by techgnotic (https://www.deviantart.com/techgnotic)
W
orld War I (1914-1918) was a human catastrophe
that devastated Western civilization and mocked the hope inherent in “modernism”. The sheer volume of the war’s slaughter was beyond belief. The horror of it all destroyed the trust in science, medicine and technology as the golden gateway to a harmonious and peaceful future for humanity. All that was thought to be good had been twisted to the evil purpose of a global war. A global sense of hopefulness was replaced with a global sense of fear and loathing.
untitled 14
by Peterio
Salvador Dali autosodomized
by neofotistou
It seems events conspired on this auspicious 25th of September in order to grant myself a scintillating interview with a most extraordinary fictional young man. At precisely 9:18pm in Sydney and at 5:18am in Colorado a Mr. Damian Farrow awoke from a startling dream in which a creepy man in black clapped a lot, rousing him from a troubled sleep. A most strange coincidence that unverified sources are already linking to a Mr. Andre Jonquil, who at the time of this interview was away at lunch, and thus uncontactable.
Mr. Farrow, as readers undoubtedly already know, is the remarkable teenage protagonist of the gripping yet unpublished urban-fant
Nothing Lives Forever by UntamedUnwanted, literature
Literature
Nothing Lives Forever
i.
When you were a child, we would sit on the porch to talk about your day. And sometimes, we would find a dead bird, or a frog on there. And you would ask me about death and why it happens, looking at the poor creature in my hands, its life cut short and touch it tenderly. I would always say the same thing.
Nothing is meant to live forever, my dear.
ii.
The school called me in on your twelfth birthday and asked if I had known how clever you were, that your test scores were the best in the state. They asked me if I knew I had a genius child on my hands who grew bored easily in class and tended to distract others in his classroom, sometime
Dead Bodies Don't Cry by QuirkyCuriousBex, literature
Literature
Dead Bodies Don't Cry
i.
You are born with twisted feet
and a pockmark on your chest.
Your poor mother is drenched in sweat,
straining to breathe,
thanking God that it's over.
She cradles you in her arms
and kisses your forehead with curved lips.
Your father reaches out to hold you
but has to pause because
your mother will not release you yet.
The family pays a visit,
hovering in awe, praising, laughing.
You look around for someone to blame.
ii.
When you learn to write
you use all the wrong letters
because you feel sorry for the ones
that get left out, like X and Z.
And you wear mismatched clothes
because you don't like the idea that
only certain colors "go t
United States Summer 2011 by PrettyCrazy, literature
Literature
United States Summer 2011
America alienates me.
From touchdown in Atlanta it is obvious I am, so to speak, no longer in Kansas.
I am asked what I am doing here. Repeatedly, and not always in a nice way. I want to answer with the obvious, that I am queuing endlessly for the privilege of being cross examined by an unfriendly customs officer who wants to know all kind of private details my best friend doesn't even know, but I swallow it back and smile meekly, while trying to act like I am not nervous, frustrated and insulted.
Procedures, waiting lines, probing questions, stamps and signatures, and then, finally, the liberating "Enjoy the United States".
I never felt
i had an out-of-body experience. by laurotica, literature
Literature
i had an out-of-body experience.
I had an out-of-body experience at the age of thirty-one.
Every year between the ages of ten and eighteen, I sent a letter to NASA. I told them a little bit about myself, the same general description year after year, and always insisted that despite my medical condition, I would one day love to sail through the stars. My dream was to be out there in the universal abyss, exploring every unknown corner until we knew all that we could.
Art would taunt, “Sick kids don’t go to space” before Mom slapped the back of his shoulder with a spatula.
NASA was as nice as they could be, but the bottom line was that we all knew I could
Reflections on the Metro by taylor-of-the-phunk, literature
Literature
Reflections on the Metro
The population of the Metro car is sparse at eleven in the morning; people talk. The mother with her baby and young son, talking to her friend or sister or cousin sitting down. The young man and woman speaking exuberant Chinese, a language like a song. The group of students in floral dresses and Converse that my mom says look European because of their scarves. They're rapidly spewing French in the way teenagers do, only I've only ever heard it in English. It's comfortable, each of us with our companions, more like a restaurant or a museum.
But at five thirty, at L'Enfant Plaza, when people are going home from work in their button-downs and s