The moment Marcus Ramos was kissed by his best friend was a weird one. It was raining. He remembered that much as a myriad of drops tumbled from verandas and drowned the insects that cluttered storm drains. Their jackets were soaked, his was one of those overpriced Canada Goose ones he had reluctantly taken as a gift from his mother. He wasn’t one for the high end crap, but he had to admit, it was pretty nice.
Hers was a jean jacket, the cuffs frayed from getting snagged on petty things like door handles, a few buttons had fallen off from unconscious fiddling. The jangling of buttons, plagued with the names of bands and organizations she had found whilst sifting through the ten cent bins at the counter of Second Time Around.
Her name was Aphrodite, the girl who batted her eyelashes at the jocks at school, dragging their attention down the halls with her. When the night swept her...
i rest in the seas of tranquility, smattered with
the golds of Buddha
of which i am
most likely unworthy
the sea sometimes
jagged points splay out upon my
people are the points
smooth as mahogany
bright as marble
are the ones that are gone
they are the nubby rocks
that seagulls use
serves them right
i linger in between
half finished bottles of manzana
laid out on the porch
our cheap five below sandals
slap against the pavement
as we try to battle the freckles
the sun inflicts upon us
my world is not balanced
it winds and curls and stops and goes
but it is monie, formed
from the dirt specked hands
jellyfish are fragile creatures, we all know this. underneath the thin facade of a cap they wear, their innerworkings glow, pumping with the intent to live, to swim, to kill.
we don't think of the subtext behind the water filled screens we watch, filmed with high-definition cameras. no one pays enough attention. so it's a waste. but if you dare to look, you will see them twirl in the throws of eclecticism.
that's what Aphrodite Rainsford saw, at least. through the silky blue, she saw the skirts of prima ballerina's splaying out in airy disks, their tentacles swirled loosley like the silk wrappings of slippers. how she longed to feel that way again, barely holding on to the threads that cradled her past.
"aphro.." his voice chinked the side of her head.
the singular word she spoke clattered to the floor like lead.
a gentle sigh, tinged with the murky brown color of repitition. either way,...
my piece de resistance
is not mine at all
it is your smile, oozing white
through full mango lips.
my irises melt into
supple pools of stumbling words
no one understands
except for the floor that holds the ticking
rotted and old, veins crumble
for it is not a heart of gold
but one of black
have you heard of such a
as wide as the fleeting vallies
that i long to lay in
vines-gaea's motherly grasp
envvelope me in warmth
i do not see the
clouds that linger sweetly
like a baby's breath
but instead your
for i cannot fathom your beauty
the bond held together
blossomed by the young
the world shifts with a crumbling frown
as we fight to pen
the words we hold dear
what happened, here on write the world?
it's a barren wasteland.
the world in which I want to live
has houses made of stucco
and pink glass bottles that once held
hang from ropes of twine
their spouts spring voices of
deep and exotic
see little carla
run down the path to my grandmother's home
"abuela, donde esta muhercita blanca?"
abuela's eyes crinkle with age
and she points inside to me
"isabella is in there, mija."
I smile and look down at my freckled legs
dimpled from the rendezvous that the sun and i
the sun won
carla hangs on my arm, and traces my freckles
"the sun kissed you a lot,"
i nod and smile
"the sun likes irish people."
should I finish something that no one reads?
seems to be beside the point.
of the lying game?
tell them lies
and suck back sympathy
wait for the people to realize
what you have done?
and still you don't run?
are you mad?
it goes tick tock tick
like a game of russian roulette
chink of the barrel
feel the riveting crack of
spill on the ground
why did you do it?
tell me why
before it all goes to waste
Catacomb Echos is a versatile contemporary band that plays a mix of soft rock with a tinge of heavy metal. They pay homage to bands like Pearl Jam and Bob Dylan
Their name is supposed to reference the catacombs in France, made of the bodies of the deceased. Echos are supposed to be a reference to the spirits that still roam the dimly lit streets, searching for a purpose
A "Write the World" Amino.
FIVE LITTLE WORDS.
Put your comments down below, please.
There is nothing more fascinating and as scary as a child. Knowing that it has your feature seeped deep within them, maybe your best, or more likely your worst, can be both horrifying and gravitating. So many unknowns are confirmed and undone, and it all lies within a baby.
"Good mornin', sugarpie." Twenty-one year old Adonis Rainsford padded over to his daughter's crib, which had been hastily shoved in the corner of the one room they shared together, to try and squeeze the abundance of baby things he had been given by relatives, who claimed that "they would be useful for later." What would've been useful was money, but none of that was forked over, not even a penny. Living in New York City was just a life of bills piled up on the kitchen, some skimmed through, some unopened. It was just a part of life, a tale so old, it was as worn and frayed as “The Godfather...
"You have handicapped powers." The fat girl points at me with a sausage fingers. She's going to die one day if she doesn't lose weight. The fact that fourth grade me thought of such a thing is still kinda horrific, not really. I just cried, could I help that I walked with a limp? Uh, hello, no.
I hate the person that I am sometimes.
But that's okay, because I'm not a narcissist, and don't plan on becoming one.
I used to pretend I was a soldier, brazen from war. I had a reason to be broken that way.
"She doesn't want to even see him?" Adonis gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, grimacing at the thought of his daughter, sweet, kind being so impudent and rude.
"She refused to hold him, let alone breastfeed." Jack stood over the sleeping child, thinly veined eyelids fluttered. His face was round and pink, stained from his birth. His eyebrowns were thin, but dark as ebony. His curls popped out from under the cap he wore, smattered with graphics of cartoon ducks. "He hasn't even been named."
Adonis' withered, chipped fingernails traced the child's cheek. "Hermes," He mumbled. "That's your name, little guy. You're the messenger." His voice rumbled, and out of his mouth spilled heartache.
"Can I ask you something?" John felt a smile creep up on his lip as he watched their bond form, the knot of life being tied right before his eyes. "What is with the god names, y'know?"
"I don't know. My dad just...
This couldn’t happen. This couldn’t happen.
But it did.
John stood in the dim bathroom light courtesy of the cheap rent he and Adonis could afford to pay. The light reflected on the pregnancy test he held, showing off two intersecting lines.
He knew something was wrong, he had been nauseous the day before, moody and reluctant to do much. This was the answer.
A baby. A tiny little baby was growing in his uterus. A thought he had once deemed as unimaginable.
”Jack, baby, what’s wrong?” Adonis’ heavy footsteps grew louder as time went on.
He couldn’t move his hands. The shock was taking over.
”Adonis.” He coughed. “I wasn’t feeling good.”
Adonis smirked, wrapping a strong, chiseled bicep around his partner’s waist. John tried to pull away, but he knew it was a fruitless idea. “What’s..” his smirk faded once he saw the test. “You’re pregnant?”
john everton-rainsford hated to see people get hurt. when he worked endless shifts in the e.r., he cringed to hear children cry as their wounds had to be stitched up, courtesy of the bullies on the soccer field. he looked away when he saw deadbeat drunks file in one after the other, each one of them stumbling to find a basin to vomit in. he couldn’t bear to see pain, but beheld it anyways.
it was different when it came to his family, so much different. it was the thought of losing them that scared him, indefinitely. we all know that death is inevitable, we just push it to the outer-reaches of our heads, hoping that the slender hands of memory will engulf it.
when john saw tiff laying in that puddle of ruby red, he struggled to fight the urge to scream, halfheartedly swallowing down sobs.
she wasn’t moving
her eyes were closed
her face was placid, free of...
"why do we have to go?"
the emerald blurs of trees as we passed by the millions of white dots that illuminated the sky, or so it seemed. they always followed and lit the path that we followed home. or what my parents thought i would eventually call home. washington was my real home. i melded in with the drab curtain of clouds, sets of eyes that belonged to people. but eyes were all that was needed to tell everything about a person; they were pools to the known, and the abyss of what wasn't supposed to pass by one's lips. i find being able to read a person isn't a superpower. it's a normal thing, just it's that some people are too lazy to try it. or maybe they don't want to. beats me.
reading my own parents is a different story. i can't seem to connect the dots just through looking at the colorful pools in the whites...
dance la conga little girl
to the beat of barren sidewalks
up to your father's bodega
see the man in the red shirt and
verses hold you
as he moonwalks in his keds
looking f l y.
Part Seven: F-E-E-L
"she could be pregnant, jackie." adonis was curled up in a molded waiting room chair that the clinic provided. his figure, chisled in stone had crumbled to stardust. "she could have a baby inside her and she may not even know?"
jack didn't answer. locked in his own little world. his mellow green gaze was fixed on the walls, the mini earthquakes in the paint cheaply smattered on the wall. this was his home away from home. or it could be called a shack. whatever made him feel more important in the moment.
"jackie?" adonis said sweetly, pressing a hand to his partner's shoulder. "are you alright?"
the trigger words are chinked with iron
watch his aura cower
and the rage
"she was coughing up blood, adonis. red, raw blood." words slithered out through the pearl gates of teeth, wrapping their way around the god's throat. "i'm not okay."
silence, let it flow blue ...
Part Seven: P-O-E-T
run your mouth
and get punched
you crazy child
in the streets of vienna
find your niche amongst
and secondhand smoke.
"i can't believe you," john wrinkled his nose at the cigarette set between adonis' slender fingers. three rings of smoke, each one smaller than the last. "you were supposed to pick her up at nine. i got to the hospital at twelve."
"she lost her virgintiy to a jock. so what?" adonis' cherry-blossom-petal lips wilted into a frown. "she's a pretty girl."
fists curled into
knock the ignorance right
out of his head
and scream words of sense.
"all she's done since we got home is nothing. just curled up in bed. you haven't even offered to help me comfort her?" john sucked in a sharp breath, trying to level out the words that threatened to spill from the retches of his soul.
let him be
fill his lungs with vile...
do you see the leader in the blue mask
the one who wields the balance
of honor, the one who holds clods of the fallen between his fingers
weathered and green
he is the one with focused vision
blurring out the enemy to focus on his
Part Six: T-I-M-E
"you see that guy?" ricky martinson gestured to the teen that was leaned up against the brick wall. that's right, the damn thing had a title. a big fat T-H-E right in front, so people knew what it was, it served a purpose; card throwing, wall ball, all of that good stuff. there was an outlier on this particular day, and it came in the form of a tall kid, like, really tall. his clothes clung to his body, showing off the creases and bulges of muscles, lots of 'em. he had tanned olive skin, maybe he was latino or italian.
but his eyes were way off, really weird, but striking like his irises had been chisled from ice. they only had a hint of blue. i guess I really had know idea how strange and chilling they really were until his gaze was pinned on me.
"oh shit," i muttered, i felt as if my face...
buddy you're a young boy
stomp your feet
and drill the earth to the rich red soils
with your sweet innocence
Capitalize your sentences
teacher says dauntingly
rapping her ruler against the ebony top
of your desk
"the straights are at it again, read a history book"
first off, whoever wrote this on my last work was right; I didn't specify anything about my piece, but i'm going to let them slide by, because i'm actually bisexual. let me start off by saying that while i do love the musical "Hamilton" there are many inconsistencies that can be pointed out, and have been pointed out by creator lin-manuel miranda. but on this fine, fine, morning; i want to touch base on the fandoms and how the majority of people seem to dumb down ships to their own liking. it is known by pretty much all who have dove headfirst into the hamilton fandom, that "Lams" as its called is the ship between John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton. Wonderful. if you have been priveliged enough to see the show or have just listened to the soundtrack, it is clear that these two men have a bond unlike other...
LAMS IS A SHAM.
Fight me. With words.
me: *has a silent existential crisis and thinks thAT I will NEVeR BE aNythiNG BUT A LoWly rock, or maybe a clod of dirt I can only hope that a sliver of my work will become equal to that of Lin-Manuel's book of tweets? What is with people and tweeting, and also I think Lin might have an addiction I'm actually not sure-OH WaiT-HE TWEETS EVERY TWO MINUTES AND PEoPLE hoUnd him for tickets to Hamilton. Me? Famous? Nah, probably in my next life, I'll be lucky enough to be a parakeet*
Can you imagine?
My life is not a musical
The white glint of the spotlight doesn't shine on
me as I twirl into my lover's arms.
My life takes place
in a flat
My mother, the Vanessa to my father's Usnavi
takes center stage with a red pump
"Bebe, please stop reading." Her long hair whips my own short brown curls
"Why?" I peered over my glasses, her amber irises matching mine
"Wear a little bit of makeup, mi amor," Her fake nails pierce my chin.
“Four letter words”, and what it means to me.
the characters in four letter words are based on real people and real life events; fabricated for dramatic purposes.
How do I know this?
This is my life.
I decided to annotate each chapter after I write it, like a behind the scenes type thing
Part Five: H-U-R-T
"You proposed to my daughter in the ambulance?" John O'Malley could only stare the boy that sat slumped over in the hard backed emergency room chairs, his tie draped over his neck limply. His hair stuck out at odd angles, frizzy and messy from the countless times he had run his fingers through it, most probably as a way to rid himself of the nervous energy that surged through his veins. His pupils, set in pools of amber jittered back and forth as swarms of sterile nurses and doctors, rank with the smell of rubbing alcohol and other miscellaneous chemicals rushed by, their voices buzzed with medical terms and utmost unsureness.
"Yeah," Alex uttered softly, licking his dry lips, soft and pink. "I just gave her the ring, slipped it on. She said yes, but she wasn't thinkin' straight." He didn't need to say any more, it was redundant. John's gaze moved to the prom gown that...
FP: "jUGheAD, WHat is ThAt?
JugheAD: "A KniFe?"
Cheryl: "OMIGOD TAKe tHE FREakin' compliment!"
Kevin (to Joaquin): "Two dudes sittin' in a hot tub five feet apart 'cause they're not gAy"
Archie: 'Bro, I thought you were fam, but now you're just chill.'
Jughead: *shrinks back in utter disgust*
Betty (with Veronica): "THiS BiTCH eMPTY, YeeT" *PROCEEDS TO LOB VERONICA DOWN THE HALL*
Hermoine: "OH-EM-GEE cHOLesTEROL"
Toni: "fOOk uR CHICKEN StriPs"
Dylan Sprouse to Cole: "EY, DUCK, YA NO GOOD DUCK. YA JUST LIKE YA FATHAH!"
Cole: "We have the same dad, dumbass"
Part Three: M-I-S-T
Sour lips were pressed to Alex’s as he was shoved up against the slots of lockers, the sheet metal digging into his back.
“You know you want me back, Sarah. You know you do.”
Alex forced back the urge to vomit was he inhaled Tom’s breath, reeking of sour, cheap rye beer. It was only eight in the morning, Jesus Christ.
“But you’re with that girl, now, I see. She makes you pretty goddamn happy.” Tom pulled away, setting the shorter boy on the cracked linoleum floor gently, rearing his fist back for a hit. In a split second, Alex’s world burst into starts and blobs, a galaxy of pain was playing out in front of him, and the show wasn’t over.
He didn’t cry out. He took every jab and kick like it was a friend, like he was left to have a pity party with his shortcomings.
It wasn’t until Tom had stormed off that...
When you were busy
Sucking up for pity
Or more specifically
A higher pay raise
You had the Americans
The diverse group that is the
Pouring out their love
and support for you
a foul liar.
The only two things that
you say make you special
is that you are gay and on tv.
Welcome to the world sweetheart
a world where there are plenty more
Many of them are saints
While you have sullied your wings.
Part Two: H-E-A-L
“Your dad is a drag queen?” Alex turned to face Tiff in the front seat of his Volkswagen Beetle, resting his tanned arm on the upholstered vinyl console. Tiff blushed, fingering the fringe of her off the shoulder blouse. “Yeah,” It was almost a whisper, as if she were embarrassed to say any more, and she sort of was.
“Wow.” Alex breathed, breaking into his famous half grin, his eyes sparked amber for a moment. “You were like, bred in gay. Only makes sense for you to have absorbed some of that.”
Tiff felt her cheeks tinge scarlet; it was there, she knew it. “Well, I wasn’t raised any differently than anyone else.”
“You certainly have more charisma and looks than the girls that go around my school with those giant Gucci belt buckles around their waists.” He hooked her chin with the crook of finger his warm chocolate gaze met her mellow hazel one. “You’re an...
**blows noise maker agressively**
i have ONe fOllOWEr, i'm not no onE, HOORaY
Part One: D-Y-K-E
“Please don’t use that word, Blythe,” Tiffany Rainsford couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone as she glared down at her lilac Chucks, scuffed with the carnage of her high school's dingy excuse for an art program; Sharpie marks scuffed the clean white toes, understandably turned gray, and along for the ride came glitter glue, which would never come off, even with steps taken through wet grass, Tiffany had realized.
“You’re a dyke, Tiff.” Blythe Adams ran her hands through the bright red coils of her curly undercut and gave her friend a knowing side glance.
“I just told you to stop using that word.”
Blythe’s thin, reedy hand, complete with fingernails painted fire truck red attacked Tiffany’s curly bob, ruffling her hair wildly so it was less of a friendly pat and more like a noogie. “Oh, sweetie. You have to embrace the gay in you. It’s in your blood. You get to taste the rainbow...