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That was rude, I remark. A rude remark, it was. He stares at me like I’m mad and throws his hands up. Even YOU don’t understand all the madness in the world, he exclaims, and I shrug sadly at him. Please don’t look at me like that, I plead. I don’t want to look at you at all, he remarks.

Posted By Kiote On 06.08.2010 @ 7:06 am

He rubs his neck, nervous. The short, quivering hairs brush his fingertips and he exhales loudly through his nose, nervous. The sound only serves to make him more so. Pressing slightly, he can feel his pulse. At least, he supposes, right now, he is alive.

Posted By Kiote On 03.20.2010 @ 9:00 am

If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Notes with the faces of people who meant something crumpled, folded, slid across counters and tucked into wallets. If you haven’t got it, strive for it. That last coin you found on the street, or anything you find down the back of the sofa. Such is our society, and we love it.

Posted By Kiote On 02.16.2010 @ 10:58 am

Most would think of slicing. Slicing food, or foliage, or fellow man. But I think of the glint, when blades are held in the sun. There’s nothing quite like it, is there? The rush of knowledge that you hold power, but the overwhelming beauty that encourages you not to abuse it.

Posted By Kiote On 02.15.2010 @ 1:42 am

like a rose, she was, in that laced dress. I was almost afraid to hold her, as if my fingertips might leave indents. I held my breath, reached out my hand, and brushed the back of my hand across her tear-ridden cheek. Her eyes, blue and clear, held such fear and despair at the world that my heart broke. I let her go, that day.

Posted By Kiote On 02.14.2010 @ 12:10 pm