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100ThemesChallenge - DarkDoesn't everything seem more real in black and white photos? That's because the world's losing it's colour.

100ThemesChallenge - LoveDespite what people may think, not all guys wants a stick thin barbie doll with a fake smile and dull eyes. I like girls who curve. Girls who when you put your arms around her, feel like they fit perfectly against your chest, not like you're hugging a stick. Homely girls. The ones that wear soft cotton shirts and sweaters, and have a warm smile and eyes you can get lost in. The ones that walk around with a smudge of flour or toothpaste or paint on their shirt all day because they haven't noticed or just don't care. The ones whose apple-vanilla smell you could recognise from across the room, but still never becomes mundane. The ones who, when

Solitude With Falling LeavesI'm terrified to stop writing, because when I do I'll have to think about all the things that are slowly killing me.

The YouthMy youth was found in disgusting apartments and palest blue ribbon. Kissing girls that were years older than myself, lying about my age and passing out on the bathroom floor. I started smoking, I started lying, things were going great. I felt better than I ever had, line after line, bed after bed, I never did too much and was on top of my game, always one step ahead of even myself. But soon there would be nothing new to do. Everyone would know my name, my sins and who I slept with.
Oh the price of being young.

The Way I Live NowToday I got a haircut. I bought a new shirt, I scraped the mud off my best shoes. The good night's sleep erased dark circles from my under eyes, and for the first time in years my skin is clear, healthy rather than the sallow grey of a drug addict. My mouth stretched back in the pretence of a smile that was almost real. I've put on weight - fat now fills the gaps between my ribs and my face is no longer dominated by hollow circles for cheeks.
So yes, I may still have that scar through my eyebrow, and my joy still doesn't quite reach my eyes. And my knuckles are still grazed from that fight, and my eyes are still that deep grey of grief, and

And Tonight My Prayer Was XIIIAnd tonight my prayer was:
You once asked me: "Why do you look to the ground when you walk?"
"So I can see where I am treading." I said. "Why do you look to the sky?" I, equally bemused.
With a smile you reply "So I can see where I'm going."
Amen.

And Tonight My Prayer Was XAnd tonight my prayer was:
So today the brightest green of new buds met the clearest blue of the sky. And the blue met the yellow of a freshly picked daisy, which brought with it the clearest white of newly fallen snow. With them travelled the soft pink of a child's cheek, blended with the black of a starless night and the orange of this summer's brightest midday sun. On the road the purple of heather ran alongside as dog to his master. And as they moved on together, they left our world the bleakest grey.
Only then did we notice we'd chased all the colours away.
Amen.

The MothsAll the broken people sway as one
To the pulse of the music.
They hover in the neon light like
Moths attracted to a fluorescent flame,
Gulping down vodka as though it's sugar water.
And it burns
But not as much as the searing self-hatred.
Their minds spin and soar above reality
Until they laugh and buzz and scream
With the euphoria of sweet freedom
From themselves.
Too soon their wings are ripped off,
Leaving them with vague memories
Of superficial happiness and stains on their
Pretty white dresses.

The Child WatchesThe sun in my eyes felt like someone was kicking me in the jaw. I was so high I thought my eyes would fall out. Standing shaky on the thinning grass, I realized I had to catch the train home. I ran 5 blocks and got there just as the operator was locking the front compartment. Resting up on the 701, with the sterile light slipping beneath my eyelids. Puerile breathing in front of me. I open my eyes and am being stared at. Eye contact with a child is always easier than eye contact with an adult. Adults always look away quickly, embarrassed of their booming thoughts, convictions, judgments. Children stare straight at you and lay it all out on th

The Seperation FadesI know that a few decades from now, I won't be able to picture the freckles on your shoulder so clearly they might be before my eyes, and I wouldn't remember the curve of your smile, and your face won't be the first thing I see every morning.
And that scares me to death, but it keeps me going.

Dishwater EyesI have been thinking of new ways I can kill the lights,
swimmingly musing the flicker switches in the back of your head
like paying the bills,
and doing the dishes as our children slumber above.

The dishwater is cold, lapping around my heels as I dive
inside your irises and try to figure the prices
of your thoughts;
only to get frustrated with your laziness statistic.

I think I floundered, flapped and drowned;
enveloped in your weariness as I paddled for the shore
of your embrace,
and came up gasping for relief.

The kitchen sink was rusted and overused
from too many table-side taunts,
picking away at my membrane, leaving only

i n f i n i t eThe last thing that I thought about before the car hit me on that rainy day where Clara's eyes, those eyes that could take me to any other place than I was right now. They could take me to the bluest ocean, where the millions of bubbles tickled my skin and moved through my hair as they made their way to the surface. They could take me high above the treetops, where time would almost seem to stop as every single square inch of my body tried to absorb the beauty around me. They could take me through the Milky Way, watching the stars shoot by and lighting up my eyes as they took my breath away. Yes, it was Clara's eyes that could take me a milli

The Room In The CityLately, the drinking's been getting worse.
I spend most of my time sitting in my room reading Nietzsche.
The voices have been talking louder, shouting, screaming at me.
I am fascinated by the simplest of things; the turn of the washing machine, the grain of wood.
I can never stop thinking, about all the little things and about how they don't matter. How nothing matters.
I lie in bed talking to all the people who never were, listening to the music no one's ever played.
My body is a piano, full of black keys only. I am in a country where everyone's face is different from mine, and language is the act of not speaking, and noise is everywhe

The DifferencesI watched the faces of the Jury as they looked at him and I saw the same expression I've seen a thousand times before. That mental distancing, that subtle acknowledgment that there is something wrong with that boy.
Because he doesn't interact the way they do.
Because he doesn't grieve the way they do.
Because he doesn't move, or speak the way they do.
I watched the faces of the Jury, and knew they had already decided his fate.

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The Blissful Ignorance

by ~Tohroe, Nov 13, 2010, 12:14:04 PM
Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Biography & Memoir / Stories & Vignettes

Your face was bright, as you looked at the blood splayed across the floor, with the kind of joy I now always associate with small children, who can find wonder in things they do not understand.

The Blissful Ignoranceby ~Tohroe

Literature / Prose / Non-Fiction / Biography & Memoir / Stories & Vignettes

©2010-2013 ~Tohroe

I once walked in on my nieghbour in her kitchen, with a bad head wound (we established later that she'd fainted and hit it hard on the sink). Her one-and-a-half years old child was playing in the blood.

I think it's the most disturbing thing I've ever seen.

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Mood: Euphoric

~ravencoyote Nov 24, 2010

I love writings like this bluntly horrifying . [link]

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~ravencoyote Nov 24, 2010

link was an oops

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Mood: Love

~VanillaHeartz Nov 17, 2010

Great

I love stuff like this

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~Mandolin77 Nov 17, 2010 Writer

I wonder -- is it still traumatic if we don't understand what we're seeing?

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~Tohroe Nov 18, 2010

No, it isn't. If we remember it, it can become traumatic in later years but at the time it's simply mummy playing in red paint.

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