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THE TIN MAN’S HEART



A broken shard of pictured glass
A memory torn from a broken past
The feel of emotion fills inside
This cannot be seen this we must hide
A broken memory from a distant past
To be pushed a side and hope to pass
Forever sins of a haunted past
Forever fight to forever last
So we must hide who I am
For out of fear

No One Will Understand

The skin of tin protects the one
Who deep down wants to run
The Man of tin will never know
What its like to have a Soul
He must be hidden in secrecy
For out of Fear

No One Will Understand Me

This is a short story I wrote, I'm also writing two other stories. (found here) The other ones kind of suck.

I don't want this to be searchable, so I won't copy/paste.

littlerock craigslist org/mis/2190350759.html

This is a short story I'm working on at the moment- any opinions/criticism would be really welcome! I don't mind people telling me it's rubbish, lol, my tutor already has done. It's going to be about the main character 'altering' traditional fairy tales, not really sure which ones or how yet.

Diamonds and Glass

Once upon a moon, there was a princess. Except this princess is no royal; no glittering gold crown enthrones her pearly hair, no silver sceptre sweeps waves of power from her hand. This princess lives in a forest far, far away; her cottage palace guarded by secretive trees and chattering, storytelling birds. Ella has her own stories to tell; legacies of tales bound in one forgotten woman, cast out from the fairy tale sphere but watching quietly from its shimmering peripheries through eternal ever afters.

She smiles silently to herself, remembering her own story, long ago in the fantasy land of memory-myths lost in time. The recollection is clear as glass through the hazy clouds of fairy tale illusions. She should have known from the moment she slid her work-worn, blistered foot, soot-black, into the delicate slipper, exquisitely spun from the very finest glass in the kingdom, that the magic was too good to be true. Happily-ever-afters don’t happen to girls like her, ordinary women working in houses of royalty and riches. She had wanted so much to believe it, had felt an illicit thrill of excitement at the prospect of attending a ball, something so far from her everyday life it was almost unimaginable. But imagination, fanciful flights into the realms of the impossible had always been her weakness and her mind spun golden yarns of possibility in Rumpelstiltskin skeins.

She had succumbed to the shimmering grey dress, liquid moonshine falling from her shoulders in rivers of sparkling silver satin. Her hair was caught up, fairy-princess style, glittering with diamond hair ornaments; sharp hairpins that dug deep into her scalp and heavy, ornate opals gleaming in the moonlight. It was the shoes that captivated her. Impossibly high, dagger-sharp glass heels; glistening toes topped with delicately carved snowflakes, perfectly symmetrical, each unique in its beauty. At the ball, she had felt like a real princess, dancing the star-struck night away. Then the illusion faltered; one false step caused her to stumble, the heel of one slipper skidded as though on ice. A jagged crack crept along the fine glass and splintered; shattered shards scattered across the dance floor like icy daggers. The palace, the dress, the prince: all had disappeared in clouds of glittering silver powder, leaving her lost amid the dust and fog in the darkness. No fairy godmother to protect her. No magic wand to erase her mistake. She laughs when she hears of girls dreaming of diamonds, white wedding and happy endings. Diamond slippers don’t exist in her world. Illusions are as delicate as glass. It was from there that she was banished to the faraway forest, hidden deep amongst the tall trees and deep valleys of nowhereland.

Castaway on her own private island, Ella sees the ghost ship fairytales glide through eternity, misty mirages floating through ethereal space and time. She knows their beginnings and their endings; echoing and reverberating through infinite spheres of possibility and impossibility, existence and non-existence. From her peripheral vantage point she can observe silently, watching as the well-told tales tell their stories over and over, ritual cycles across peoples seamlessly weaving the fabric of cultures.

Your voice is like still water, flecked
with petals drifting, cloying, pink.
Another speaks and you reflect
it sweeter, prettied, indistinct.

Your voice could tart-up corpses stiff
and make them supple as a flan.
Your voice makes plague sound like a gift
and doomsday like a smashing plan.

My voice has history and it rasps;
it whines like ancient hinges do;
behind its heavy wood and brass
are dusty thoughts not fit for you.

I'll keep my dusty thoughts unsaid;
you spill your perfumed voice instead.

I love your poem puddingmouse. Thank you for posting it.

This is my first ever finished short story. I know it's not that great. Please tell me what you think.

I am in your mind

What would you like me to be? Don’t say ‘you’,
to mean me; I’m unsure of who that is.
I’m more unsure with every breath and kiss.
Love seems a thing to be and not to do;
a state of suspended selves being bliss;
always changing from that and into this,
like spinning beads the dizzy light runs through.

My body looks like all the thoughts you form.
I’m only what you think I am right now.
I love afresh with every instant thought,
each moment sparkling fast and feeling warm.
A sign is in each flicker on your brow
that tells me wordlessly the self that’s sought.

World, war, two

Otto Dekker was hearing news when Helga, carrying a dish of freshly-baked breads, complaining about yet another cut of coffee ration. He kissed his two daughters who were leaving for the Girl's League. Helga was worrying. There were more and more Allied Jabos flew pass the town; but who would bomb this lovely Isselburg? Then he caught the sudden burst of martial music. Men from 16 to 60 must register to the German Home Guard, the Volkssturm. That was 18th October, 1944

--

Li Ssu-mien woke up his five rag-less brothers, and his ailing mother as the blueish dawn leaked into the cracked peasant house. Before his once 11-family, he unloaded a bag of husk-mixed rice he got from miles away - the first in months - and smiled for the joy in their eyes. Despite her illness, his mother toiled to cook, like she always had been for half of century on the farms in the Li Village. Just as the steam irritating their tied stomach, the door was shaken by rapid blows. He was grabbed out by yelling soldiers. You were conscripted into the National Revolutionary Army of China. That was 18th October, 1944

--

Otto was unsatisfied, as was all eligible Isselburg men in the town hall. The trolling speeches of SA men produced nothing but protest. We were to fight without uniforms and weapons, and unprotected by the Hague Conventions? He burst questions against the high-ranking Party officials sat in front of him, for while it was his unquestionable duty to fight, same was his right to fight meaningfully. We were not some Eastern cannon fodders!

--

Ssu-mien was nailed to the sandy road by terror, as was every beaten, ragged farm boys around him. Shouting; cries; men were grabbed, women were pushed; Chiu-chin would not let go of the threshold. His yelling mother was pulling him back with both hands. Ma! Son! Blood splintered to his face as a rifle clubbed on his fists. The bond did not severed, not until another blow, blow, blow, blow, had cracked his twisted fingers from his falling, emptied family. Two grinning soldiers walked pass with her jade Kuan-yin. What a treasure

--

Otto recalled his passionate youth, Watch on the Rhine in 1916. Now, in the heart of his town, they stood as one for the Fatherland again. March, heroic speeches, and in the ensuing solemn silence, they sworn the sacred Oath as one. He felt the bond between his mates, the proud brothers he would share his honor and sacrifice with. His armband stood. Deutscher–Volkssturm Wehrmacht

--

Ssu-mien could not feel his legs. They have been toiling for three days, with little rest, and no food, which the soldiers have ransacked. Men dropped as dead skeletons one by one, while the living skeletons staggering pass, not even glanced. Chiu-chin rushed out of rank suddenly. His hung limbs were swaying. Ma was waiting for me; rice was steaming; I'm home! Angry shouts, clashes exploded. Ssu-mien turned his head for the first time in three days, and witnessed as the blood-stained rifles hammering on what was his best friend for 14 years.

--

Otto was assigned to the Battalion HQ, an elementary school overseeing the Rhine. Though the mountains of paybooks, records, orders, he glanced to the other forested bank. In his youth he dreamt of adventure, but Somme wounded his leg, confined him in offices back home since. What was the world looks like? A classroom poster fell down. History of the Kaiser's East. An Oriental in funny dresses was gazing from China

--


Ssu-mien was told the colorful shops, the dancing lions, and children dressed in elegant cotton garments, but now Guilin was hell. He was lost in a desperate flow of Pekingese, Hakkanese, Cantonese – This he speaks, but only in how it was spoken in the Li Village. Swarms of little beggars were chasing every smart-dressed. 40000 for a shih of rice! 70000 for a melon! Suddenly he was smashed by a drunk American. Chinks and Japs all look the same! Towered above, the gigantic Generalissimo was gazing it all

--

Otto watched the spectacle with unconcealed amazement, as was every new Volkssturmmann. The Wehrmacht trainer had just demonstrated the new MG-42 machine gun, which had just roared a stream of thunders across the field. Who want to use that clumsy Gewehr-1898 rifle I shot every Sunday in the rifle club?

--

Ssu-mien was chilled by his first touch of steel. He never forgot what it did to Chiu-chin, but it was cut short by a blow in abdomen, and a savage scold from his sergeant. He struggled to stand against his starving legs a rusty, crudely tooled "old tube" - the last thirteenth in his platoon - as the head spoke in broken Cantonese: Hanyang rifle, superior than the Jap's "38-lid", based on the German Gewehr-1888...

--

Otto was hiding, like all his comrades in the trench. The sky was dotted by parachutes. Mortars exploded all around them. He mobilized his rusty sense from 1916. Calm down, Johan, all their rounds flew pass us. Tommy 100m ahead! Fire by my order! Ruechriem cocked his machine pistol, as Otto raised and locked his aim.

--

Ssu-mien was screaming, but he couldn't hear. The thousands' cries were drown by roaring shells and machine guns. Dadao on the Devil's head! The head thrust his "box cannon" against the dead sky. They went over the top, their Dadao swords flying, until one by one their limbs and guts went flying. He went down in weak feet. He pulled the trigger – for the first time in his life. The piercing explosion cracked his breaking nerve. Shoot again! How? The head was wandering among fire, eyes-white, grinning. Suddenly an explosion thundered point-blank, and then the world went black.

--

Otto Dekker was eye-wide with joy. After months of detention in the English camp, he was finally released. He returned to Isselburg, and found in complete relief that his home was, among the ruins, intact. Helga! It's me! Otto! I'm home. The stair was pounding, and the house exploded with happiness as Helga and her two matured daughter reunion with their husband and dad, after more than half a year. What were we going to do? He recalled what the Englishmen used to say. You were asking the price of tea in China.
That was 8th May, 1945. The war was over.

--

Li Ssu-mein struggled to see, but he merely felt something warm leaking. He heard sobs nearby; and laughs, foreign, savage. Shells were silenced, gunfires were faltering, but he heard something else. A slice of air, and then something heavy dropped. What happened? Suddenly another slice sent breeze to his side. The sobs ceased. Something rolled to his legs, something round. Then he knew. He jerked in horror as he struggling to stand, but snarling palms thrust him to knee. Someone stepped behind, and his body went icy as a fleeting chill of steel touched his neck. He didn't cry – the tears irritated his wounds. In the blackness, he saw his five sleeping brothers; Chiu-chin looks so naive before the jade goddess. Dinner! His ma called. He heard her scream, before he ceased to hear.
That was 8th May, 1945. His war was over.

The Other White Dove

There is always one white dove,
that brings love to the cove,
and the feeling is lighter than mauve.

A white dove that is different from its peers,
that can stand up without fear,
and fly for days,
without anything to say.

The other white dove is something to love;
it is not torn to pieces by dogs with leashes.

---

I love how grammar does not really matter in poems. Oh, and this is a crazy one of mine:

Dimension

Invention, declension, what is the meaning of a word in an alternate dimension?

Speaking forth is speaking back in an alternate dimension where ducks are quacks.

Leaving here is a great fear of mine;
leaving here is a great dear of mine.

---

Very, very short story:

The Simpleminded Fool

In the midst of a battle waged between a captain and his men, a simpleminded fool rose from his seat and said, “If we fight over simple matters, such as food, then what pray tell are we going to achieve?”

In response, the captain exclaimed with seemingly undying haste that of the following words: “We cannot find food on this island; there are no trees. Instead, we are left with nothing but sand; so what say you about that?”

Almost immediately, the simpleminded fool flighted across the deck of the ship, which had been damaged after a pirate attack in the Pacific Ocean; the simpleminded fool spoke unto the crew with his jaw pinched upwards and exposed the skin that lay on his digastric muscle with delight. “We are people; we need food. If we stay on this island for much longer, we might die from the lack of food. I, of course, do not wish to die. Furthermore, we need ideas. Do you have any ideas?”

The captain was infuriated by the simpleminded fool’s speech; however, he chose not to speak out of turn, for the simpleminded fool, though simpleminded, had a good point.

Interestingly, the simplemindedness seemed to fade away from the simpleminded fool but returned when he spoke of his education. He was a very uneducated person with little knowledge of the world, much less himself; but his introspective character brightened the situation, for he was very inspiring.

After the speech, as so it would be best to mention, the captain had a word or two with the simpleminded fool. Now, I was not in the room at the time, but I heard the fighting and screaming downstairs. However, their ethnicity, I was sure, played a part in the events that led up to that point, and I believed that people of their ethnicity killed for the sheer amusement of killing. To me, the amusement was not there; it was nonexistent, and while the blathering of details was amusing in and of itself, the result of the fight was not amusing. The captain, despite his ability to lead, was terminated by his crew. That poor fellow never saw it coming.

The day after the murder, the crew elected the simpleminded fool as their leader. For some reason, they believed that he could save them from what was to come, which led me to believe that he was not the only simpleminded fool on the island (or the ship for that matter). Ah yes–I forgot to mention to you, my dearest readers, the day that the crew started this island adventure. We were traversing the oceans in search for treasure; however, we found pirates instead (rather, they found us). We were assailed by the pirates, on and off ship, and by the time the fight was over, our ship was in an irreparable state; and so, we headed toward the nearest island.

Two months later, we were deprived of food and water; the captain was killed by his crew; ninety percent of the crew died from starvation. We were down to two crew members. The simpleminded fool and I were starving to death but chose to fight it. At one point, the simpleminded fool offered his body to me as food. However, I did not accept the offer because I knew we would be rescued. Something told me we were going to be rescued; I just knew it.

We were sleeping in the ship when a loud noise escalated into the air. A man, tall with overalls, approached the ship. He screamed up at us in want of knowledge. “Why are you here, mates?”

“We were hunting for treasure with our captain,” answered the simpleminded fool.

“I see, and where is he?”

“He is dead along with the rest of our crew.”

“They’re dead? There is a bridge that leads to Burger King on the other side of the island.”

“There’s a bridge?”

“Of course there is a bridge. Are you simpleminded, sir?”

---

I am better at coming up with names than I am at writing.

Another Goddamn Suicide

I'm starting to feel melancholic,
quite soon after I became alchoholic.

This life is something I dread,
feeling so wrong in the head.

Even though I try to fight,
I have already fled in fright.

You'd think with being insane,
that life wouldn't be so mundane.

So here I am on my own,
hidden away from what life has shown.

So as I put this pistol to my head,
its the beginning after the end that I dread.

To heaven and hell I go to fight,
so I must say "Thank you and good night!".

I have a blog.
The name of my blog is zsg.


here's the latest:

The sad thing is, I enjoyed writing this, and was not intoxicated or even tired when I wrote this, I even planned to write this. I'm sad, sad, sad.

It's a rap, by the way. A rap.