Comments Posted By miira

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and clean, tasting faintly of salt. he looked down and the sight of sand clinging to his feet and between his toes almost startled him, so coarse and dark by contrast. when he turned his gaze back up, the vast blue expanse of the ocean curved gently away from him and he was reminded abruptly of the globes that history teachers kept on their desks, shiny plastic things that he’d been fascinated with as a child. he liked spinning them and watching the earth whirl away under his eyes, and then stopping it with a single fingertip and imagining that he could teleport to wherever his finger had landed. on this sliver of shoreline, with the salty-sweet wind curling over his cheeks like chilled hands and nothing to stop him from staring past the edge of the earth but the limited abilities of his own eyes, he could be a child again. he could be an ant-sized version of himself clinging to the shiny-smooth side of his history teacher’s plastic globe, calm and somehow very sure that he would not fall, even if a giant should set the world spinning out of control. he laughed and tasted cold and brine, and did not fall.

» Posted By miira On 12.05.2012 @ 5:05 pm


and as she walked she tried to keep her spirits up by hopping along the tracks, pretending that the ground beneath the rickety old wood and steel was acid, and should her feet slip the soles of her shoes would melt right off. she kept her ears pricked for the sound of a train, too, although everyone knew that these tracks had been abandoned for near on a decade, ever since the crash. it would be dark soon, anyway. keeping attuned to the smallest sounds, near and far, would only do her good when the sun set in earnest. but now she did not think about that, about the very real terrors that night would bring; for venomous snakes were snapping at her heels as the hem of her skirt flapped daringly just out of reach of their fangs.

» Posted By miira On 07.03.2012 @ 11:46 pm


it’s been so long I can barely remember what it’s like to have him just to myself. there are so many people who love him now, who need him, that it feels almost selfish to indulge my feelings of loneliness. I’m not a dog that needs constant affection. but I can’t help but think that I, I’m not wrong for wanting to be more than his crutch, this stoic, smiling thing he leans on when the public becomes too much. this is not what I signed up for when I was sixteen, excited just to be allowed to hold his hand, and hoping, hoping, hoping my first would also be my last.

» Posted By miira On 06.15.2012 @ 6:59 pm


There are people everywhere, everywhere, milling about or striding hurriedly by or even, like him, standing back and scanning the crowd. There are so many coats, mostly brown, what is it with people and brown coats? His is forest green, but to be fair, it had been a gift. If he’d picked out his own he probably would have grabbed the first one he saw, and it probably would have been brown, too.

The baggage claim spits out a new batch of bags and almost immediately he spots the one he’s looking for. He grabs it and stands back and waits again, eager now, hand clenched hard around the handle

» Posted By miira On 05.11.2012 @ 5:45 pm


it unfurled its trunk smoothly, like a blossom opening in springtime, except that rarely were blossoms awe-inspiring. its smooth, leathery grey skin shone in the sun, and when it blew water playfully at its companion, the droplets caught the light like mirrors and reflected it all over the great beast, dappling it with gold.

» Posted By miira On 01.03.2012 @ 3:55 pm

finally, the final bag had been crammed in the trunk, and he was feeling increasingly anxious about the whole road trip idea. That is. He could hardly stand these people for a few hours at a time, and now he’d agreed to drive them halfway around the country? With a trunk full of bags heavier, probably, than the car itself?

but it was too late to change his mind now. His friends were piled half on top of each other, and the empty driver’s seat was sitting there waiting for him.

he took a breath, released it slowly, and climbed in.

» Posted By miira On 01.03.2012 @ 3:52 pm


the grass rolled over hills that seemed to stretch for miles and miles, an ocean of well-tended greenery billowing like a cape around his father’s estate. children, his father would say with great satisfaction, need space to grow.

they also need friends, though, but nobody told Father that. so the boy grew up in a home that was more a castle than a house, exploring its grounds until he knew them like he knew his own name. he befriended oddly-shaped trees and interesting rocks he found on his travels, and his closest companion was the collie his father bought him when a maid mentioned, hesitantly, that solitude rarely looked good on children.

» Posted By miira On 01.01.2012 @ 10:38 am


and then he began etching lines of ink into her smooth white skin, carving out curves and angles of her own design and filling them in with more color than she’d ever known on her body. gone was the blank canvas of her bare upper arm; in its place was a work of art, like a painting but indelible. something she would carry with her always.

she’d been afraid, last night and this morning and even five minutes before sitting down in front of the overbearingly masculine tattoo artist with his multitude of piercings and the distinct odor of cigarette smoke. she’d been afraid that the moment her skin started vanishing under the ink, she’d lost her nerve and want to back out.

but she’d had nothing to be afraid of. her skin wasn’t vanishing; it was being remade, being brought to life. when sculptors create marvels from lumps of clay, they do so by raking off the outer layers and revealing the figure within. they say that the art was already there; all they had to do was scrape off the extra bits.

she was just like that, just like that lump of clay, only for her to be revealed, she needed not only to be carved up but filled in as well. so she watched as ink slowly replaced canvas, and waited to be uncovered.

» Posted By miira On 12.27.2011 @ 12:28 am


and as she ran, a flurry of leaves lifted off the ground and swirled about her ankles, kicked up by her sleek mary janes. they drifted to the ground at their own leisurely pace and on one certain step, a vivid, papery red one slid just under the toe of her shoe and sent her flying to the ground. suddenly the road was gone and her back ached and the sky was just there, right there all blue and clear and filling up her vision which was – she realized – spinning just a little. she groaned as she swung up into a sitting position, groaned again as the abrupt motion caused the world to tilt sharply and a stab of pain in her head. she shucked off her shoes and her modest blue knee-highs, tucked the socks into her pockets and let the shoes dangle from her fingers, and got up, dizzily continuing her mad dash down the road at the same pace as before. and if she ended up with a few blisters on the soles of her feet, well – at least she wouldn’t slip.

» Posted By miira On 12.23.2011 @ 1:32 am


It should have been easy, but it wasn’t.

As if his day weren’t shit already, what with the- the being late to all his classes because he couldn’t find them, the being knocked around by guys twice his size because he was scrawny and so obviously new here, the sitting alone at lunch because he didn’t have the balls to walk up to the sweet girl he’d met in his English class-

as if all of that weren’t already enough, now he was at his locker and for the life of him he couldn’t remember where he’d put the index card with his combination. And he just wanted to go home, but his homework was in there and the last thing he wanted to do was start out with zeros in all his classes because he didn’t hand in his very first assignments.

He should have had it memorized by now. Why didn’t he have it memorized–?

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, and sure enough, there was that girl from English, regarding him with a mixture of pity and amusement. She pointed at his feet. The index card with his locker code must have fluttered out of his bag while he was rifling through it, because it was there, right between his shoes.

He dove for it. “Thank you,” he said, when he was upright again.

And she smiled. It was, he realized, the first smile he had received today. “Anytime,” she said, and she looked like she meant it.

» Posted By miira On 11.04.2011 @ 12:24 am


“Kurt, there is a moment when you say to yourself, ‘Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you forever.’ Watching you do ‘Blackbird’ this week, that was a moment for me – about you. You move me, Kurt, and this duet would just be an excuse to spend more time with you.” – Blaine Anderson, episode 2×16, “Original Songs”

» Posted By miira On 11.01.2011 @ 3:51 pm


They work up to that.

At first, they touch each other and it’s clumsy and shy, more awkward than arousing. It takes them time, maybe more time than it should, because he is terrified and she approaches physical affection like it’s a math problem, something you have to calculate and work out. A challenge.

They learn, though. They learn that love is not math and there is no right answer. They stop touching each other and learn to just touch, to feel their way around another body as if it were simply an extension of their own. Together they rewrite the dictionary, create their own definition for words like “kiss” and “pleasure.” They hold their illicit lessons with the sun all around them, in the quiet afternoon hours between the end of the school day and the time her parents get home from work.

Their final lesson is a gradual one. They learn – they teach each other – that everything they’d heard before was wrong, and passion is nothing like fire, which burns bright and then is extinguished. It’s an ocean. It surrounds them and engulfs them, and they are so far from shore that they would easily drown. Fortunately, they can cling to each other.

» Posted By miira On 10.31.2011 @ 5:37 pm

She sees it only rarely. She’ll stumble in, when he’s alone, sat at his piano or holding his violin (far more gently than he’s ever held her) and it’ll be there, in his eyes, making them burn. It’s why watching him play is her favorite thing to do. She tells him it’s because she loves his music. And she does. Mostly, though, she’s lying. She doesn’t care about what he’s playing. All she wants is a glimpse of that spark in his eyes, that fire, that joy (as if he were a bird who has only just learned to fly). She figures if she memorizes that look, maybe her imagination will be stronger than reality. He’ll look at her and no matter how dull his eyes may be, she’ll be able to pretend. That she lights that fire for him. That she inspires him. That she brings music to his life, as he does hers.

» Posted By miira On 10.31.2011 @ 5:18 pm


He meets the love of his life in high school, and the strange thing is that he knows it immediately. He looks into the future and sees it all. He sees the awkward first dates, the clumsy first kisses. He sees the gradual process of learning to be an entity rather than two individuals, slow and delicate as the opening of a blossom. He sees them graduate and attend separate universities in the same city. He sees their cramped apartment in New York City, with its one room and barely enough space for a queen bed (they’ll sleep practically on top of each other every night and wake up too warm every morning). He sees them fight, and make up, and exchange a ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’ and an ‘i love you’ each day. He sees himself waking up to a fringe of dark hair on his pillow and another person’s warm breath against his collar. He sees himself slipping a wedding band on a hand that is not his, and then kissing it.

It is the simplest of love stories, and it is the most beautiful thing he could have asked for.

One day, he will look into these very eyes and be able to call this man his husband. For right now, though, he shuts his locker, and turns to the unfamiliar boy standing at the neighboring one, and says: “Hello.”

» Posted By miira On 10.30.2011 @ 10:44 pm


She steps forward into the light and is nearly blinded. There are people, everywhere, mostly standing, staring down at her from all sides. She cannot see their eyes to tell their expressions but she imagines pity and cruel amusement. The ground is white with sunlight, so it hurts to even look down. Yet she finds it in herself to keep walking, squint her eyes against the sun and look at the red insides of her eyelids until she reaches the very center of the arena.

Someone slashes the rope binding her wrists behind her back and presses a sword into her hand. She almost drops it, her grip loose and weak from losing circulation for so long, but she steadies the weapon with her other hand and clings to it. If she had let go she is not sure she would have found the strength to bend and pick it up.

The guards that had escorted her through the arena have vanished. The jeering crowd has not, but they might as well have for all the notice she pays them now.

In the far wall of the stadium is an iron grate, sealing the entrance to a shadowy chamber. As she watches, the grate lifts up off the ground and retracts into the stadium wall.

Out of the darkness, she sees the first glint of claws.

» Posted By miira On 10.29.2011 @ 11:47 pm


in the way his hands move, in the way he bounces on the balls of his feet and his fringe flutters a little and brushes his eyebrows. In the way his widest smiles make the corners of his eyes crinkle, and his voice arcs up and up before he catches himself and quiets. The way his fingers tap, the way his legs twist in the sheets when he wakes in the morning, the way his throat flexes when he speaks or laughs or swallows. And all the paint and pencil in the world won’t capture it, but she will try and try again with that aimless motivation deep in every artist’s heart, in the hopes that one day she’ll at least come close.

» Posted By miira On 10.26.2011 @ 2:36 pm


He’s young when his father first brings him out into the fields, dressed warm for the early morning. The grasses are soft and green, the sky is a clean eggshell blue, and the herd is docile. They graze neat and close on the upslope of a broad hill, not one straying too far from the rest. Eli is taken with them, always has been, thinks they look like pillows with feet and faces. He giggles when one of them ambles over and nudges him gently with its wet nose, trying to get at the especially green, wet clump of grass under his feet. His father’s hand on his shoulder is warm as the sun, which is slowly beginning to leech the cold from the air.

Years later, Eli comes alone to the hillside and wears his father’s clothing. Not much else has changed, really; the grass is still green and the sky still blue, and early mornings will always bite at his bones with chill; but now he thinks the sheep are more like clouds than pillows. Lassoed out of the sky and corralled on the dewy ground, they drift, happy to go wherever he takes them, never knowing the difference between sky and land.

» Posted By miira On 10.25.2011 @ 10:29 pm


Her awakening is more like a rebirth. She burns up like a phoenix, and when the fire is finished, she throws the covers off her new skin, shedding them like ashes. Newborn – but not, certainly not, a baby – she stretches naked in the white light of the rising sun.

» Posted By miira On 10.23.2011 @ 5:47 pm


There was paint drying in the creased skin on her elbow, and it was going to itch and peel soon. It was on her clothing, too, but that didn’t matter because they were her shop clothes, and they were stiff with old stage paint already.

The paint on her cheeks cracked when she smiled. She’d forgotten to put on sunscreen; tonight she’d go home and wash off the paint and find tan lines in the oddest pattern, and it would take days for her face to go back to normal.

It didn’t matter.

She felt like a warrior, face painted with the tribal indications of war, or an actress dolled up for the cameras. A fighter, or a performer. She picked up her sign, and stepped into the teeming, angry crowd, and was both at once.

» Posted By miira On 10.21.2011 @ 8:11 pm

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