The gears stopped grinding.
A singular grain of sand
Breaks the monotony.
Metal touching stone
A thin viel of skin between.
The thumb strokes the barbed spear head.
No blood gushes out.
The machine locks mid-step
A caricature of a Roman god
Muscles glistening and cold.
The arena has lost its gladiator.
I saw him once.
The stone face betrayed no remorse.
He lived to kill.
But did he truly live?
Naked; Behold the true intentions
The anatomy of a killing machine
Stripped for the world to see.
The dark eyes peer out from
The metal death-head.
He will kill no more.
Drabble 2: Drop of Cyanide by Relics-Angel, literature
Literature
Drabble 2: Drop of Cyanide
A Drop of Cyanide
Day by day, I was becoming more receptive to the idea of killing my husband. Harold wasn't a bad man; he never raised his voice to me or a struck me. He was caring, providing me with a warm home, plenty of food, and any kind of luxury that I desired. The problem was that I found him quite repulsive. His hands had the consistency of dough and were hot and sweaty. The bald spot on his head always reminded me of a baboon's ass, especially when he was out in the sun too long. His body was a fat blob, his polyester business suits always two sizes too small.
But I think that the worst part about Harold was his damn eyes. They we
Drabble 1: The Boogeyman by Relics-Angel, literature
Literature
Drabble 1: The Boogeyman
"You aren't real," Danny said softly to the mirror, glaring at the grinning figure that loomed over his shoulder in the mirror. "You aren't real and I hate you."
That's what his mother told him, at least. She had told him in her tired voice that meant she was annoyed with him. She always seemed to be annoyed with him these days. Danny was going to be thirteen soon, and he was supposed to be the "man of the house." He wasn't supposed to have nightmares that had him screaming in his sleep. He wasn't supposed to be terrified of the dark. All of these stupid nightmares were supposed to happen to little babies, not him.
In school, he had learne