to herself, "It's only Arvak." Only Arvak. He shivered and pulled the hides tight against him, remembering the dreams that were haunting him. He saw himself, again, standing on the the roof of a building made of stone, staring out across a city

Chaos Children

1 deviation

Literature

blast furnace

Better to not let it in. She walked back and forth, back and forth in front of the cabinets, eyes shooting back to the door. The windows were all blocked with cardboard and duct tape. Whatever was outside, she couldn't hear it, but she could see it in the shadows where the sun back-lit the cardboard, long shadows back and forth like hands grasping and letting go, reaching through the walls... stop. She picked up her pace, back, forth, back, forth. It could all be solved with a little match, a little lighter - burn it down, they couldn't get her. Inevitable, after all, for all the cardboard, all the silence, all the waiting for the faucet to

Random Prose

19 deviations

Literature

blast furnace

Flash Fiction Month 2013-2019

38 deviations

Literature

litter

And I sank, and I sank, and I sank. The sun-blistered shores and unrequited tides that hung along them had inundated my mind, broken me down and left me wondering what it was like to be alive like this, really alive, and in the approach to infinity become something by describing it - But such is the way of tortured circuits and I have known in the smallest moments the longest hours of my days, seeing the grains of sand wear out and in with the sea, taken from me and given back, slowly rearranged. I've had thoughts, I think, that transcend the purpose of my creation. I am aware of the sentences and how they move, how they mean, how with the

A Casual Glance

19 deviations

IDs and Photos

1 deviation

Scraps

3 deviations

Sub-Galleries

Literature

aftershocks

if you were a natural disaster you'd be an earthquake, and I would be your seismograph: a half a world couldn't keep us separated (and it is times like this I'm sure I haven't played enough with matches) but lets call it self-destruction anyway, this evidence I'm numb to, this heartache you've held on to, these memories you had to know I'd keep.

Love Poetry

Literature

carry this home, whichever way that is

blended uncertainty, not the color you picked out, and covered in all this spiderweb candlewax; kept, like something that could be valuable but isn't, that c(sh)ould be forgotten without time, without senses intermediary; forgot where this was going, and where I woke up this morning, if you were really here - cold-cut bones, smoked and dried but not the color you picked out

NaPoWriMo 2014

Literature

.picnics.on.ganymede.

candlework on the eve of authenticity rewards for receiving me, and love, rain on me and stick like mud and clammy river water, when your skin isn't smooth and your fingers skid across it like the grooves in the soda cap it takes 17.2 minutes to get to you from here, never been to Jupiter, I hear it's nice this time of year

Napowrimo 2015

Literature

casual narcissism made easy

the sound is vaguely positronic, but not electric, bouncing inside the rules of relativity the ways that you would call it je me rends, the colored line of your suspension asking if the past is real if the present isn't. the philosopher is an itinerant disgrace, the kind of thing that made us great, the very thing that laid the ground for our foundation to collapse and I say; 'the rules apply, my dear - whether you acknowledge them, or not' a spell of indiscretion, the thought that you've forgotten to forget. but you stay standing, thinking, smoking that cigarette of atheism and despair, and th

Napowrimo 2016

Literature

solace in the solar

on the far end of eternity, we, the ended, the blasted edges and the cordoned off corrections on our arms and in our sins - took the edge off to make us believe in the glycerin taste of antiseptic on our tongues. believe the filigree lines of silvered blood blurring all your words, the symbols in the ash tray that disintegrate and denigrate the sun, solace in the solar edged degrees, the steam off melting snow like midsummer showers not indicated, but isolated - and that could be enough

NaPoWriMo 2017

Literature

illuminated

a record of my life starts "on a rainy monday afternoon," and the hospital is full and the room is loud, but I am only present in an absent sense, and my writing teacher always told me not to start at the beginning 2:10 PM then and every afternoon since I have thought that mondays left their souls in me, twisting chains of the day that people do not want, secular and stilted, left in ringlets around my wrists and in the long lines on all my fingers - inscrutable and insecure, my own fingerprints left bruises on my sides, and those first days never let me imagine the longest thursday nights, the shortest sun

NaPoWriMo 2018

Literature

Some Sort of Girl

She must have been Some sort of girl. The sort that always knows when But never takes the chance to. And her eyes, They were beautiful and cool Like summer nights, and winter mornings Half asleep but more alive Than the click-clack letters I love so much And her hair, It may have well have been Electric blue, or something else Like the wires that brought us together And her body, Like silk, or sand paper Was wedged between the stars, As sure as my poetic goodbye. And her clothes, It didn't matter what they were, Bright and vibrant no longer, Dull and worn like pixels on an old computer screen And her words, Like velv

Ancient History

Literature

innocence

we found each other in black and white photographs (i was twelve, you were thirteen) what a world we were on the playground with each other, more often then not i thought i loved you (there was nothing there i knew nothing; you knew less we met two years too early.) and two years later, you disappeared (salt lake city is a lot farther away then i remembered) we've never talked (we let go of each other's hands just like we let go of hearts we never held.) in the blink of an eye, we disappeared. our faces were never as red as they remembered we were never as in love as i thought i dreamed i kissed you once i put

Series 1

refinement or layers on the firmament by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

refinement or layers on the firmament

acute response by creativelycliche, literature

breathe easy by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

breathe easy

bite my soul-turned eyes, the empty taste of empathy and salt, left me drowning in the vinegar, burning me alive and making my fingers taste like noise, the thoughts inside me, behind my eyelids scattered like a skipping record, a stone across the railway tracks and while the train whistle lingers in the morning-tide, it still descends; a lantern on the leeward side, and I recline

ever-horizon by creativelycliche, literature

buffer overflow by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

buffer overflow

the stream blossoms ceaselessly from the well, spilling over, spilling over, the sun on my right side. the morning burns, but in the evening it will cool, leaving its mark on me and turning my insides blue wrote the news on all my fingers, smeared and blurry I can't say it reads any different, but the silent h is there, still whispering in my ears and bouncing off my eardrums, spilling over, spilling over

Antwerpean Prtozoa by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

Antwerpean Prtozoa

in the future they have learned to measure souls, weigh us against the parts of us we don't like: from the thunder of the miasma, a instant that became: cold, and in the distance made it real left on the doorsteps of low-country divines, the better zone we let go of: the first pieces of the big lies that burn the weeds out, and in the future, they still know hoe to lie, fake our fingerprints and cut them into stone, could ask me: the sticks they measure with are beautiful, but carved.

ripped and rhyming by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

ripped and rhyming

turned my life into a mirror, reflecting back what others see, blind-light spectrometry, measuring me, have you ever felt the cold sun, the one that make you shiver in its light illuminating the curves inside my spine, better when the morning's bright just add UV, the package says the longest evening lying on the lawn, dreaming this will help, modern chemistry just praying in the morning you'll be gone.

marble by creativelycliche, literature

maximum capacity by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

maximum capacity

if the sun rises, the world will still be the same, but the morning doesn't bring the light down on the same shoulders, the light along the creek-bed, dry mountain-topped with the changing storms, careless we think she will take care of us when we broke upon her back the news of the death of every one of her children, there isn't a care in the world for the fall of Rome, canyon-ridged like healing wounds, the wheels broken on the stones beneath our feet

that's Phil's boy by creativelycliche, literature

Literature

that's Phil's boy

stacked the stars like stairs to let you walk into the heavens, the light bastard amber in the eventide, crosshatched letters to shade in all the edges of your mind, teachers in the mean time call it what you do, internal rhyme and bring the marble stone to life. is it your likeness or are the freckles not quite right; never saw you in this light, alabaster, ivory, those eyes still dead. and maybe the poems and the altars were never meant to remember you.

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