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• Fiction > Scripts & Plays
  The Glass Menagerie: Scene 8

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  SCENE 8 [As Laura’s candles go out, Tom stumbles into a bar. The bar is dimly lit, its sparse interior emerging onstage exactly in sync with the end of his monologue. He is no longer in St. Louis, but he has not gone far. The bar is small and dank and as claustrophobic to the audience as it is ...
• Poetry > Song Lyrics
  Click Your Tongue

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  Father, please forgive me This cannot wait I have sinned I was dealt a losing hand at this game I can't win There's a place I know Where they serve you a full silver plate I can't get there yet No, I'm too far in debt to fate You can dwell on dreams Tell me "not...
• Poetry > Free Verse
  Repentance

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  As the storm subsides Outside, an internal wave erupts With the fiendish glow of the fire Captured in the flick of his wrist While our lungs savor the sweet nectar of new life An old one manifests in the worn silverware That never new how to stack correctly I never knew how either But he t...
• Nonfiction > Personal Experience
  home is where the heart is...right?

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  today was one of the most emotionally turbulent days of my short life (save for the series finale of that’s so raven). it did not deal with death or disease or financial turmoil or any other sort of tangible, capital-s shift. it dealt with my sense of home. my roots. the things that, whether i am ...
• Reviews > Music Reviews
  Ceremonials by Florence + the Machine

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  “Ceremonials” has been one of my favorite albums for quite some time now. When it was released, I knew little about Florence Welch, the face of “the Machine.” I knew she could sing, I knew she was tall, and I knew she had fiery red hair and sort of resembled Tori Amos. I also knew I found he...
• Fiction > Sci-fi/Fantasy
  Pericarp

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  Ten. The number of fingers we’re born into the world with. The number of days ancient warriors spent training until they were considered combat-ready. Combat. That’s what it took. One man’s combat. Combat to break it. To break ten. One man’s selfless raging of psychological war on the shackl...
• Poetry > Free Verse
  Enlightenment

  

  By DearBrutus, Banks, OR

  I am from the painted walls Whose sheens do chip with hate, And I am from a people who arrive at love too late; The tintinnabulation of our desecratoin swells Until our ears, stained red with blood, are ringing like the bells. A picture's worth a thousand words A whisper's worth a fe...