Comments Posted By serelloo
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I never forget a set of steps. Repetitive as it is, whether you stride or hop or run or make a slow, depressed, elderly progress, you can never forget the way steps grind away your soul. Nineteenth century painted restorations covered in cheap carpet in an old farmhouse, the long stone slabs of government landmarks, the weird artificially marbled tiles of institutions that smell like bleach and sweat at once… do you ever pause before the staircase, meaning to begin the climb, but struck by a terrible inertia?
» Posted By serelloo On 11.01.2012 @ 6:06 pm
God, I hated sailing. Who voluntarily lives in an environment that’ll kill them if you make a mistake? I like my feet on solid ground, thanks.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.24.2012 @ 12:24 pm
She couldn’t tell – because of the colored glass – what kind of thing the solution might be. For sure, she really shouldn’t drink it, even though in a warm brown glass it reminded her of a cool beer. No, ignore curiosity. It’s not worth finding out whether you can take the liquid or the liquid melts your insides.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.23.2012 @ 12:18 pm
The really special feet sallied forth, carrying a very special brain beneath a fine cocked hat (with a blue jay’s feather in the band). They were off to conquer a game of chess; the stakes were very high.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.22.2012 @ 1:48 pm
Ah, the old chompers. The pearly lovelies. That’s a thou per pair, because my patroness is a sweet, avid collector. You’d never pick her out of a gaggle of crazies, bundled as she is in the same cheap coats and sack-like dresses and those poor ragged shoes… but her handwriting is the absolute loveliest, and one day, a note fell from her gigantic canvas tote.
“With love, T.F.”
» Posted By serelloo On 10.22.2012 @ 5:26 am
The beat of cavalry sounded over the hills, and I prayed we would be safe at home. Let no one lust after my cattle for meat, or try to burn my home. We’re not part of this. Leave us alone.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.20.2012 @ 11:44 am
She was shown into a broom with a purple light – no, not purple. The light was yellow, the veil thrown over the shade was lavender. It threw strange shadows on the magician’s face, and she thought he relished too much his own theatrical effects.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.19.2012 @ 2:03 pm
I remember when the little baby was born and you were stressed out all the time. Was there food? Where were blankets? Everything was full of danger, a possible poison. After a little while, you were reconciled with the world and remembered to pay attention to the little person growing up, show her a bit of joy. When she laughed, it was sunny.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.18.2012 @ 1:51 pm
I’m climbing up a hill of sinking stones and shifting grey dust, from a tunnel sunk in the base of a ruined warehouse. I shouldn’t be down here, but the blackness of the mysterious depths pulled at me. I found nothing; then the sunlight high above me tempted me out. I wonder, though, if I’ve gotten stuck. Wonderful. Curiosity.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.17.2012 @ 4:04 pm
there’s an open doorway down the hall. a bright light that blinds, so you can’t see the furniture. you feel like walking through that mundane frame with its peeling paint might not be like walking into a sunny kitchen.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.17.2012 @ 1:45 pm
obedience is the root of civilization. we demand servitude, reward with privilege. Am I not a good King? Go forth generals, and conquer for me. Feed them my words, plant the seeds of civil living.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.16.2012 @ 1:30 pm
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she let the lid fall. threw the dirt. beneath the dirt, the white man lay, paler than life. So pale. full of death, full of cold. she mourned the hot air escaped from him, the blood sunk from his cheeks, his eyes that had shone, that had looked to her with excitement, with lust. he’d not known, he had trusted her; that made it harder. no man had trusted her – no man had been submissive. that was the special quality that made him necessary; her freedom for his life. now she lived a monstrous freedom, a beast within. now she was at liberty. shine on, the eyes. please. but regret is cheap. regret is the fuel of the beast. like every other of her kind, she feeds grief with grief, fuels regret with rage; she tears the body to pieces aching to catch the soul. she cannot see the soul, it is not one of the gifts she is given; because she cannot see the soul, she feels pieces of her own slip away, through her lips, and she tries to catch them, transparent butterflies, casting her feeble net.
» Posted By serelloo On 10.16.2012 @ 7:54 am