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The butterfly in the GhettoMost beautiful things stay
away, out of reach.
On the other side of the fence,
where the world’s still a good place.
Butterflies don’t live here.
The bird song is a distant echo
just out of reach.
But there was one,
a yellow butterfly floating over the fence
like a ray of sun.
It leaves a trail of gold behind it,
as it flutters down,
to land on the cold grey ground.
So out of place,
like a dot in a sea of stripes.
Just like me.
Go, I told it.
here’s not a good place.
There’s no such thing as a good day
in the ghetto.
But it stayed
for a moment.
like the feeling of hope,
warming in your heart.
Then fluttered back over the fence.
backlit against a turquoise sky.
Some day I’ll follow,
cast off the barbed-wire,
cast off the pain.
cast off the chains I have to wear,
just because of who I am.
אני גאה להיות יהודי
I’m proud to be Jewish.
Sparta story, chapter 5Chapter 5
Caleb tried to speak, but all that came out was a weak groan. Surrender? But-But- we can’t surrender! Asher was trying to stand, and eventually Akalia walked over and helped his to his feet. He stood behind her, glaring at Nika, which would have been a little more scary if he didn’t have blood running down his face and matting his dark hair from a large cut on his forehead. “Of course you do.” Nika responded, smirking. “But you put up a good fight, for a bunch of little kids.” Then he melted back into the shadows, leaving the kids to figure out whether or not he was being sarcastic. All three of them were bedraggled, but Akalia was in the best shape. She was bruised and looked as though she’d been put through a meat grinder, but didn’t have any broken bones or other large injuries. Caleb, on the other hand, had a broken nose, that was sending rivulets of blood down his face, and about half his face looked like one massive bruise
Sparta story, chapter 4Chapter 4
At midnight, the two boys jumped nimbly down from the top bunk and shook Akalia awake. Asher clasped one hand over her mouth, although he knew she was highly trained. Better soldeiers then Akalia had given themsleves away by panicking when they were woken up. But the 8-year-old girl shook herself awake without a single grown or yawn, jumping out of bed and whispering, “Is it midnight?” Caleb nodded, and the Akalia had followed the twins out the door, studiously avoiding the creaky planks on the floor. A few minutes later, the three children entered the courtyard. As Asher had explained (in incredibly patronizing tones) to his brother in the middle of a sword-fight, it was best to arrive early to scout out the battlefield, and, as he put it, “show dominance.”
“yeah, whatever.” Caleb had responded, quickly disarming his brother with a flick of his wrist. “It's hard to show dominance when your shivering like a little girl at the sight of
Sparta story, chapter 3Chapter 3
Caleb yawned, sitting up and ducking his head to keep from whacking it on the top bunk of the new bunk bed that he and Asher had built together, just yesterday. Of course, there was the constant danger of it falling on his head, but he could deal with that if it meant that he didn’t have to sleep on a pile of wool blankets that still smell slightly of wet sheep. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands, Caleb called quietly up to his brother. “Hey, sleepy-head! Wake up!” But when he stood up to peer into his brother’s bed, he found him sitting cross-legged on his bed, the blankets already pulled up over the straw mattress neatly. “Sleepy-head?” Asher asked innocently, giving a painful half-smile. He had a split lip from a rough training session yesterday and was skinnier then ever, not to mention what felt like a million little cuts, scrapes and bruises. It had been a week since the boys had arrived at the Agoge, and each of them had a g
Sparta story, chapter 2Chapter 2
Caleb smiled, gazing up the dusty path and remembering his father’s words. They had left the city long behind them, and he knew the 15-minute trek up to the Agoge was nearly over. He could actually see the smoke from their cooking fires hanging over the peak of the hill like a heat haze. Then he was at the top, gazing down at a little group of squat wooden buildings surrounding a dusty courtyard. Asher stood next to him, looking over the Agoge with a critical eye. “It’s not much, but I suppose you’ll love it here.” He said finally. Caleb turned his head to look over at his brother. “And you won’t?” Asher shrugged. “I’ll survive.”
They walked down the hill together, down into the dusty courtyard, and looked around at the buildings. They were long wooden structures, much bigger then the boy’s house at home, but, then again, it would have to house more people. At least the barracks are separated by age group
Sparta story prologue/chapter 1Prologue
A father leaned over, peering down at his newborn sons. They lay in a small cradle that he had carved crudely from dark oak wood three months before this day. The cradle wasn’t carved in an elaborate pattern- it was not even painted- but in the very bottom corner of the inside, covered by blankets there was one inscription. The name of the creator, Crion. He was the father of the two boys curled peacefully inside the cradle, still in the position they were born in, the older twin curled in a ball on his back, eyes closed, the younger with his tiny fingers wrapped tight around his brother’s heel as though it were his anchor to the world. As though his brother had dragged him out from the safety of the womb out into this huge, cold place called Greece. The twins looked similar, both with the dark curly hair that was typical of Greek children, but the older boy was larger, his tiny arms and legs thick and strong already. He would make an excellent Spartan. As though t
I am a MouseI am a mouse.
I am quiet, I am nothing.
I am a book that nobody has read.
I am an eclipsed sun and a cloaked moon.
I am irrelevant and unwanted, a broken toy in an attic.
I am the dust in your rear-view mirror that you leave behind.
I am the air that you breathe in and spit out as something different.
I am the palest white. I am the darkest black. I am the dullest, emptiest grey.
I am the old man with forgotten memories and the baby who has yet to make them.
I am a forgotten word, dangling on the tip of your tongue, hanging on the noose of your lips.
I am a dried up stream. I am a felled forest. I am an abandoned cornucopia of resolute nothingness.
And there is Hell burning in my eyes.
PainParalized by the suffering
A shiver down my spine
Images of my past haunt me
No one can save me from this hell
to me you are perfect
I do not know the reasons
for all those scars burning
against your bright skin
you've been soaking
a pain reminiscing from past
we both cannot recollect
yet you are so beautiful..
when night gets darker
and I am the one...
who's hungered to undress
the spirit of you
slowly revealing the layers
coming off from shadows
disguised in desires
craving to be fulfilled
I will caress every corner
of your silhouette
until I figure the true shape
of your heart
I will rub those blisters
softly until every nerve
of you gushes into a river
and you moan into a life
I had promised you
years ago when we began
to breathe into each other
for all the truths
I must swallow
and lessons I must learn
you are the one
I am destined to discover
what it means
to love in perfection
A void within meAlone on this inhospitable night, once again
I let my memories guide my lost steps,
Wandering amid the ghosts of my past.
As I walk along the quay,
I stare at the feeble Seine flowing:
She's dying by the street lamps' hands
While the whole city asphyxiates.
Reflecting my own lack of humanity
Over the river's lighted surface,
Griefs come and go at the water's rhythm.
Once again, on this breathtaking night,
My feelings are sealed and my chest hollow.
Purple rain, chills of cold.... Or regret? I crave
My musical drug, my remaining salvation,
Spreading a sweet poison within me and
Eroding the remaining happiness I still have.
I plug my headphones...
A grin of relief appears on my weary face,
I flee to lenient lands, where a familiar Angel tucks me in.
These notes of violin split the immutable silence,
Fill the hole in, lit a bonfire to my soul.
This mermaid sings my dreams to me,
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
you talk like a travestyoh, mercury boy, you can't
write your way out of this
body or out of this mind;
you can pray like it's high-fashion,
insist you're only burning yourself out
(but tell me - do you feel like a god yet?)
if only for murky mirrors &
silver cicadas caught
in your ribcage, you've
got a knack for decaying
The PointIt’s the taste of cake mix on the spoon, that first time you ‘help’ bake a cake.
It’s seeing the bright world afresh after a dark nightmare, when you first wake.
It’s when you make them laugh and, in that moment, everyone loves a clown.
It’s when your heart stops before the roller coaster plummets down, down.
It’s when the lights go out before your favourite band plays and you scream.
It’s that moment you look around and everything’s perfect enough to be a dream.
It’s the anticipation of waiting for a new episode of your favourite television show.
It’s the first time you listen to your favourite record and you just sort of know.
It’s reading a book cover-to-cover and a million times more and still crying at the ending.
It’s the stiff, tight, real feeling of a smiling scab as you watch the wound mending.
It’s when you first meet your best friend and you hate each other (but in a good way).
california wintersthe tears
I rationed have all
run out. Tuesday comes
up behind me and steals
my breath; my cat snores.
she can’t sleep soundly
since she lost her seventh
life. I’m like that, I’m always
worried someone will try to steal
what I’ve already given away.
I miss color. newsprint sobs
washed me out. I am a
blank canvas, I am a faceless,
I am one
of you. I wake up sweating
and it’s winter and I can’t
sleep because my memories
follow me between my sheets;
jake still won’t listen.
we never knew we were the
lucky ones, we scarred, too. don’t
touch me. don’t want
me, don’t bare my bones
when you think I’m not
watching. I’m afraid of
myself. breathing loud
enough that others know
I exist; you follow me,
needing, laughing, it’s
a game. who has lost
the most, we all want
to win; I’m so tired, so scared,
there’s no one in the world
who sees me. I can’t cry.
we’re in a drought.
WonderI wonder how I got here
I wonder which way's true.
I wonder at the raindrops,
I wonder why they fall the way they do.
I've got so many questions
and so little time.
In this crazy world
I can find so little reason or rhyme.
If hope's a bird with feathers
that perches in the soul,
then I'm a lonely traveler,
walking a winding road.
But at least I've got my questions,
my answers and my songs,
for if life's a lonely highway, at least there's still wonder in us all.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More