my warning to you: some of this is y.a. trash.
i rate everything on a 1-10 system. i wrote a piece about it; you can find it here if you like (it was written back in the days i used uppercase).
without further ado:
9/10 harry potter series (j.k. rowling) - personal bible, filled with everything i love about life. i'll say no more; i don't think i can fit into a single piece.
8/10 the book thief (markus zusak) - i read it for school (i'm shallow like that) and i absolutely adored the lovely language. it contains wonderful use of everything figurative. it's positively heartbreaking, as well.
8/10 the penderwicks series - this novel set is pretty much for eight-year-olds, but i will not be ashamed by the fact that i still love it––it's multi-generational. purely entertaining, filled with wonderful family dynamic.
7/10 flowers for algernon (daniel keyes) - the short story is actually better than...
it started in the filthy sunshine of
april, snow still folded over
the rough mountains of molding
manure, prickly and drying in
sweater-weather, and my teeth
were folded halfway down my
lip, and a grin unfurled beneath, that
slick smile, a slimy token of
airy aching april.
man and woman caught thieving
grabbing for each other, their
mittens torn rawly away, so that
sweater-weather stabbed their
pink and groping fingers, they
shared one mouth, one
fine set of white white teeth, one
upper and lower lip, shared a
faint smile and speech trailing
from jaws in use.
he uttered then; i turned
away, lay back in snow and melting
mud, gripped april dirt, wondered
what it felt like to see springtime in
a woman opposite, so much so that my
hands pounded in frigidity but
i was grinning as i kissed her.
march means mudslides
joyful heaps and cascading
filth; a wiry grin, nature's
smacking lips still
kissing, still salivating on the
woolen as whispers crack
under booted toes,
pink arms red from toothy
cold, fingers numb and noiseless
in gloves, but
the sun still shines.
you beg for birds to lock in cages
and tattered smiles to shut away
but i hand you paper doves to
crack into the hard hydrogen of
glowing galaxies, here one second
disappearing the next: you’ll find there’s
no such thing as time.
and watch them fade carefully
watch the fog drape over
their folded whitewashed arms
a thin bark branch sliced clean from
prickling grasslands, grinding and deforested
a severed reminder, a lovely blank face
still shriveled from sunshine.
just watch what you've set free
because someday i’ll be a little paper bird
and god, i'll love the night sky––
i'll be dead and alive and
living in between the stars
kissed by the constellations
those grinning galaxies
someday i’ll be a paper bird, and i’ll be free.
the ribs must have been sturdy, a reality ago
but perhaps the paint has rotted them away
the punch of the indigo night now seized
the packaged structures, once crisp and milk white
but now stilted in syrupy umber––
a cavity less glaring than fresh bone,
a beating heart forgotten, or maybe
a mangled twist of arteries
still throbs in the sky.
my life is lucid, my dreams are pained
and the world is made of microscopes––
the prints of vague lenses wiped
firmly on my ever-glassy eyes;
i see the world in penciled graphs
in every mind, a clicking calculator.
the twitches of my neurons are constellations,
stars combusting and galaxies split;
my hands jolt with the cosmos
my brain aches with the fog of spacetime.
but time to look back at that rotting ribcage
at the clumsy hearts shot straight to the clouds
the faint grin rested on bony teeth
a peevish glint frozen in gaping eyes.
the kids aren't right these days, you know
lurking in the halls with
gossip plunging from their mouths
grins smeared onto faces made of plastic
pretty hair straightened by months of kneading.
they love strong summers and
airborne balls and
going to home to tuck into their screens,
watching armored men tear their lives away
with simulated rifles and a happy, happy smile.
the kids these days to love to kill each other
behind the safety of the keyboard
they seem to crave filtered brains,
cleansed by internet
washed by game
the kids these days love killing each other
off they go now, off they go.
i don’t pretend to have good music taste––that’s right, i’m a panic! fan. to be fair, i’ve done extensive research––i listened to all of their albums over and over again. these songs are taken from pray for the wicked, death of a bachelor, too weird to live, too rare to die!, vices & virtues, pretty. odd. and a fever you can’t sweat out. and most of this is personal opinion––i’m not a professional critic or anything.
i sorted this into multiple categories. most of the formatting was borrowed from rainandsonder on their fall out boy piece.
essential panic! at the disco - the best of the popular songs
5. I WRITE SINS NOT TRAGEDIES. what better to occupy the list? this song is iconic! "i write sins not tragedies" casts an emo tone riddled with chiming instrumentals. the angry chords and snarky lyrics spat into the tune instantly make it a classic.
4. THE BALLAD...
this is the stuff, they say, the american shit
and you know you're in when
snot sticks to your neck
and the ground's like velvet
on your caked up knees
and last night's rainwater is plastered
to your face, and your knuckles scrabble for
that gummy rubber ball
still hoping for a gravelly russet surface
to splinter into the air.
first go the drills, fucking cross country
around and around, oxygen
splattering into burned up lungs
and your mouth is sandy, you wish for a sip
but the coach's eyebrows are up on his brow
so a pass might do.
next you fling star patterns into
butter yellow cones, lying low, thighs out
fingers reaching for the sun-colored points but
too late, your pants have slipped down your back
and grass stains are heavy on your knees––
walk instead in the warm afternoon.
and next comes throwing––
hands plating elbows
staring deep into the watery brown eyes of
i think that cars stripe the work of van gogh
why else would his skies blink with hazy headlights?
automobiles are printed beneath the paint
suffocated by his sunny swirls, the glowing aura of nightly freedom
decking the walls of his work, and each one like a punch
and every watcher searching for a tiny glimpse into
the metal of the modern world, but defeat dries the eye.
yet i can only think all of this, sitting by a sky less magnificent
compacted by a blinking square of my own
and waiting for the lights to glare green.
here the oil of the tires paint the night into the road
the stars glowing like stickers on the pavement
and how i long for the car bottoms to sweep the ground once more
and to smoke the skies with gasoline whispers
but the traffic light is the color of blood
reminds me of battlefields, makes me want to
tear the crimson...
the movements are watery, like flame on beer
a glassy paw rising to shake dust from
velvet ears, perfect isosceles
in your milk-hazel eyes, i see
rushing rapids, the warm taste of mother,
every day i arrive from my studies
and you are sat like a pupil
atop the cloak of the chessboard
watching the robins flit and flirt
beneath the crescent sun.
you must yearn, perhaps
for the tight handle of the door
for a pink, friendly face murky behind glass
and to stretch the plastic claws
across chocolate tree bark
dilate midnight nostrils
in the mint of springtime winds.
but your ribs remain invisible
your fur like sodden snow
and so you ache by the window,
your paws lapping ginger ears
so i watch you, books under arms,
the pupil that never was––
i wish you free.
i feel small when i look at the sky
angry with my eyes for the inability to
swallow it all, but then again
"it's all in my head"
it's all in existence
and as to that, the world is hopeless
i remember, vividly, the days that i
enjoyed the tick of graying rain
on white windowsills, or else
smiled when the daffodils parted lips, revealing
butter-yellow petals kissing their pistils
and every day i hugged my mother
because i loved her in herself
her hair like dust as she swept it past her ears
her glasses tinkling on her nose.
but it was gone
when i looked at the sky
thought of the galaxies
the dew-colored stars destructed fragments
of the worlds that once were
the infinities, raging
beyond the blindness of the eye
because we are small
and looking at the rainwater i can't imagine––
it must have come from meteors
two billion years ago
and they must have crossed...
we read emily dickinson and edgar allen poe and billy collins
from a bright white packet striped in words
and "ode to family photographs" by gary soto
and i banged my head on the desk, because i
was far too pretentious to like seventh grade, and also
far too shy to act outside the annoyance of being humble.
the teachers like to marvel at alliteration and assonance
it is all about what is intended, and the poet
means everything; surely every word painted is
crossed with a tricky double or
spins the mouth into a faraway concept
surely everything is layered with the rich chapters of life
and anything is expressed
in those metered measured meticulous
stanzas that i hate.
they tell me this is what poetry is
you better Capitalize random Letters like
emily dickinson, or else
write thoughtful little banters
or maybe you like to rhyme
if you're in to keeping time. ...
they say there ain’t much to intuition; it’s all of life’s problems
just jumbled together, and even the fantasies can make it through.
but i spend too much time watching the pasta boil
and the timer spins to a stop and mam rushes in with a
face full of that lacey hair, all spun into sugarcombs halfway through
sometimes she gets mad at me, she slaps my hand away from the lightning
tells me how the pot’s s’posed to be stopped so that the
noodles don’t shrivel, but that’s all i’ve ever wanted to see
and maybe if i watch long enough, the water shrivels too
maybe it’ll fall away in thick black curtains
or expand into air in fragments of smoke.
sometimes mam apologizes for my mind: to teachers, for instance
“she’s like a body. she doesn’t do much.” and indeed, i got a body
eyes and a nose and a big wide mouth for swallowing dinner:
he was small for his age, which had been fourteen
blue eyes still bulged from a bright blond head
and he loved his brother, who would still sometimes
take him to the night-colored concrete
and shoot sunny spheres into worn cloth nets
or else sling an arm over a shoulder
and rumple the yellowish hair.
and when autumn came round they'd venture
into the forest, as they say, where the magic lies
but for brothers it was fist-fights and leg races
and the older always winning, then
putting a large hand on a smaller head and
rubbing the dandruff scalp
a twisting grin unfurling amidst the brown leaves.
the younger was nine when the scares began
dragged by his mother to rooms the color of aspirin
where he was strangled by prescriptions
the color palette: white, urine, and blood red
and there were pills stored in boxes
and mint-green charts tacked to cardboard
and teary conversations held in low voices.
remember that day when we sat by the moon
while the silvery rays gripped our stomachs?
we were hand-in-hand; we looked like whispers
your hair stood straight against the curly sky
and my feet were stiff from sitting still
and your cheeks were misty against the morning.
but fears sprang into your mind, they twisted your eyes
and you spewed them into the starry air
love, you told me, i call you what you are
but i doubt your feet will ever move.
but the sun embraced, it mouthed the sky
and my lips breathed silk into your ears, reminding you:
someday i'd spin the stars
someday i'd finger the curves of the galaxies
and i’d call your name to the glistening heavens
you kissed me then, for only you knew
i would touch no galaxies in all of my days:
i’d spend the rest of my life
we've arrived! i'm not going to pretend three hundred followers was surprising when i logged on this morning––of course i was watching the numbers tick up there, sticking in certain places, rocketing in others. but if i think back to when i first joined write the world––boy, i would not have expected to reach even one hundred, let alone pass my third triple digit milestone. when i first got an account in october 2017 i wasn't really expecting anything special––i thought the website might become passing obsession. but it's turned into so much more than that and i am so grateful.
normally people hold contests at a milestone like this. or else they copy and paste their "followers" list into the space below with a quick "go check these people out!" but i realized that you guys need more recognition than that––like, tons more. you're all really amazing people.
so i decided to go through my own "followers" list, but...
i used to plaster stars to my bedroom walls
little green monsters
spikes like snaring claws
they shot about when my eyelids closed,
lamented like hummingbirds—
too quick to see, too pretty to stay.
i was lulled to sleep by their
the night sky seared into lucid visions
the galaxies present atop stiff peaks
painted, as if by van gogh, in my wildest dreams.
it’s funny, really,
because the stars that stare are from an eon ago
and they say time’s not present when you’re looking at spacetime—
but why did my world still spin?
the time increased, and
no longer did i hear the stars
it was not the voices here that mattered
it was out there:
the shouts lashed at one another like gobs of lightning
slashing food fights
my mother’s screaming face, cream on her cheeks
my father, taking fistfuls of electricity from the gods
plunging thunder deep into the air like zeus;
when made of stone She holds a spear
a blade held tight to an iron chest
and upon Her shoulder sits the bird
sunlight fallen onto bleak owl eyes:
a daylit wanderer born for the crescent,
muttering softly into undetecting ears;
the fruit of Minerva flies with labor
She gifts her passion only to seekers
the devoted, the wistful, may hear of the treasure:
minds built lavishly, paid by truth.
only mortals may wish to throttle
the ichor that shoots through Her veins
or to speak through the mind
that buries all secrets
but Minerva, as always, knows better than they:
we shall not carry a secret for trade
for knowledge is flame––
brilliant and blinding, faster than flight
the bearers will fall, burning corpses
failed once more
under the hands of our Goddess.
i should say that this is probably the hardest contest i ever had to judge, because there are so many entries that were completely wonderful but that can’t be recognized. so i already feel bad before publishing this.
but i did have a contest, and i received 22 entries. without further ado, here are the winners:
Let us love the ones that hurt us, and hate the ones who make us stronger.
i said on the contest piece that i wouldn't give anything too simply stated a prize, and, by these guidelines, this entry is questionable. but in the end, i had to give it first––what else? there is so much depth in these simple words, so many instances to which this could apply. i've thought about this entry a lot. to me, it questions the intention of humanity––are we so good for one another after all, or are we merely doing damage where other creatures make...
often i am angry with the tree outside my window
a tree should not be countered, metered by its tendencies
but when i look outside i begin to wonder:
the other oaks are flashy peacocks, shedding crimson to their lands
but my tree is gray, slitted, got glassy eyes
geometrical, and it hits the sky like a block or brick
and its timetable must have been licked by sloths
because it hasn’t moved once since i arrived—
it simply stands. sometimes it stares.
this trend seems to have passed, but i was looking back at my profile stats and i realized i haven't written more than a review every two weeks since early december. i used to be a constant reviewer, and now i'm reduced to offering as little help as this. to be fair, there were some life complications. but i always want to offer help and feedback on writing, so i'm doing a contest so that i may continue to support other pieces.
i'm doing one of those lame tiny contests, one sentence in the comments with a determined beginning. have fun.
"let us... "
i take more to sentences that tell a story, or else that use powerful figurative language and tasteful description. i'm not looking for a mundane idea stated simply––for example, i most likely won't nominate let us fall in love because i have a crush on...
they say let it rain
but i have always done that;
only i would shout when
liquid mountains cascaded upon us
only i would dance when
the ground became a fountain,
the sky tangible air
only i would tip my mouth
and allow water to seep through my lips
into my nostrils, past my lungs
and into the reddish pounding
of my own sickly heart.
they say let it rain
and it's happened so many times
a friend and i used to do jumping jacks
within the pouring depths––
"i jump and you jack"
so one of us would pump our legs
and the other would clap our hands round the clouds
and never were the beats as clear
as when we worked together
in the rain, in the gray vessel of a misty sky
a throbbing artery that shot grayish water
onto our own laughing faces.
the same friend and i used to write on our legs:
left to mere mind am i
for my soul is like an open casket
twenty-thousand mourning necks and
jewelry drawn by cavemen,
bangles preached onto wrists
heavy is midnight upon the limbs;
and i may feel the empty congealing––
listen hard, and you'll hear the silence:
mourners looking o'er my death
crying onto packaged faces
but i have not died, shall never die
for i still hear voices in my bedroom walls
the bewitched a garden, my pillow a rose
i lay down once upon its head;
why do we fear death
when this is all it is?
we used to tack maple leaves to white walls
when autumn breezes lay down around
we'd string them up in candied ropes
and perch dead leaves high, as summer's kings.
the golden hands littered my carpets
they were punctured first, right at the wrists
and molted skin would cascade from wounds
before a cold blade was shoved through;
and then the leaf would come to hang
flat against my bedroom door
but the knuckles would always swerve and duck
and paint the frame with cracking brushes.
but i never knew:
was it waving to me?
was it warding me off?
or was it simply dead, hanging suspended and
dripping rust color into my entrance:
nature's little crucifixion?
walking outside, i was afraid of the leaves
for they looked like corpses;
veins, sleeves, prongs like naked legs---mangled and broken
the dead bodies were pushed into piles
and then raked askew
they shriveled and compacted to the frozen ground
they blackened and burned...
he’s got a story; they all do
but for now, they are fixed on his face:
he is slender, marble-white
his lemon hair protrudes from high sideburns
like mashed sticks, firewood carved from
perfect sides of face
and his eyes too v
like stones on a river -
currents flutter in a dainty room.
he adjusts the robots attached to his ears
he lifts the mic, and he thinks
he can see it throbbing
like a dismantled heart
as he bellows pain into its rear
indeed, he can feel blood splattering onto his clothing
into his ears, onto the robots
he starts to cry: beads slip down granite;
he is hard, he is willing.
his mass was once half as much -
he was young, his hair like coal
his smile a beaten frenzy of playtime and confusion
a simple smile that he liked to flash
but every time it appeared, it
was beaten back into his chin -
they say the ocean does strange things
but it was i who did that:
i gathered your soul one day
as i paced with the seagulls
as my outstretched arms reached for
stormy sea feathers
but instead, i found this.
and why did my hands reach around my own
and what did they enclose?
the gold of your heart,
like yellow crabs on a scuttling seafloor
like bottle corks and
rusty trinkets washed by
the blue carpet
strewn onto ruptured sand and
buried deep to prick my toes.
and i remember it perfectly:
your face was tanned pink
and there were freckles on your face
where the rays had buttered your cheeks
and your eyes were blue---
pale, because the sun was
making you blind.
we sat on a swing
which creaked like a song
and i thought we might have belonged
in a painting, where the oil colors
would have sculpted the cracks in your cheeks
if i remember badly enough
i’m convinced i was happy:
a broken mind may conceive of the river highway
cars flapping, thrusting through or
occasionally flashing a toothy fist
like salmon dancing through running water;
and gentle music was playing—
i had nearly slept through
the chaotic mashing of rock and roll
or country’s killer twang
like rust-coated nostalgia.
if i force in sense and taste and
smile, i might forget about
and then i would forget about what
was buried in there
but i can’t do these things
so i remember it as music:
my mother’s frown unfurling like an inky treble clef;
or else the longevity of the cars—
in this, they were fermatas;
or the smashing, slimy chorus
as my troubles unfurled
after the highway, and i slept
and i watched the screens
and i thought the screen might give me a mind
so as to distract me from the horrors
but instead i was stuck...
loosen up your silver hands
and raise them carefully to the sky, topaz blue
close them around that little moon
and bury your claws into the
dislodge it gently from its pocket in the
slicked velvet of the night...
crush the moon in your fingers, my dear
for i don’t want the passage of time
to stiffen your silver cheeks
or throttle the ichor that
shoots through your veins;
and let us not be reminded
by that watery moon.
what is worse than eliminating a chance at human life? the slavery enforced upon pregnant women. a pregancy is an intense and painful process. an estimated 270,000 women die in childbirth every year. without abortion options, a woman who does not want a baby is forced to bear a child, despite her will. this is a process that aligns with human slavery; you are forcing a woman to do what she does not want. an entity should not exist without the permission of its creator. this is a fundamental fact.
a fetus is not a human. a fetus remains unconscious for all of the time is inhabits the womb; it is unable to make decisions. the baby is not able to move until week 13. synaptic activity, the interaction of neurons and fundamental building block of brain usage, does not properly function until day 200. these unthinking creatures cannot be considered properly human, at...
i knew it hurt more than any other thing
you could have slung
you might have buried a knife in my back
or throttled the blood from my pounding
hands, but instead you hurt me
and i thought i might nearly have felt
the white pages pulling oxygen from
my lungs like a string
or else the words would have
hit me like monsters---
the prying claws of the letter 'y'
drawing out my heart with a bloody sweep
or the vicious blade in 'p'
punched and plunked and pummeled me
and 'love' and 'mercy' and 'forgive'
were clogged in the flaps of my throat
a story grew there:
a story, planted by the book
you see, you hit me with a book
and i can only retaliate
with a hundred more words to
spew like waste into
the hard of your brow.
as i drew my paints gently to the sink
i lingered a while, to watch the
oils sag and burst into water
and feel the plastic spray slash my cheeks
and lick the color off my nose
to taste the rainbow as it fell.
the green came first:
i nearly thought i could see
the figure of an elm
swampy on a sunset
and the elm's branches were glossed with
leaves, nature's crisp fingers
and i heard birds chirping, a faraway rustle
but alas, they dissolved,
they turned to dust in the water's plateau:
gentle was green's decease.
next the red prodded the remnants of the elm
it considered, and then, like a war
a fountain of blood was lifted into the water
but as soon as it came
it shriveled and creased---
i thought i saw rose petals
before the water faded brown.
the blue was all-enveloping
it became a canvas, a sky
where red and green were...
the sun's hands are like soggy iron:
they hold my chin
and their fingers drip with
and long-gone are the days when
i feared the candle on the dinner table
and i hid my face with little hands
to avoid the scream of the fire
but maybe some of that fear is with me still
and that's why i can't stand the
white that explodes the sky
they say the flame is beautiful
but it's whipped me raw
and i've bled
so many times under those
cruel iron hands.
but the sky is hot when the rain comes in
and the gray feels nearly like a blanket
a blanket that cloaks my back
wraps it up like a fetus
and i am alive with raw joy
and i run down the streets and i
can't help but yell into the
empty world as
raindrops crunch under my toes
and trees turn to spurting fountains
and that's why
and they look like nothing at first:
paper rolls, crunched like candy
or money bits, baseballs tossed in hands
but even the sunny stripe and
trader's packs and chinking glint of business
cannot compress the smoke---
smoke like ice
a powdery breath expelled on a
warm winter night as
death leaks into tattered lungs;
and it looks gentle for a while
like a man's smokey habit
like a boy kicking a ball
or a guilty glass of beer
you might as well
eat your fats
and inhale sugar
and let your joints swell and stiffen
you might as well
'cause there's no going back after
the smoke hits the air.
my tongue aches from the eye-breaking dry
and the dusty sun drips like a popsicle, spreading
sticky entrails on the scattered hills.
so show me a nicer, natural place
where rain falls like quarters
and lightning lashes as a great
ten dollar bill, greenish on the darkened night.
i want to see flowers
whose petals are coins:
glistening dimes and
and i want to look at the trees
and compare the greens to
the contents of my pockets,
spread into my hands like
i want to eat my money like mangos
and let the juice roll down my chin
i savor the sweet and crunch on spice---
i can never have enough worth;
i can never have enough rain.
we're three months away from
the sun's sticky wrath
and that's the blink of an eye
to the shifting cosmos
but you know me
i can't keep track of time
so when i threw my hands to the sky
i thought it was april.
it took approximately five minutes
and three seconds
and eight parts of that---
then this happened to me:
winter swirled into my mouth
it stopped up my tongue
worst of all, my fingers
ticked and bulged and stiffened
and they can't be thawed
even if i melt them.
i wanted to write a poem for you
but now my hands are
frozen to the keys
they stop somewhere between 'p' and 'q'
and the pencil breaks when i hold it:
the graphite smears the empty page.
maybe the winter encircles your face
and maybe your eyes are ocean blue
and maybe your heart is
the gem of aphrodite
and maybe you were thrown into
yes, i know that the club has been inactive for a month now. people have been asking me---when will january reviewing assignments come out? what about the competition that goes to february? i myself am driven a little mad by it---if there's one thing i can't stand, it's inconsistency. and yet here i am, writing an apology letter to the group to which i promised my service. in truth, i failed this promise.
lately i've felt like my life is barred by my responsibilities. i'm already anchored in education, music, social dynamic, and sports (kidding... did you seriously think i would do sports? i do exercise, though). write the world used to be more of a free-form place, where i'd write if i felt like it or if i was bored. then corner writing club was established. then i started promising people reviews. suddenly it felt as though every day i was forced into the website, forced to write new...
& maybe the heading says it all because
i've never liked explosions:
no matter what man makes
they'll always be natural---
it'll always be natural to blow up
but i should've known the only thing that
can see through destruction
so i know you're a forever away
& living a billion years from now
but my star still shines
from an eternity ago
& if you open your eyes,
you can see me
hey, i wish you could
wake me up again
because our sun
died with its legacy
i just wish you could
rebirth my impermanence;
time is the only thing uneven
in the cosmos
dear explosive star
we're all just fragments of our odd little universe
timers waiting to bomb
stars waiting to sink into
our own nonexistence
dear explosive star
can't you feel the blackness
ticking your life away?
dear explosive star
i've exploded &
but while you're awake
you can open your...
take me to the simple hills
where the azure lifts and falls
where the sky and sea combine
in the great and roaring winds
take me to the mountain grass
and bring me to a fawn
oh, i felt her roaming eyes
like whispers on my cheeks
take me to the widened glades
and string me to the fruited trees
i squeezed a peach, soft and brown
the gentle sap slicked my tongue
take me to a better time
when the world was lush and small
and the pines breathed with sun
mother earth---preserver, creator
sitting in a tight little container and watching
colorful blackness from on-high:
the pinprick lights sprawling & seeping
one moment, a great landscape unfurls
the next, eyes bathed in a starry blanket
high as the moon, cold as morning mist
& then the city once more:
offices—shops—little street corners—
their great depths lost amidst grander proportions
for a moment, i wish i could touch each
& reach through the endless mist between us
& understand everything small in the world.
how funny it is to think that
the sea of golden automobiles
should each contain the breath of a human
that each human should carry flaw & love
& expression—that, sitting crookedly
against my plastic windowpane, i can view so much
—for the spectator, most usually, glimpses all—
and still feel nothing…
still know of none of these things.
i can still see smoke shapes, mushrooms;
ink blots on a parchment sky
they stain what they see
they kill what they stain.
if you look at the hills you can peel off faces
like plaster dummies, vague little faces
choked & strangled
sunshine crushed from bloody eyes
children too: a life of love & flaw
drawn away with one clean sweep.
splattered onto earth
splattered onto rusty knives that soldiers lay down
of the innocent & guilty--
no longer is there a difference
god... let me write
just let me write
one more poem
one more poem
one more poem before it dies in the middl
allow me one minute to watch the
mountains draw to curling crags of
water, grant me the
pleasure of watching rain smile &
the rosy cheeks of spring
blossoms; let me stay here—
i want to watch the masses
shift and swing
disappear to the cracks of
mother earth & please
don’t let it go
don’t let it go
i first developed a love for writing when i realized that a story could be constructed through a beginning, middle, and end; that each sentence consisted of subject and verb; that words should be constructed out of beauty rather than practicality. i began to write independently at the age of seven. at first, my works were worth more for childish creativity than for word artistry. my first story was about a piano whose keys escaped it, and another was about a city that lived at the top of a ceiling fan. in the third grade, warriors fan fiction was all of the rage; in fifth grade we participated in nanowrimo, and i wrote about an inter-dimensional adventure.
i have always prided myself on competence in language. i'm crap in other academics, but words have always been something i could handle. the english language is like my friend. it's always been.
i was eleven when i discovered write the world;...
wedding empty, so he married himself.
these days i can only look at old problems
and see nostalgia--endless perfection
i am a beast of a simpler mind
and thus i do not question
the difficulty of my surroundings
but to obey them so easily---
in the fury of present struggle
i do not understand.
i do not comprehend either the
innocence of the face photographs depict:
something shiny, like a beacon
made golden by sunlight
given comfort by rain
if only i could delve into photographs
and pull out the smiling child
i would turn her face to mine
her delicate composure transforms
bent by age, she is me again.
too late---my hands have already
strangled the smile from her sunlit cheeks
slashed confusion into simple thoughts
i turn, sobbing
into the rainstorm---the future
and my face is bedecked with new scars
and the people around me have bled to air;
perhaps this is most what i miss most:
standing surrounded by faces
laughter, quarrel, blatant...
11:39 pm where i am. december 24.
we're so close.
she liked brushing snow off of her shoulders and the inky blue i left her every valentine's day. she liked the crisp feeling of a winter morning and the smooth blade of roller skates on sliced ground. she liked hearts shattered by ice, held in her hands frozen and torn apart by bitter cold. her hands froze, too---her fingers were always shaking with frost, and she never wrote if she could help it.
i faced the sunlight, and i was happy. but the ink would stain my hands on every february fourteenth. it dripped and oozed and bled sadness onto my nimble palms. my hands were warm at the tips, hot in their centers. they could write a thousand letters and craft words like wine.
around five days ago i started a one-sentence contest similar to stripedfly's. i got 26 entries, and it was very hard to narrow down to just three. i included an honorable mention too, which won't receive a prize but ought to be mentioned for its excellence.
without further ado:
I wish that I could wrap you in a warm embrace one last time, but as my spirit is tossed around in the air like a ship lost at sea, I'm unable to do anything but watch as you weep over my earthbound grave. -Anha
i loved this one for a number of reasons. it was perhaps the most descriptive entry i got, and the language flows beautifully unlike any other. anha's writing never disappoints. it's also such a unique concept---we hear of people grieving for the loss of loved ones all the time, but we never hear the dead spirit saddened by the grieving loved ones. anha will...
at dawn they told me of your body
embers of death licking your beautiful face
i remember running, somewhere
of course, it was the place we always went
and all around, the scenery was curled like water
and the willow’s branches wept
like the empty arms of a mother
there it was, your grave:
a million soft roses could not compress
the cold of hard stone
i fell to my knees, sobbing
the grass pressed at my heels
and around my stomach:
i lay shivering in an earthy cocoon
now i live in an alien world
i cannot be troubled with the faces that pass
for i belong neither here nor there:
i am suffocated by the clarity of air
and the solidity of cool earth
someday, they shall take me away
and i will be swept up by wind and sleet
and mother earth will kiss me for a last time
no longer will i be burdened by your...
So I just finished with the prizes for my last contest, so I figured it'd be a cool to borrow an idea from stripedfly1001 and start a really small one. Please post your answer as one sentence in the comments. Each person may only submit one (1) sentence overall. I decided not to go with categories, so pick the themes you like!
I wish that I...
December 12, 2018
1 detailed review
On the Winner Announcement I'll also leave a paragraph about why I liked the placer entries so much.
(The prizes aren't very big because all of my reviews are super detailed, and offering reviews for all of them would take me forever).
Can't wait to see what you all come up with!
i held a little candle flame
close to somewhere near my heart
i thought it might protect me
from monsters lurking behind closed doors
and the potted hole in the candle snuffer
that flame rose near my chest
it flickered for a tiny moment
and the embers seized the air
like oxygen lit the dying hearth
the flames, they licked my clumps of hair
they spread across my chest
and into the glow of my eyes---
my candle by my side
and i could see no more
i once held a little candle flame
it was my protection and hope
my instruction: seize neither
for with fire we are blind.
through the lens of nostalgia everything is in color—
raining days and juice boxes and stepping on the cat’s tail
they say it’s made of red and green, but ours was golden
glinting ornaments strung onto drying needles
flying down dark alleys of christmas trees
licking candy canes by a heated fire, to see who could get the sharpest point.
on the day of i couldn’t go to bed
so i’d toss and turn and wonder whether santa was real
waking up thirty minutes early to literally drag my sister out of bed
rushing downstairs—i can see them now
the stockings swollen with minute treasures
and the tree’s contents stacked up high
games—toys—books—clothes; it got overwhelming
tugging my parents out of their bedroom
sitting with my sister as we unloaded
turning stockings upside down so the presents whisked out.
stockings then breakfast then onto the large parcels
i spare a thought to be thankful before i’m sucked in ...
There are so many great people on this site, and I realize that it's hard to give enough support through liking and commenting, so I thought I'd write up a few dedicated shout-outs that act kind of as speeches of appreciation.
I wish I could include everybody, but the list would go on and on, so I'm choosing only a few people. Don't be offended if your name isn't here; it's more a matter of time restraint than anything.
Quille is a fabulous and dedicated writer. They've been working on their series Elfboy since early November, and have also published a variety of other things. I was particularly captivated by their ten-word story Ouch, which was broken up in a creative way I hadn't seen before. They're also particularly good at human description and have a nature for breaking up lines in an interesting method, as displayed by Who's This Girl? Quille has also done...
(based off of the greek myth io)
kiss her till the moon is dead. kiss her till the sun rises and the birds sing and the clouds circle above her head.
you are terrified of the fury of your wife, and so you blanket the skies in cream clouds. no suspicion arises.
the clouds shift, they tumble, and they turn on the spot, steadily dispersing and revealing a sky of azure grey.
panicking... you cannot think... anything to turn her away from the wraths of hera, and and anything to protect the beauty of her sparkling face, the eyes of the gentle storm. from your fingers spring a sudden urge. her eyes shift and swivel, and her head is retracting into her spine.
a cow of golden white. io.
hera, descending--"who is this?"
"a cow, and one i have never seen before in my life." you eyes are a little too guilty, perhaps, your mouth still flattening.
hera knows. ...
please push them away
for they terrify
and please take me away
for i am still
lord, let them label me
as a box rather than a soul
and let strangers pass
and see nothing but stiff and boards
an empty shell
and let my sticker read
"please, DO NOT OPEN me up"
i am a dead man
past a moon
brighter than stars
i will soon be
under the glow
of daylight wonders
i wake up sleeping. stumbling and sliding out of a dream, a confusion of colors, a whirlwind
and here i am, slumbering between my azure blankets, wishing that i was not confronted with
this bravery i now must face
the prospects loom:
breakfast - yogurt; car ride - dreary; first period - half asleep
pulling into the parking lot (i can't remember the time now):
shut off the music; slam the door; look awake
fleeting words of goodbye uttered between the passing of commuters
i leave my coat, figuring i won't need it later (i do)
i'm halfway through halfway, grinding my teeth
voices drone like wartime helicopters. the subjects skip by too quickly, and everything slips out -
verbs and cells and massacres and ratios and that funny time the teacher dropped the marker
but it's sliding away... my hacking cough rings through every classroom
i ooze onto tissues and think of other places
they are so effortless
and you are so flawed
they stand, hands pressed to hips
quick smiles and short laughs
and there you are
tall and stiff
and looking at the ground
or picking at nails
you hate yourself afterward
the words of parting still ringing
in your ears---
you want to smile apologetically
and at the same time to shout at them
stop doing this to me, you'll say
i can't do it
you're provoking me
you're cutting my throat like
a lamb to the slaughter.
why is it that you are
so perfect in some situations---
born a leader, complete confidence
but when it comes to two
you seethe inside
clench your jaws
and hope to grow out of it
in a month or two?
or is it simply
that sometimes you're alone
and you stare at yourself
no one else
no reason to be awkward
and everything's so easy
when you're lonely
she was the quiet type
mumbles escaping unused lips
in all her years she never once
sneezed during a silence
had a coughing fit
raised a hand in class
all of these thoughts
cooped up in one tiny
bin, stored into the depths
of a brain. it drove her mad.
maybe she was always just
an exhibit, hands pressed to
thick glass walls as
muffled sound leaked through
now i can see
you've broken out of
these glass walls (screaming, for once,
when the shards hit your face)
did you always know
you were a monster
or was that too
pushed to the back
all of those years
you could have talked
but now you're just
screaming at me
like a newborn child.
I can't believe you
You said I've stopped
I'm a better person now
And I can't believe you
Those fights we had when
One cared about herself
And one didn't
We were twins
I can't believe you
You said I haven't been setting the world on fire
And I've stopped stopping
And I gave up giving up
But I can't believe you
I found the embers
Hidden under your mattress
Ready to strike a flame again
You were different than us
Maybe that's why you were left behind
Maybe that's why you wanted stopped caring
Maybe that's why you found the matches
Maybe that's why you set it all
To burn down the city that you hated and loved
And the friendships that taunted you
It all went up in flames
And you turned your back
You said I'm better and
I can't believe you.
In October I started my #paperbirdcontest, which was the first independent user-hosted contest I'd done. I received thirty-three likes and twenty-eight entries. The deadline was four days ago, November 25, and as promised I am delivering the results. I included the first, second, and third place, as well as two honorable mentions.
Without further ado:
The Internal Monologue of a Seamstress by kaydenblue
kaydenblue took the prompt as the foundation of the piece and completely transformed the story around it. "The Internal Monologue of a Seamstress" is philosophical, political, and clever. The language is careful and well-chosen. kaydenblue also made sure to include a few blunter lines that clearly stated the purpose of the piece. When kaydenblue contacted me about writing it, with warnings that the piece involved violence and rape, I warned them against publishing it. When I read the piece, however, I realized how wrong I was. The writing feels almost as though it is taken...
the air had whipped my cheeks raw
our wind-stained faces, side by side
i laughed up snot
and tears dripped from dry eyes
on the bicycles, running again
autumn bit at exposed fingers
we doubled back
and our feet hung limply at the pedals
i felt sick, so we stayed there
catching our breath till the wind picked us up again
it went like this:
i drove, and you were behind me
we met a stranger, and one halted
so the other could talk amiably
we drove again, and they were in zig-zags
swooping like doves
until one fell off her bike;
it was the wind that made her cry
back together, the storm is starting
the pedals are spinning out of control
but it was the wind, again, that saved us
pushed us back to the dryness of
pedaling on an autumn day
everything is so much harder now
winter was cold and summer hot
and maybe i'll always...
I write to tame the eager words that drift often through my dizzied mind. They land in long scrawls, the unwritten, oozing frustration onto bleeding pages, screaming for ink.
I know, a very original idea. I know, the first user-hosted contest on this site ever. I'm just creative like that.
NO POETRY, PLEASE. I'd also prefer fiction stories over informational pieces/personal narratives.
I'm probably going to republish this piece about a gazillion times to make sure people enter.
Your piece must include the word "needle". The piece can be based around needles or it can mention the word once, but the word MUST be in there. I don't care where you go with it (but make sure it's WtW appropriate).
I'm going to choose winners based on plot, character arc, themes, and most especially writing style. Writing that is flowing and detailed is particularly important to me. I'm also probably going to be rating them on how interesting they are to me. Disclaimer: I don't much like love stories or cliche stuff unless they're really well-written. I would say I'm a sucker for sci-fi and unusual ideas, but...
Believe me, I love Harry Potter with my entire existence; I would practically sacrifice myself for those books. However, one thing that's always annoyed me are those stupid Hogwarts Houses! They never seem to make any sense to me. JK Rowling suggests that Slytherins are the villains, Hufflepuffs are the boring people, Ravenclaws are the amazingly smart nerd bookworm people, and Gryffindors are literally every protagonist to ever exist ever except maybe Tonks and Newt Scamander. There's something seriously screwed up about that system, if you ask me.
I want you to read MY answers to the Hogwarts Houses. Like, I really want to spread the word on this; don't just skim this over and give it a like 'cause why not. READ. Tell me your opinions in the comments. Also tell me what House you'd fit into, using this logic.
So this is what I think the Houses should actually be like. Hear me out.
The extroverted people...
Friday, 15 November 2018
When I was told to write a letter to someone I love, the possibilities frightened me with their endlessness. Realistically, I most love my mother or sister--but my relationships with the both of them are not such that I could write them a letter telling them how much I love them. For my mother it would be overly-sappy, beyond the limits of normal adolescent behavior; and for any sibling... well, let us say the world may stop going 'round before I am likely to write such a letter to my sister.
I thought it might be nice to write about something shallow for a change, write to one of my cats. But what have I to say to them? That I love their sweetness and presence? Communication with my cats is, of course, thoroughly nonverbal. Our relationship grew from warmth---in the winter, she would sleep next to me for my...
in school if you chew gum
you're stuck peeling the stuff off desks at recess
and the english teacher won't shut up
about how texting gives you arthritis
she left a plastic snake in your locker
when you didn't turn in vocab
made you jump sky-high
you went to first period and they rang some chimes
told you to "relax for the coming day
pay attention to the chimes"
but all that time you're thinking about that snake
and what you didn't do
and how you don't know what you didn't do
when it's break you duck into social studies
and read screwtape for ten minutes
the kids out there are predators:
don't get caught
class again, you're put in groups
(you hate groups)
with a bunch of idiots
they chatter during the activity
you lecture them; they continue
you zone out (can't help it)
they say "sarah"
you jolt back in panic. "what?"
you think about the...
WE WERE RAISED ON THE PRINCIPLE THAT LIFE HAD A MEANING
that we were all here for a purpose: for god or for kindness or for having a good time
what idiots we are
THE SCIENTISTS TODAY
they all look at those stars and they want to venture there
they want to meet life
they want to find the stuff of the universe
what idiots they are
DID WE REALLY JUST THINK
that we could stroll into life
pretend to be nice
stroll back out
DID WE REALLY JUST THINK
that life is up for grabs?
THERE IS NO WAY
that we're here for ourselves
THERE IS NO WAY
that we're not being controlled
by something greater
WHAT IF I TOLD YOU
we were screens, humanized
WHAT IF I TOLD YOU
the world is a glitch
WHAT IF I TOLD YOU
we were nothing but pawns
in another's game
WHAT IF I TOLD...
Blow my troubles into cupped hands
Shake them into the air for
a wanderer to collect
As winter dawns, we may
Sing a million love songs to the birds in the air
Laugh up tears as wind whips our face
Dance with the leaves as the sky turns gray
Huddle under blankets when the snowflakes spin
Gush our golden slumbers into stars above.
In bios/message to readers, many people (including myself) have stated their "Myers-Briggs personality," which is a four- or five-letter set of initials (e.g., ESTP, INFJ).
The question I'm answering today: "What are these mysterious codes? Are they some kind of code? Can robots or aliens read them? Is there some kind of secret society that lives underground and eats mushrooms and rides on the backs of snails and only talks in these odd letters and in some dystopian future they will take over, and Write the Worldarians are being converted?"
And the answer is no. It's not nearly that cool.
The set of letters each describe a personality, kind of like the Hogwarts Houses or Divergent Factions. There are sixteen total personality types.
Each lettering space has two options, both of which are letters that are the initials of a fancy word. I'm going to take you through each set of options in the space below.
This is mostly...
No form of art will ever be perfect. Ever.
Such is the very definition of artwork. As the Ernest Hemingway quote goes, "We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes the master." No book can be as good as it ever will be, because we have no way of knowing what that really means.
I personally have a very specific taste in literature. I believe that around half the books I read are utter trash and only a quarter of the remaining books are solidly worthy. What with all of the judging, I've created a system for rating each book that I read. It's a 1-10 system.
I listed what I think each rating is to my mind, and an example of a book with that rating for me. Obviously we won't all agree on what books belong in each categories (most of them are kids' books, as those are what I have the strongest opinions...
Daydreaming is a classic part of human development. Adults often reminisce about wonderful imagination they used to have. Such is normal, healthy---playing with stuffed animals, creating imaginary friends are normal products of this tendency. An adult would always smile at a child who saw their toy not as a sculpture but as a breathing figment.
Usually children grow out of such phases.
The creative aspects of the mind are dulled after a while. When matured adults zone out, they are thinking instead of imagining. Age groups progress, past this stage, onward to better things for the mind to consume. People moved forward.
I was left behind.
As a kid I pranced across my room with my toys in tow. In first grade, my friends and I played all sorts of imaginary games with our imaginary friends. We were wolves, for instance---there was I, a lean alpha (player of Quidditch, oddly enough) and my friend Marlo, my loyal sister. Together we...
She couldn't spell anything but she knew the word "calorie" better than the back of her own hand.
i write with my fingers
if i prick my finger
when the blood comes out
i can smear a million stories
the blood pools on paper
i can dry them into words
string them into poems
turns to marks
turns to words
turns to feelings
turns to poetry
if only everyone saw
what i can see
if only everyone's minds
were filled with words
leaked out by blood.
when they tell me to write a poem
i tell them how dare you ask me
to spill my blood for you
how dare you ask me
to mark my grave with your honor
and dance you a million songs
and sing you a million more
how dare you ask
that i kiss the trees
and climb the mountains
and breathe the air like it is my own
how dare you ask me
to maim myself
to force the blood out of me
they tell me to write a poem
Classic humans, they had doubts
Looked to the sun, where color was a drought
Where the sky split, drowning Earth in dull sheen
And the trees, they whistled the tunes of the scene
A million different things they sought.
And we whispered and we pleaded,
"Please, I seek only the comfort
A scholar could give:
Fulfill my dreams
At mistakes forgive
And tell me I'll see
My great legend
For stories to be
Fulfill my wish
Make my bliss;
The greatest of poets
The sky split again, and it encased
A thousand aliens, purple of face
Their rosy cheeks laughed
They murmured clearly
Of lessons we lacked
"Drop your worries, your thousand flags
May your scurries be no more
Cry me now a thousand flurries
Shoulder swords and fight the war."
So they stored these thoughts in our minds
Till our impossible ideas combined:
And the children that played ball,
They said they wanted to be...
he could still feel her spit clinging to his jawline, and then the tip of her nose, warm, as she whispered in his ear. she had hated him. she had told him so. her angry features had blurred his world. for a fraction of a second, she had cared enough to hate him, and then it was gone. then she had spit on him, reminding him of his worth.
he was worthy of her sink, of her coffee cup. he was worthy of the dust his initials were drawn lovingly into, so long ago... but she had spit on those, too.
he walked to his apartment. the skies were darkening, and misty rain began to fall, dappling the sidewalks and the oily air. his coat was soaked, warmly, in the humidity. tiny droplets ran rivers down his glasses. they put tears to his eyes.
her saliva swirled in mixture with the water, grotesque, lovely.
he knew even the rain could...
While filling out name/gender/physical appearance questions about characters is helpful for novelists, I think that the most effective way to learn about your character is to answer questions about their morals, outlooks, and mindset. I've done quite a few character Q&As from various websites and I tried to incorporate the kinds of questions that I find most helpful. Several of these are unrealistic scenarios.
Below is my version of Character Questions. I hope you find this helpful and inspirational.
Does your character value their life? How important is longevity to them?
Can your character easily identify good friends? How likely are they to put their trust in the right people? How adept are they at picking out liars and individuals with bad morals?
If a witch came and cursed your character, what would the worst curse imaginable (think creatively) be for them? (e.g., constantly loneliness, always being noticed, etc.)
If your character had dietary restrictions, how likely would they be...
It had been forty long years since Emperor Hugo had retrieved a piece of Hawaiian pizza from his precarious perch on the adorned throne, proclaimed it rubbish, and thrown it to the scowling faces of the surly crowd below. Freddie mother still said it might not have meant anything.
"He was a dreadful ruler, Hugo," she told her son. "Kept making the people do stuff they didn't want to. Had no sense of government. His ego got to him. He was probably mad at the crowd for booing him."
"No, Mum," said Freddie, in the hollowly exasperated voice he often acquired when discussing this issue. "He started the Revolution. He is and should be treated with the utmost respect. I admire him."
"He was a lousy little brat. I never liked him," said Freddie's mother, and it sounded quite like she was talking about an old high school friend.
Freddie had enlisted...
There are an uncountable number of stars in the sky, and you could squeeze the lot of them between your thumb and pointer finger as easy as holding a hand to the night sky. You crushed my infinity like you crushed the Moon: you stuck a flag in its shell and called it land, made man step on that mystic orb that hung above us for centuries for werewolves to dissect.
(Props to all of those who got the Harry Potter reference in the title ;) )
I just logged into my account and had my mind blown. I guess I had realized 200 followers was inevitable, but I still feel like my socks were just knocked off my feet with my shoes still on. IT’S A WHOLE NEW KIND OF MINDBLOWN.
Thank you guys so, so, so much. The fact that literally 200 people have visited my profile and read my writing... if I could use emojis in these pieces the mindblown one would be inserted a million times.
I know a bunch of people like doing contests or special events when they hit milestones like this but I know that there are lots of competitions going on right now, unofficial and not, and I don’t want to bother you guys with another one. Instead I’ll just leave you with some shoutouts/thankses and a bunch of smiley faces.
i remember a time long ago
at the lunch table
me and her
all of us laughing and
she was eating.
If I folded a thousand paper cranes the sharp edges would cut my fingers until each was smeared with my blood and my fingertips were wrapped in red lace. And at the end of it all, I'd have one thing that was mine, one guaranteed promise that would make it worth it.
Nothing was worth it.
And I'd hope and pray that people would stop wishing and stop dreaming and never that I would never find the red lace on these hands again. And I'd walk away knowing that whatever I did, those people would be so damn stupid all of the time regardless.
The scenery here was rather reminiscent of Earth's. The sun blanketed the horizon in golden columns, and the grassy slopes were softened by the dim light; each individual blade swayed peacefully, as though disrupted by this impenetrable beam. Trees bedecked every surface: large conifers with russet bark and wide, spindly limbs; luscious pear trees that smelled of sweet fruits; curvy willows whose branches curled into long, weeping figures. Here the grounds were laden with pinecones and walnuts from such trees, and squirrels scuttled across the leaves, harvesting the fruits as they fell onto the tender soil. The land lay unmoving, and it was everywhere.
The exception was the expansive ocean that lay to Raya’s right, a sharp azure that reflected the sun’s power and glared into the eyes of passersbys. The surrounding grounds were rough and sandy, and fallen branches lay in arrays on the coarse terrain. The conifers were sparser here; the scenery was of maples now, sturdy...
from the beginning of time we had so much hate and so much faith
and we didn't know what to do with it all
and we stored our faith in the faintest of beings
and we let love leak out
standing here, centuries later
and faced with that same choice
do as they did, love something so much you'd die if you had to--
the prospect always scared me
how do you love one thing
without a doubt
and i said no. i wouldn't.
it was built on a lie
a lie to me alone, maybe
so how do we know
what truth is
when our foundational beliefs
are built on different truths
and on different lies
i know i'm right
they know i'm wrong
as long as we're here, there is no answer
but i see groups of worshippers
and i always wonder to myself
did i make the right choice
and i always think ...
I can feel it sweeping past my shoes
in gentle drifts; it smelled like
the dead buds of summer,
the musty odor of crumpled leaves
They come to me, almost unbidden
turning to dewdrops, fingering my temples
stopping my brain mid-thought
Caught in my still hands
an icy nothing (turned monster by amount)
I plunge stiff fingers into stinging snow
and pull the cold toward me
stuffing it into my warm mouth
immersing myself, flavor drowned by numbness
it crunches as it shouldn’t (such is nature)
I sit here for a while
letting feeling disappear
allowing myself, for a split second
to be free from this molten world.
It comes, seeping, through the rough city glands
Splattering the sidewalks as oily streets clear
The sky warps the ceiling as a hot gray blanket
The rightful odor of earth clings to the soggy air
The warm rain, it clusters in haphazard drifts
Dance with me now while it shines through it all
Just a cat sitting by a
window, the sunlight creating
spots on the glass,
shadowed by a maze
blackened in the
Just a worker crossing the
fields, calloused hands
dirty and veined,
handling the corn with
tanned brow furrowed
Just a star sitting
hazily in the coming
darkness, a pinprick of light
in a darkened atmosphere,
so different from its
regarded with the
same blind eye.
"The material world, it didn’t usually make it into my dreams."
-Dreams, The Beginning of a Short-ish Story
"We see storms drip down window panes, and at once we think it's us."
-this i believe
"(2018) was the year we cut down the last lumber for barren shelters, then stopped breathing."
"I would move a million mountains
This I hope you now know
Just to see your smile fountain
Just to see your embers glow."
-To See You
"Catch my joy
Between your arms
Before the flakes fall out of sight and
Squeeze them to your pounding heart."
-The Flakes of Forgotten Joy
"He hammered the lock out of place with a hammer on the fourth day, carrying a bag of sandwiches and a glass of water, and, with his hands, forced me to eat them until tears ran down my face and I screamed for him to stop."
"We collect the rules. We...
From the darkened recesses of my brain, nowhere comes.
Vast and vaguely misty, nowhere was slightly faded, as though from memory. Billowing thought swirled through my vision. It was beautiful, and it was off-putting. There were colors here: a gentle green and blots of purple, and I stared, transfixed. The fogged corners were closing in slightly, capturing the colors, brightening them, and I realized quite suddenly that I was slipping away. No, no. I would not wake up, not right now. I couldn’t face it. I would find this moment before it slipped through my awareness. Please no. My invisible fingers found one another and gripped tightly. I would hang on.
I waited. My eyes blurred, then sharpened. I blinked rapidly.
Instantly, objects appeared. A wave of plastic texture unfurled beneath my feet, tossing me forward, and I fell face-forward. A domed sky of violent amber crashed overhead. Slim trees erupted from silhouettes. I sighed...
my earliest memories—
laughing, arm-in-arm with best friends
imagining things we knew weren’t real
hide-and-seek, being so obvious it’d last five seconds
tag, me outrunning all the others because my legs were long
every day we fought a new battle
it was so fun
because it was so harmless
hating one day, smiling the next
these things, they were so forgettable
i wish i’d stayed where i was
when i chose to grow older
i wish i had those nights back
all those times we ran out the door
screaming that it was the weekend
i used to laugh so quickly;
it used to be so easy to find paradise
right where i was—
i look back on it now
those days were so golden and so utterly perfect
that i distract myself too much to make new ones
if only you
travelled down my path
sailed across my river
danced through my light
cried my thousand tears
board my boat; the sails are flying
your perfect toes in my two shoes
rub your thumbs across my fingers
feel your spirit clog my face
if only you
you'd feel my joy
and cry my sorrows
and scream when scared;
my pain is a thousand spears
coarsing through your back
never let it go
the agony of living
my heart in pieces
torn apart by me
the lonely nights
the lost ones
crying over little things
willing the tears to keep coming
so you'd feel alive again
not letting go
the joy is so warm you'd burst with it
and sadness the rain that drips human tears
the emotions all tangle together
until they are connected
by one thread
one solitary line
I thank you for
All the games I lost
And all the tests I failed
And every time I was peer pressured
Into getting an A.
And I thank you for
All the faces hidden
And all the things not shared
The introversion kept me safe
And scared me out of everything.
And I grovel you for
The lost times
When I felt like an alien
The desperate attempts to find my friends
When all along, I had myself.
Every numb weekend that flew by
The icy cold that surrounded me
I couldn't find the happiness to care
And confused, suffered right through.
I thank you for
The feverish addictions
Maniacally flying through YouTube
Attached to faces I'd never met,
I felt they were my only friends.
And I am thankful for
All those people, who gloated by
Shoving themselves in my face
Showing me they weren't afraid
To be themselves.
I worship you for
The sins I...
1. BE YOURSELF. (Wow, what original content we have here) I don’t mean it in the cheesy sense, I mean seriously. Go with your interests, and don’t shy away from what you want to write. If you want to be angsty and have lot us of swear words, so be it. If you’re feeling in the mood for gore and vampires (as I most often am), go with it! And if you want to write My Little Pony fan fiction and live happily on a rainbow... I guess that could work too.
2. CARRY IDEAS. You are the almighty storage bucket. Ooh, that’s a good one. Inspirational message brought to you by PB: YOU ARE THE ALMIGHTY STORAGE BUCKET. I’m going to make that a thing. Anyways, I constantly pick up ideas for poems or funny things to write everywhere I go. Keep mental notes. Publish anything and everything.
3. DRINK CAFFIENE. I always write better after a cup...
maybe we're lonely. maybe we feel like we'll always be alone.
maybe we're tangled. maybe we think we could never be unknotted.
maybe we're sick. maybe we see stars when the sun is far brighter.
maybe we're sad. maybe we see storms drip down window panes, and at once we think it's us.
maybe we're cold. maybe we believe that we'll never feel sweat, or sun, or the warm touch of someone's hand in our own.
maybe we've given up, and maybe we know that the sun and the moon and the earth and the sky existed for no reason, that it will all die, that we'll never be remembered and we will always be stupid, and our life in particular is waisted, passing, no longer worth living, and there will be no tomorrow.
i believe that someday, there will be a tomorrow.
Somehow we antagonize rain.
In literature we are constantly reminded of the metaphor of rain and sunshine, day and night, summer and winter. Drops of rain begin to fall upon our protagonist at their lowest point---at the funeral of a loved one, the day everything goes wrong, or a dramatic alley chase as thunder clashes magnificently overhead. "She don't love you no more!" Lots-O'-Huggin'-Bear cries dramatically into the showering night to his companions in Toy Story 3 as lightning lashes at the screen. In The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, the battle of Helm's Deep is dramatically transformed into a muddy onslaught by the dastardly rain. When a mother calls to her child, "Play outside! It's a beautiful day!" she is always referring to the sunshine, the blooming trees, and the pleasantly warm weather. Likewise, gloomy days are often characterized as being rainy and drab, something to bear, but never to enjoy.
Winter is much...
I thought I knew you
Which only proves
That I’ve lost you
You are autumn
Your leaves fall by my cheeks
I cannot catch them before they fall
It’s just change
Which means that
It’s everything and nothing at all
1. Her sanity was ripped out of her skull by a falling glass sphere.
2. I wish time were real.
3. “FUCK!” she shouted into oncoming traffic.
4. I must have been born twice because I know there must have been a before.
5. He only had seizures when he smiled.
I hated the people who wouldn't pay attention to me—
I was there in front of them
And they wanted their phone.
I hope someday those eyes will blister away
Over a worthless YouTube scrap
Because of all the things, that's what they chose.
With information I am freed
With secrecy I am dancing by myself
With the knowledge of generations.
I don't need approval
I don't need a reputation
I don't need to care what other people think
When it's me and the Internet.
I am comforted by millions of others
Reaching across the oceans
They're not there in my normal life, but still
They're there for me.
They try to take it away from me
And they don't understand
What it means to me; how I have a million allies
That I've never met
And it's wonderful.
Maybe only I deserve it
Maybe others should pay more attention
And I despise them for...
My breadth fogged the window pane in my bedroom as I sat there every day in peace, watching the Sun slide down a deep blue sky and crows calling softly to one another. I thought I would be happy until the end of time. But slowly, things change. I sat there until the window was shattered and buried under mounds of garbage remnants; until the air was squeezed out of me for the final time and I lay to rot next to our world of nothing as the crows dropped and the Sun bled.
We all know it burns our eyes
It beams and beats with crooked cruelty
But underneath the blazing skies---
A world with softer, darker beauty
So darling, imagine rain outside.
Closer did the seasons come
Maybe it hurts to think how they fly
But call my name through summer Sun
And through your sadness, I'll reply
We'll imagine rain outside.
Watching through the bustling streets
Counting cars and sleeping pidgeons
And I knew that you too were asleep
When the heat came, it became your prison
For you, I imagine rain outside.
When it comes, it will shower
And we---you---will be free
Standing, whooping, on your tower
Watching the waves foam from sea
In your head, there's rain outside.
Even when your grave is wet
And our eyes, filled with morning dew
Somehow I will never forget
Because I know your world is true
Maybe because you imagined rain outside.
The sky is clearing, waving, wafting
Clouds split by azure cracks
In my head I see you walking
Along my land of drifting wax.
Pain, red, concealed by faces
When I saw you on my shore
Your fingers, white, painted places
Hells I hadn't dreamed before.
In the tortures, there were demons
They gripped my soul with hot tendrils
I was lifted, burning, screaming
As through death I left entrails.
You saw them scattered
And they were wild bits
Hope, dreams, joy, battered
I had left them for you---wits.
I would move a million mountains
This I hope you now know
Just to see your smile fountain
Just to see your embers glow.
I love fandoms, believe me, I do. But there are some aspects of them or theories about them that annoy me so much I feel the need to rant about them. Stand by as I fill up an entire piece with rants about questionable material in franchises. This may span all the way from books I don't like to fan theories that make no sense to I don't even know what. If one of these rants doesn't interest you, another one probably will. So. Without further ado.
1. DIVERGENT. I kind of wanted to get this one out of the way because the truth is (and I really don't mean any offense to you fans), I strongly dislike the Divergent series. First of all, it seemed like it was going to be this amazing war story between factions, and then the first book was mostly about Tris's boy trouble and there are about five times Veronica Roth decided to fill...
"What do you do for a living?"
"I sit all day, every day, doing nothing, facing the wind, watching the roses bloom, and waiting for a thought."
It’s been a long night
And a thousand long days
Blisters on my feet
I fit my shoes alone
Carefully holding the plant to my tongue, I took a tentative bite with the front ends of my teeth. I chewed for a second, letting the juices water the pores in my mouth, thoughtfully tasting each unique flavor and thinking, This isn't so bad, until quite suddenly a wave of foul shock washed over my every limb. I was rattled to the core, I lost feeling and my face grew numb. I touched my cheek, alarmed, and felt a rush of adrenaline as the nerves did not respond. It was a shapeless lump, and I panicked. What had I done? Were these the side effects of jalepenos? I blinked a tear out of my eye. Soon I would be mourning the loss of my sensory nerves.
Then, like a bolt of lightning, feeling returned, but it was not peaceful. Lightning had indeed struck the tip of my tongue, and my entire mouth was engulfed in flames. ...
Winter is from
Cold clouds and drizzles
A beaming sky
And summer sleep.
The warmth remains
Inside of you, filling you
And remind you how much it loves you.
Fingers trace my blade
Squeezed between my ribs
Retching up my red-hot
This will be my
At birth we won the lottery
Not simply because of our fortune
But life itself:
The wonderful blood that shivers through us
The adrenaline that shows us light when we are scared
Think, for a moment
Of the dusty nothing that surrounds us
Of the shapeless rocks that form our planets
Of the emptiness in the stars around us
At the prospect I become depressed
Our ways of life
Our books, our songs, our artwork
And our corruptible future
Is the only one, as well
There is no one better
And there is no one worse
How funny it is to think
Of the people around us
The everyday life we dare to call ordinary
(Of course) we do not realize
I remember come May my world tipped itself into a basket and scattered the contents to the Northern winds. Slowly my head froze until my heart operated without a mind, my feelings led themselves into fire and fury as a battle surged, a bloodless battle where the pain was raw and on my own two feet I was unstable. In this new world the light flooded my eyes as it blinded me. In this new world I tricked myself into loneliness, and loneliness again. It seems funny, looking back, the tendencies we have---it seems almost as if we never appreciate steadiness, normality and comfort until it is swept away from us, in this brutal time of light and heat, the dystopian simulation we dare to call summer.
I am a writer
I am a crafter
(To my eyes)
my writing tells you too much
But not at all enough.
I am a singer
I am a dancer
I will dance in the pouring rain
Until the end of time.
I am a creature
I am a self-congratualatory creature
Who has heaps of self-doubt.
I am lost and
I am found
I am somewhere in between,
And who would know where that is?
I am stuck (chained, really) to a mind
Called my own.
I wish upon the star
to see more
But that's only because
I am a human
And, like all of us
I am not alone.
They told me you were
g o n e.
Not dead. Just gone.
As though you might've been
l o s t
and no one had found you.
I knew you weren't
l o s t
because lost people
always find each other, right?
I want to say
I m i s s y o u
because that what's they all said.
But I don't
l i e
and so I'll tell you---
I d o n ' t m i s s y o u.
Does that make me bad?
y o u r f a u l t
I don't miss you?
Every part was my fault.
I just wish you were here.
I feel like you're
h e r e
Just not all the way.
Maybe that's what they
mean when they say that
g o n e.
When it hurts too much to think about,
and as I walk to the field
that smells like clover
and hickory seeds
I imagine this dirt
on which I tread
in a world
A world where there were
Things that you bump and
scratch, the wildest of
routines that would one
day loose their regularity and
just be called
In this place
and hickory seeds there is no
natural, the plainness of the sight
is a bitterly sweet thing;
sun and shade
and lots of green,
The rarest sight
for a human like me
In an urban world.
Even when there were only two of us
(and only is a sad word)
The tides would change like
The seasons, tick tock.
The times between us lengthened
Into one long stretch
A horrible line (it tasted like rot)
And it was called summer.
In the heat I buried my head
Under your soft pillow
My weight stayed there for all those days
But I think my soul had left.
I thought I felt your sillouhete
A hand upon my head
I was thankfult to you---
Of course, you weren't there.
In the cold, I gloried
The times between us shortened
Me and Joy:
My greatest companion.
The winter touched my lips
I was home.
I was awake again.
Those times between us----
(how did it go?)
Well, we forgot.
every move hurt
every glimpse was skeletal
every mirror meant more pain
every day she was a murderer
every day she died again
Step into the sun, the day is beautiful. Lift your chin up high.
When night should fall, bury yourself with sadness until the light gets in.
Only evil things glory when the sun goes down.
Close your eyes to the night.
Because your voice will never be heard.
He was small for his size. I could see that before I reached him. He sat hunched over, as though trying not to be noticed. I could see his hands shaking where they pressed the table in front of him. I wondered why.
I sat next to him. He was probably sixteen, but he was pale and peaky. On seeing me he looked down, pushing his hands through his dirty dark hair. He had the obvious look of someone who didn't care for himself in the way he was supposed to.
No answer. I looked up at him.
"Bloody nose." He had pushed a napkin to his nostrils. I couldn't see a stain. Above the scrunched cloth, I could see his eyes peering over at me. He was really nervous. I was going to have to push.
"State your name."
"Er..." He let go of the...
Close your eyes
Sleep, dream. Wake up
Close them again.
Don't think about Them
There is no Them
because in this wonderful world,
who wouldn't be happy?
Think about Us
There's an Us, there's a you, there's a me.
Push your mouth into a smile.
Why would you be sad?
Only demons are sad.
The Pixar Theory is a fan-made theory, originally authored by Jon Negroni, that suggests that every Pixar movie is part of the same universe and that they all coexist on one giant timeline. This timeline starts with The Good Dinosaur and ends with Monsters Inc. (or Brave, depending on how you look at it). This is my summary of this amazing and interesting theory.
For the record, I did not write or edit this theory in any way, and, as I said, it is all made in reference to Jon Negroni’s genius ideas.
Also note that this theory does not include films like Zootopia, Frozen, Moana, Planes, or any Pixar content that is not defined as a feature-length film.
Forgive if I accidentally left any part of this out, as I am not a theorist myself and am purely referencing other people’s works. Mistakes do happen.
So enjoy the summary of this crazy fan...
My favorite fan theories (in order from least to greatest)
10. Tarzan is Elsa and Anna's secret brother (It's basically confirmed by the director)
9. Dory is faking her memory loss (actually I hate that one because I love Dory, but there is still a lot of evidence).
8. Andy's dad in Toy Story died because of Polio and gave Andy his old doll and Woody never knew (it's basically proven - look it up)
7. The entire Harry Potter story was made up by Harry because as an abused child he went insane and hallucinated the whole thing.
6. Felix Felicis (from Harry Potter) is a Placebo and does nothing.
5. Superheroes in The Incredibles were given their powers by the government.
4. Hans from Frozen in the human embodiment of the mirror from The Snow Queen (trust me, I'm not a big fan of Frozen, but this theory is actually amazing)
3. Panem (from The Hunger Games) is a...
Gryffindor - Always reaching for whatever instinct comes to them
Ravenclaw - Always reaching into their own thoughts
Hufflepuff - Always reaching for connections with other people
Slytherin - Always reaching toward their future ambitions
Number of current friends: 15, give or take.
Number of current best best friends: It's 0, but that makes it seem like I have no friends, which I do.
Number of past best best friends: 3 (each from a different time period)
Number of friends moved away: 5 (which is a lot more than it seems like)
Number of people that exist only in my head: 30, give or take (it depends on the exact time)
Number of tears cried: Too many to count (we were all young once)
Number of tears cried silently: A countable number, but still a big one.
Number of tragedies in my life: 0, talking on a large scale
Number of family arguments: Uncountable, but a fairly large sum
Number of family arguments bc of me: Countable, a fairly small sum
Number of bottles filled with past angers, never let out: 8. Growing more and more plentiful.
Number of times I've intervened when told not...
He lowered his eyes and was blinded by the power of beauty, his brow wrinkling in delighted disbelief as one hand reached out to stroke his hard-set curls and the other tentatively tapped the surface of the water with caressing gentleness. When his handsome mirror was distorted from his fingers, an aching pain rose in his chest, filling his lungs and smothering his airways, a suffering as such that he knew he would never let it happen again. He lost that pain by staring, unmoving, at his beautiful image, shielding it when the rain came and scolding when hands drew near, and, in doing so, almost the very moment he committed himself, he lost his life.
She opened to the front page and ripped it out of its binding because she knew there was no point in starting where everyone else did.
leafing through the crisp paper pages of an old book,
eyes straying unwillingly from the black ink
inattentively, though you wish it were not so
(eyes drifting like satellites
first this way, then that way).
seeing them laughing–––playing–––splashing–––
their mouths open, teeth flashing in the sun
jaws ajar to sky and ground
sharks, or huge whales
ready to swallow
the whole wide world
when it comes to them.
you cannot join them because you are bound
by the restraints of biology and the chains of knowledge
safe, by all means.
the ink upon the dry amber page masks you
you guard it because
it gives you something to cling onto:
what we know.
gradually, the sun sets as it always does.
the darkness is more comforting,
the light is more visible.
(not to them).
they are gone now from this location
off to do something else.
you are sad.
they do not understand the opportunity they have wasted. ...
Sitting on the hillside and really doing nothing;
Maybe playing chopsticks or reading a sad book
Or maybe just sitting there and watching
The inky ants cross through the cracked, dirt-laiden trails.
All around, the sky was topaz blue.
The scenery was puckered into hills, great grassy curls
Like the ground grabbed the sky
And forced it into crumpled waves.
A tear dripped down the soap-smooth cheeks
And onto the nothing in front of you–––
It fell four thousand miles from you and
Seared quickly to nothing as it burned with the fire from the Earth's hard core.
When the world exploded, you really did nothing–––
Maybe just watching or waiting
Or crying bitter tears until it all ended, because it was easy.
The helplessness surrounded you and you welcomed it with open arms and the warmest heart.
God forbid that one day we set foot on the grassy hill
That we watch the sky as you watched it and...
Yesterday I reached a total of 100 followers on this site! Thanks so much guys! 100 is honestly a crazy number and I wish you all the best in life :D !!!
-RainAndSonder, who is a really great friend in real life as well as a constant supporter of my writing.
-Everyone who has left helpful comments/reviews, including Gabriel Goodwin, Kaitlyn, RainAndSonder, Surly Wombat, LyraLynne, Elizabeth Bennet, Tally, camlily, and Fidgetsally, as well as many others.
-All of you guys for following and liking my work (it means the world to me) and keeping me entertained with your own published writing.
Tasting the night sky is like eating a firework-–-it explodes and splashes around you the more and more you try to digest it.
Snow never falls from the white cotton clouds–––
It drifts seamlessly from much grayer crowds
Splashing, dotting like rain;
White flecks finer than grain
So endlessly perfect, heavens allowed.
In the summertime, my life was this---
Saltwater pools and diving boards
Flower pots and dirty hosepipes
Flavor drinks and spray cans
Away from home for weeks on end
Waking up sweaty from the sunlit windows
Odd dreams and repeated playlists
Day camps and guitar lessons (both nightmarish)
Sun-filled days and constant emptiness
September hit and it all made sense again.
It hurt me to think
That things would be okay because
Of the constant fear
That they wouldn't be and they wouldn't be.
And during the summer days when
The heat beat my back like a bloody stick
And the sparks spread with the forest fires;
Caught in my eyes till I saw blindly and
Set the world aflame.
And during the lost days when
You were gone and I was scared
And reasoning drove me out of my mind
And the sparks were there and they
Got me nowhere, because who can
breathe when the world's on fire?
And during the stormy days when
My joy turned to fear and
Maybe it was all an illusion
But who could tell after all when
all around the world's engulfed
And your eyes are still filled
With those fiery sparks from the summer?
Do not close your bone-tired eyes, not for the last time–––
Do not rest your weary head on the felt-soft pillow
Do not slip away from trouble, into never-ending solace.
Be not stifled by the sun;
Just let the sun stifle you.
Do not let your loss become you–––
Do not cease to be alone
Do not look for the glowing angel, because she is enlightened
Be not stifled by the angel;
Just let the angel stifle you.
Do not let the winter come around, because winter is comforting---
Do not sense the taste of summer, dying embers on your lips
Do not slip away from hardship, because it's always here with you.
Be not stifled by it all;
Just let it all stifle you.
When I was tired, they hit me–––
Razor-sharp knives that
Chewed through my bones and
Gnawed out my eyes and
Bled through my scabs
Till nothing was left
When I was lonely, they fed me–––
Razor-sharp knives that
Burned out my lungs and
Stabbed through my chest and
Filled me with lead
Till nothing was left
When I was saddened, they used me–--
Razor-sharp knives that
Flamed up my heart and
Bit through my fear and
Ate out my hope
Till nothing was left except
I'm the person who cares too much about a whole lot of things
I'm the person who doesn't care enough about even more things
I'm the person who named every plant in my garden because they felt like friends
I'm the person who walked across the jagged rocks in bare feet because I was too lazy to put on shoes
I'm the person who failed at math class every time because it felt satisfying
I'm the person who sorrows over the small things
I'm the person who wished that pain had a larger vent
I'm the person with too many friends and not enough close friends
I'm the person who's constantly lost in a really good song
I'm the person who wants to run and scream in the pouring rain just because it's fun.
Please, hear me, hear me when they kill me,
When they drag my body past the ditch
And smear mud across my face;
Hear me when they take me into dank closet corners
Where we used to dream of stories untold, we were unknowing
Of the oozing blood that stretched the walls;
Please hear me when I die, when someone does
Hear the strangle and the cry, and not just one but both;
Hear me the world ends and everything is lost
And tell me from the other side––-
Somehow, through the rubble
When you found it all again
And you'll at last be ready to hear.
There are two worlds in existence, and they are nondescript–––black and white and no grey. Where their boundaries join, there is still no grey. Instead, there's green.
To forward generations---
When we think of the future, we think of a destructive time: pollution has reached a breaking point, exotic species are extinct, our lands are ruined and shredded from remains of nuclear war. We think of injustice, we think of intelligence turning to arrogance, we think of untrustworthy machines with brains of their own that humanize themselves into population.
It's possible. Of course, it's all possible.
But I have hopes. A lot of hopes. For if we look at the past, a hundred years back, it is almost nearly safe to assume the opposite of what we see for a hundred years in the future.
If we go to the past, back to 1918, things were very different. For example, in the United States, women were not allowed to vote. We had racial segregation–––we were barely twenty years away from Plessy v. Ferguson, the case that declared "Separate...
Wake up. First thought-------
School. Get lost, don't lose yourself.
Stressed, but not too stressed.
Too much YouTube.
The halls were lit by widely spaced fluorescent lights
Sharp contrast to the sky outside;
The gathering gloom that was once to me so cozy.
The chairs were tucked neatly into their pockets,
Desks, the strewn pencils dropped lazily onto the floor.
These rooms were dark, windows of dormancy.
Happily it was that we ran, that we stomped
Playfully, wildly, seekers and taggers and gamers each.
The memories are faded, and they are priceless.
On the playground, we were countless beasts––-
Cats one day, wolves the next,
The underside of the metal slides protected as a cave and a shelter.
In elementary school, it was back to the classrooms for work:
Addition and subtraction were long-dreaded entities,
Numbers pulled from the minds of the most deceitful.
Later on, it was slopes that bothered us
Forgotten volumes of shapes unheard.
Holding our breath till the clock ticked to snack, then lunch, then dismissal.
Every day of the week was ticked off a...
Maybe we all just live in a blue word, an ocean world,
Our tears, the salty bitterness,
Whispered lies that fall into the eyes of those who wander.
Maybe our voices are submerged by the timely rhythm of the
Crashing waves ashore–––
Swishing and falling until the end of time.
Maybe our world whirls like water around us and we are kept in the loop
By those who love us, and maybe in this magic prison
Deep and heartfelt, there's something golden.
I don't know much about life---
What it is or why it is: about its game, its everything, for even those who bear the most wit of everyone bang their head against the edge of a table and mutter constantly to themselves,
Eagerly I waited in the darkest of times, my hands folded neatly behind me, waiting for the light to come through–––
Eagerly I watched as the Sun chose us, one by one–––
–––as it picked up its children and shoved them onto the shoulders of opportunity–––
Dismally it was when I realized that it was not my turn. Dismally when I realized it would never be. Dismally and eagerly when it was that I would have to make my own shoulder, craftily and with difficulty and out of sheer spite.
It was over, she knew, with the sky––it had been clear once, and bright beams of sunshine had cast their hope into places of shadow. Now...now the same beams were pushed aside. The mist, the fog, the untimely doom–––well, it was all with the sky.
She sighed, tipping her head to the table, flaking chunks of wood off of her coffee stirrer with the hard of her finger. The espresso was abandoned on the table in front of her. She sighed a great gust of air–––"Aye..." Like pirate's speak, something indistinguishable.
She had never shared feelings with anyone (well, unless when the sky was clear), never vocalized her doubt. The small word uttered, the sigh–––it was always a comfort to her, giving even the smallest voice to a world of worry.
"Please," someone said.
She looked up suddenly, and standing before her was a girl, smaller, but around the same...
The sailor tumbles helplessly to sea as the sky turns unevenly to dust-colored smog.
It was April that Ma locked the trunk, stuck her boots down the snowy slope and decided to send me away. And April in North Canada en't nothing special––the scenery all in white and brown, the scents unchanged but for the frozen honey and the smell of dead roses crushed to bits to make liquor, trailing from Ma's basement in the dead cold of winter. I was happy as I'd ever been, the long treks from the Robinsons to the Baileys and back again, heaving itchy sacks of coarse cotton flour to the space between the doormat and the boxes where the rotten apple pies used to dry away. But, as it had always been, Ma had the control over everything––-over me, over the estate, over the dollar-paying summer jobs that made my hair crawl with lice in the summer. She had the prosperous authority that was so handy to her in the worst of ways, and she had those...
I stand today not as a feminist, an anti-racist, nor as an LGBTQ-ist (if there is such a thing), but simply as a humanist. And I love the term humanist, because it is a great umbrella-––a shelter for all humankind, a refuge for everyone, any person, whether hateful, good, or underestimated.
Not one singular group deserves more attention than the other; one crowd should not be raised more than its fellow, advocated more fiercely for, or set as a normative default for competence level. We are all humans, and humans have several flaws––unknowing assumptions, several people set lower in society. Such is inexplicable and unavoidable.
And perhaps we're not all as different as we think. Perhaps we all hold a little fear in our hearts, of difference, of a challenger who brings a supposed bliss into otherworldly perspective. Perhaps, even in an individual utopia, there are those somewhere in the world who are being beaten, bullied, and...
The bird twitches, quivers unceremoniously on the spot, ducks, and launches into the crisp air quite suddenly, like a small dart weaving between atmospheres with a thick, sharp point.
They didn't move as one, but as many. The avenue was crowded, closed down, teeming with people. Steam flew into the air, issued out of the mouths of the loudest people. In the sky, the smoking tendrils tentatively touched their components, their fellows and rivals; they swarmed like bees, they exploded midair in showers of sparks. The people began to move, marching, a rhythm, a loud conga drum. A display, like music––the dancers moving forward, and the musicians. One rhythm but many singers––words filled the air, the feet moved all at different times, and yet, strangely, it was a movement together.
On the weekends I'd give myself an hour more
to sleep peacefully in the breaking dawn (the sky's yellow yolks coming into bloom).
And when I'd wake, the sun would come streaming like milk,
filling me with something golden, like light,
covering me in nature's blanket.
It started with one, twirling to lessen, dying at first touch
instinctively following its cycle, softening to dew and warning
days of rain to come.
Yet one is never enough. In the blink of an instant,
the heartbeat of the inexplicable moment, a wave rises,
a tantrum unfurls---the war of color as it
strains and dies.
At birth, we are stretched across a canvas
Our fingers bloodied with the poisoned paint;
There's a mark, here and there
Something significant, like a splash of green.
And the years pass, and the sun sets and then it dies,
And every day with a new color:
The slackers, the thrivers, and things just right.
But in the end, it's not what's there;
It's the spaces in between.
This is what I know;
And when the gentle tick of raindrops on
the window ends,
And when the waste turns to lumps turns to heaps turns to monsters;
just know, it was always meant to happen.
It's the trees–– they stand so pridefully and root themselves willingly, despite everything.
One fresh March maybe five years ago, we paraded around in the already-sticky weather, licking ice cream sandwiches and talking gaily about matters only relevant to second graders. We were close, clique-y, and extremely imaginative, for better or worse. We had an array of odd games––one day, we were part of a wolf pack; the next day we were warrior cats, and the day after that we were stray dogs that performed at rock concerts and lived in large houses.
That day we came across a bird, a small robin, with its feathers all rumpled and its posture twisted funny, and that made us curious. Was it injured, or was it just extraordinarily friendly, for when we approached it, it did nothing but hop on a weak ankle and moan softly.
It was, on the whole, a little scary, so exciting as it was to be friends with birds, we strode back around the...
Street lights blink like cat's eyes, weaving
a world in and out of sharper focus,
and the dim space between.
"No, a brutal triple murder by the bridegroom's mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding." -Ron Weasley
"Have a biscuit, Potter." -Minerva McGonagall
"Well, you can't break an unbreakable vow." -Ron Weasley
"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure." -Albus Dumbledore
"It unscrews the other way." -Minerva McGonagall
"Are you quite sure you wouldn't like a cough drop, Delores?" -Minerva McGonagall
"Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn't know Dumbledore?" -Arabella Figg
"We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter's the one, and Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!" -Peeves
In January, light is dark
and the stars twinkle overhead--a little too brightly,
in their glory. I can see this clearly, lying blankly between the sheets,
face pressed, towards the window;
The snow not yet melted, clumped in watery heaps on the rooftops,
near the chimney and the heating vents.
The air still tastes of smoke, and despicable things;
and if you stick your head into the freezing air,
you'll taste the ice--imprisoned flecks of dirt,
water without its wander,
as it stirs its way down your throat.
May we all shift a little--
just a little, not too much--
for when the biting cold December
turns in an instant to January's frost,
some will pledge unreality,
in the comic year to come:
'May I be not me, but something else,
my staple gun or a lovely plant pot?'
Be not so; the cold twists you away
and morphs you
fills you with fantastic daydreams--nightmares--
and when summer comes
again you're in the same spot as one turn ago--
and nearly dead with the thought of it.
There is ivy that creeps up my
oak wooden doorframe,
something like mistletoe
that keeps me wondering.
Forty miles from this city,
the ivy's twice as much,
but here in its heart,
lively and beating,
that ivy's still the same.
I am a raincloud;
I feel only wind and rain,
countless men who have bowed
to the heavens above me.
Their stares circle past me,
past the wind and the rain,
if life were a lime tree,
I am the mother of its seed.
And the men who have bowed
break my heart more than
Mother Earth would allow;
For without me you are nothing.
What if we all just wore masks over our faces, the exact same color every time? What if we were all the same height, and all had the same abilities, and everybody looked just the same? What if when we talked to each other physical appearance and physical ability and tone of voice didn't matter?
What if two people got really close, and they had masks over their face the whole time.
If the masks weren't there, would they treat each other the same?
Smoky billowing wisps that clear the sky of
its azure tendencies, the clouds
are all over, all over the city,
all over the country,
and even the trees are moaning.
She tore through the uneven grasses as though a herd
were charging with her, her eyes gleeful
wild, free, the same
sparked shade as her
His face was just an inkling
in his shaggy mess of a beard and of a man,
And his coffee that he drank every
morning when the sun was a new beam
wasn't real coffee;
it co-existed in no existance with him.
The man leaned forward broadly, the waxy hollows beneath his eyes glistening ominously in the oily light. The bristly stubble on the scars of his chin had not had time to grow into evenness; he was in form rather uneven. One leg just an inch past his other foot, and he walked with a cane; one rust-colored iris and one faintly black pupil twitched at every so often, just enough to contrast with its other, and so he blinked agitatedly, winking sometimes at the stained brown coffee table that he stared at so often. He paused in his regular routines just often enough to be extraordinary, his rusty eyes fixed in some long -gone concentration. And then it was gone, and he stirred discontentedly at the chipped wooden coffee cup just to the right of the spoon.
A lone sailboat crossing an ocean of many an azure wave,
The salt-stained water tainted crimson with the setting sun's disease;
White sails flashing like teeth, but dirty in their joints;
And a lone sailor equally crimson with a paler complexion
Watching gently with the waves as the sea never ends.
A snowflake rocking back and forth, falling
wispily like haze, barely nothing in the cloudy skies.
And so winter moves ever forward,
twirling solos and barely nothing in the whole,
just like its snowflakes.
O'er the mountains and the hard rock formations,
He took me there once when things were happier
And the birds sang and the stones were crimson with the glowing sunset.
And now no mankind shall step foot;
The rocks are crimson with sun's tears.
In a small town shaded by many a willow, tattered and tainted by the unpleasant raggedness of the scene, where the sunlight was the best light affordable and the moonlight was barely enough, there was a distress among the people. They moved about so happily they should have been carefree, but such a gift as to be unworried was too good a fortune. They smiled, they laughed, they waved, their throats perhaps stricken slightly by fever or hoarse from the shouts of the market. Yet there was always a crease between their eyes, sometimes small, sometimes not, a small dent in the oily skin that showed more than anything else that things were not entirely carefree. Not as they should be.
The people were in some distress at the moment, lots of them, all at once, because when one screams and it rings and echoes through the air things are never at peace. And so it was that...
Somehow it's easy to imagine a world where everyone, everything is at peace
People wish for it and throw hopeful seeds in the air
Stick a silly label on it and call it World Peace.
The truth is we're scattered by our ignorance
By our belief that we're right and they're wrong and they've got to change
By our terrible ideas that bind the book of politics,
Our tiny little boxes, categories everyone is fitted into with a place and a purpose.
So maybe it shouldn't be so easy to think of World Peace, for it is wonderful
And it deceives us, it dashes our hopes against hard and cruel edges.
And it could never happen, for the tension in the air
The bitter feelings we taste as we breath, the terrible sickness, our downfall and our terrible wishes
Will never go away, and World Peace is a silly hope, a child's dream.
Her presence was like ice. I could sense it in her. Her cold, sharp eyes were the icicles, and her large feet and strong knees were the ice skates, gliding back and forth. She almost moved to the rhythm of skating.
The place felt different now, unknown and faceless. The streets were paved with grime. The stench of cigarette smoke clung to the air. The sky itself had turned a downcast, hazy shade of gray. The buildings were little better. Every one of them was decrepit, and looked as though it hadn't been used for a few decades. One storefront held items that must have once been lively and colorful, but now matched perfectly with the surroundings: a squashed rubber duck, crumpled to a heap; a chipped teacup with the handle missing; a worn hat whose silk had all torn off. Robbie walked up and down the streets, his face bent, kicking hard at a dislodged pebble. It was as though he had been there a century ago, when the sky was still bright and the shops were full of lively activity. He sat down, his hands scraping against the slabbed ragged sidewalk. His very weight seemed to make it sag...
We are not humans, and we are one. Our brains think as one. Our brains do connect to other brains and correlate in most odd ways. Our minds are odd shapes in the darkness of thought, because thought is nothing. We know this as one. Our minds are connected by a thick strand like a telescope, and we can see everything. We can prod. We can try to correct, and we can see directly into one another and know and think.
Our spirits are braided, and we know this as one. We have no braids but if we did our spirits would be braided.
We are mischievous creatures. Our very existence proves our tendency to defy the unspoken rules. We collect the rules. We put them in a basket, and we sling the basket high in the air, and we let the rules fall and fall forever.
And there’s a story, too. There’s always a story.
The night was beautiful. The frame fitted waves of indigo tundra, speckled by tiny golden stars. The air was sweetly scented, like perfume, but not perfume, and he stood here breathing it in hard through his nose as small tears rolled down his cheeks.
He sobbed bitterly, some mixture of snot and bile filling his throat and subsiding again, his aspects gurgling, bubbling like a stream. A soft stream, whose gentle rushing was almost like music.
And music did play loudly, distantly, the blaring sounds coming from far off, the tune dazzlingly familiar, and yet, the tune was nowhere. The rhythm of his heartbeat was almost like percussion, a base conga in a symphony of pieced-together sounds, and the sleepy sparrows sang the melody, the night owl hooted a harmony. Subconsciously.
And the boy stopped crying, though tears gushed from his eyes. His burnt blackened hair was askew and his eyes were red and...
I have a task. I'm almost upstairs, on the second to last step, covered in the center by a carpet and otherwise very dusty (I've found dead bugs before), and my cat runs into me. The silly devil. Not my squeaky, soft cat whose presence seems rather like a sticky spoon of honey, but the other one, with the crazy mind and the big belly and the head that's a little too small. The fur that's gray––though lots call it brown, and that's just wrong. She's my cat, so she has gray fur.
She's the sweet one. Not sticky, honey-sweet like the other one, but the mumbling, rumbling, cute one whose presence is subtle except when she's in a bad mood. Then, of course, everyone notices her. People are idiots, sometimes.
I rub her belly, and she purrs. Her purr sounds like the country twang of a banjo, though my sister disagrees. Her whiskers match, stiff...
The boy's name was Abram. A fool's name. He was slightly tall for his mind, which was very short by normal standards, and had a lot of copper-colored hair that extended past his hairline and into his temples and chin. His was a very weak chin.
Funny to think of temples, and their dual meaning. He slapped the flat sides of his forehead as he thought of them, but he also stood beside a temple, a very abandoned, very crumbled structure, of some ancient religion Abram knew not. He was a very stupid boy.
Presently he stepped inside, out of curiosity and merely for the ignorance of it. Well, he wasn't rightly curious, because "curious" was a term of eagerness and intelligence, and Abram had only the former.
He was standing beside someone, too. Someone barely one foot away, but he decided not to comment. His da said, while he was still living, that...
a cold lump stuck in
your throat, whippoorwill,
whippoorwill, whippoorwill–– Flying now, you're heart's
a dove, whippoorwill, if your throat
can bear it.
Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whipporwill.
See a crow over yonder,
the clear voice nags at you
Perfect and distinct and full of
Blurry now, wings spread over,
and a caw, if you're generous.
Quietly you chirped, as though
your jaw opening and closing
like a window showing your great
When it wasn't right
Much to your dismay.
You hated the feel of the eraser shavings on your
He was stiff and tall and rather like one of the old, dusty boards in the attic. His skin was pale copper, his eyes much darker, and there was an aura of unpleasantness about him.
I started the conversation, because the only way to know people is to talk to them, obviously. "Well, how do you do? Welcome! We've been expecting you, of course. You're right on time. Could I take your coat, Mr.--?" Here I paused. It said on the page somewhere what his name was, but it was all blurry now.
"Goldburg. Gary Goldburg," he said, then added, "The second." He paused at every fragment, breathing in hard from his nostrils. The fiery end of his cigar was sticking out of his clenched fist. His crooked knuckles were coated in ash. "And yes. You can."
Slightly surprised, I took his coat, a thick, fur one that was about the same shade and...
When it hurts too much to think about,
and as I walk to the field
that smells like clover
and hickory seeds
I imagine this dirt
on which I tread
in a world
A world where there were
Things that you bump and
scratch, the wildest of
routines that would one
day loose their regularity and
just be called
In this place
and hickory seeds there is no
natural, the plainness of the sight
is a bitterly sweet thing;
sun and shade
and lots of green,
a rare sight.
The two girls approached home, eagerly and reluctantly, their schoolbags slung heavily over their shoulders and their faces aglow with the prospect of a fresh autumn.
Behind them, the cement sidewalks were paved with aged rose petals, crimson leaves, browned ferns, and dirt generated healthily from hundreds of shoe prints. The sky was a wonderfully dull shade of azure-grey, the temperature hovering around sixty degrees, so that the girls hugged the sleeves of their loose cotton jackets to their arms.
Adeline was the older of the two, though she was shorter than Rosie, but she walked with the regality of one much more knowledgable in life's aspects. She carried her stack of books neatly, under her arm, though the weight of the load seemed to be bothering her. Rosie's face was eager, her awkwardly-cut features full of curiosity and relish for the surroundings. Her schoolbooks were hugged to her chest sloppily, and occasionally she...
This is an article entirely devoted to Harry Potter. If you have not read Harry Potter, please do not continue to read.
The Hogwarts Houses, created by JK Rowling, are a fun and creative way to categorize your personality freely, and share a sense of community and belonging with those similar to you. However, in my opinion, many of the original Houses are recategorized into less realistic concepts. For example, Slytherin, the House which supposedly carried more dark witches and wizards than any other, is often judged by its tendency to carry Death Eaters. However, this Muggle world in which we live is, no doubt, extremely different from the invented Wizarding World that takes place in the Harry Potter series. I have no doubt that there are people as horrible as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and as astonishingly brave as Harry Potter, but the simple fact is that our world is less chaotic than the Wizarding one. People like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Harry...
On the last day of the world, I would run a mile
Run a mile
Everything, as far as the land goes
I would run around the world
And then do it
In the opposite direction.
On the last day of the world, I would plant a tree
Plant a tree
A new abundance
Of rare specimens
I would plant a million trees
And a million more,
And water them
three times more.
On the last day of the world, I would have a wish
Have a wish
If the world should end,
We should all be happy
In our resting place
And in our spirits
Run halfway around the galaxy,
And then the other halfway
Until we were
Runners at heart.
I had never tasted anything quite like it before. My tongue was on fire; no, my entire mouth was on fire. Each flame sent sparks flying, each spark manifested itself deep into my taste buds and began to burn some more. I could barely breath. I seized a cup of water, the ice sliding against my burning lips, and felt a moment of relaxation. I put the glass down again, and again it began to flame up. Huge, great flames. The whole universe must be feeling it.
"Are jalepenos always this bad?" I coughed, spluttering through chunks of ice as I again raised the glass to my lips.
"Jalepenos?" Jack looked at me like I was crazy. "Dude, that's sourdough!"
She was a crooked figure, bent by age or perhaps something more sinister. The corners of her mouth were drawn tight, though wrinkles had loosened most of her stern face. Only her eyes remained hard. She sat now, a ragged, patched sweater drawn over her skeleton-like body, a once strong figure that now looked so wispy and unstable a gust of wind might have blown her off of her perch of the stone steps of the library. To every person that passed, she muttered only one word: "Bless," as though she were trying to say "God bless you," the way a kindly person might, but couldn't quite get all the words out. Even she wasn't sure why she was bothering; she didn't want the strangers' money, or sympathy, or anything. She did not have a home, it was true (well, unless you counted the library), but she did not want anything to do with the few bits of metal...
Fire seems only to spread, and never to die.
Perhaps someday the entire world will be engulfed in great crimson tongues. Greedy tongues, that can only gobble things down and throw ash back up.
Perhaps the entire thing started with one matchstick, that was struck and spread and never died.