Taizi Mae

United States

i've been here awhile

Message from Writer

i wanted to say something beautiful, but I don't know your name

Published Work

Golden Melodies

|| Golden Melodies ||


When she talks her voice drips sunrise
All the hues mix and bleed
I blame her for woe births 
Fluttering stories on her canvas
Moonlight heralds no solace
Nor do stars nor heaven lamps
Give me serenades as supernovas
Hang me by cherry stems
My addiction to drowned dandelions
Steal sole of my soul
Act your pallad art
For those crimson lips to part
For the sun to pedal its start
Alas a con indeed
Please forever be


 

The Drabble

The Sugar Man

"Just a dollop."

The bowl quaked in Grandmother's hands, at her lips. She ate, then she smiled, and she slept. The air tasted bitter. Mamma took the doctor's hands with tears in her eyes, thanked him. Doctor turned for the door, his ears stretched back.

Six days after, they carried Grandmother out her sheets. Above wet cheeks, Doctor felt Mamma's forehead. It was porridge again.

"A spoon of sugar helps the medicine go down." He left with wolf ears. The air was soil on my tongue.

"Mamma, don't eat it."

The wooden bowl clatterd her teeth.

"The sugar man came."

 

That Sort of Person

they're only made of moonlight

Eric is the guy your eyes latch on to; his lopsided dark curls, crescent smile, hands deep in pockets; you laugh (in your head) at his jokes (overheard); you notice how he misses school every other week; in the hallway, your eyes meet (blush), for a nanosecond you pretend you are pretty.

Violet was the girl you tried to shake off; she said you didn't know how to dress and Goodwill was for beggars; but she was the only person who invited you out; once she locked you in her basement, three hours, while you crouched and sobbed in the dark; she stabbed your back with pen during tests (you smile, remembering—that one wasn't C); you wish you were the one who made her disappear, but you'll never complain that she's gone.

Papa is the first drop to your pond of malaise; you were his exercise and consolement; you didn't like his rancor, how it filled the cells...

does this bring anything to mind?

It was walking at midnight in the ocean after the moon had disappeared. When the tide’s heart beat still as its wheeze is breathless. Waiting for time to resume by timing the ticks with tocks. But like a corse on the sand floor, it had passed too late and too far ago.

Insipid

you rap on my sternum
the call        plop    plops
bereft
initial me pandora's box
lacquer peels with caress
kindle iron with
    a marching chest as
lilts tase my reed bones
cicatrix heals like second breath
you know i've always been

                                            alone
amber flags my heart's knob
treading in the smoke mill
your carnal swath casts
upon a gated threshold
ingress clasped in a
propellor blade
lids long    throbs leading    limbs twist
incense pools under an open cork

lips scrubbing my skin
soil is always soil
in atom i am soiled
single?
idle to be with midnight
dark is pen to the sun
i am fountain ; you are flame
& those mottles birth still requiems

shrapnels drown a misnomered urn
compost roses    &    cherry roots
lash your maw with sand salvos
of shrieking hourglass whose
sable fangs blow flame torrents
egress flayed in futile swells
for it        for                            me
of marble blood & diamond coats
in black
         ...

Insipid

you rap on my sternum
the call        plop    plops
bereft
initial me pandora's box
delete
rekindle the iron
lilts tase my reed bones
cicatrix heals like second breath
you know i've always been

                                            alone
lips scrubbing my skin
soil is always soil
in atom i am soiled
single?
idle to be with midnight
dark is pen to the sun
i am fountain ; you are flame
& those mottles birth still requiems

thrusting latticed fingers
before filament's iris
adorning shadows with
                    
                silhouettes

a dumb         a still         a puppet
cursoring the lid's retreat
around the celadon jar

That Sort of Person

they're only made of moonlight

Eric's the kind of guy to burn birthday pancakes and make it up to you with a hundred "free-kisses" coupons.

Violet's the one friend who pulls an all-nighter for the chemistry test, then calls in sick and stays home.

Papa's the sort of man to show up early to recitals and fart sheepishly in the empty theater.

Mama's the only person who lets your wriggle into her bed on your periods, and laughs when you trip on air.

Mr. Owen's the kind of teacher to spend class telling you why he left his wife, then hands out chocoalate-chip-cookies before Christmas.

People Power!

Your Vote Is Everything

You are the people.

The power is in your fists.

The fights are yours and the choices are yours.

Without you, ballets crumble to waste.

Centuries of the oppressed cry for democracy.

Freedom dies. 

The change you crave can only come when you call its name.

Remember the faces of your children.

Why I Write

Reveries of Marble Eyes

I write to dally on sand dunes
    / where lovers kiss in the sunset / 
    / as turtles bathe on the bay /
    / and zephyrs taunt cupped seashells /

I write to coup a fit
    / where lashes shed blue gems / 
    / as fingers deluge in laughter /
    / and pebbles jarble silk veneers /

I write to wake asleep
    / where analogs shriek silently /
    / as coos embrace melting swallows /
    / and rust tastes of glacé cutlass /

I write to pour thronged chalices
    / where spirits cross ossein thresholds /
    / as ravens lay moonlit funerals /
    / and mint spoons egress odd fountains /

I write to say I am
    / where librettos snip webbed visage /
    / as irises curve for pixels /
    / and a speck...

“Heaven of Freedom”

The Past of Today is the Future

as the sun hoists the top of ice mounds
as the monarchs torrent through the breeze
as the thin children sleep voracious bellies
as the palms clasp in artful tethers
as the salvo surrenders to births of carols
as the jungle prances a bustling zoo
as we are free as they are free as the air all breathe

 

All Talk

Toujours Chérie

"Papa, I—I can't."
"Spread them."
"Then... she'll really be gone forever."
"No—don't let her fall—she'll be everywhere with us. Forever."
"But, Papa, you're crying."
"My tears are streams, chérie. Yours are rivers. We both flow into the sea."
"Papa..."
"Flutter your eyes now. Feel the sun kiss your tears. The waves lap your toes. Mama will be both."
"Forever?"
"As long as we breathe the sky."


...


"She's sailing like diamonds, Papa. Where?" 
"Feel it. Feel her."

"...Everywhere."

All Talk

Toujours Chérie

"Papa, I—I can't."
"Spread them."
"Then... she'll really be gone forever."
No—don't let her fall—she'll be everywhere with us. Forever."
"But, Papa, you're crying."
"My tears are streams, chérie. Yours are rivers. We both flow into the sea."
"Papa..."
"Flutter your eyes now. Feel the sun kiss your tears. The waves lap your toes. Mama will be both."
"Forever?"
"As long as we breathe the sky."
...
"...She's sailing like diamonds, Papa. Where?" 
"Feel it. Feel her."

"...Everywhere."

Aesthetic Phonetics for Authors & Poets

    || CLANDESTINE||
    | adj .  /  klandes tīn |


- kept secret or done secretly, especially because illicit


    || ZEPHYR ||
    | n.  /  zeˈfər |

 
- a soft gentle breeze


    || OBLIQUE ||
    | adj.  /  ōˈblēk  or  əˈblēk |


- not done in an explicit way, indirectly


    || ESOTERIC ||
    | adj.  /  esəˈterik |


- intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with specialized knowledge or interest


    || DESIDERIUM ||
    | n.  /  desəˈdirēəm |


- ardent longing or desire, especially for something lost

break

||now||

you and me / wind to shattered sand
funnel a depression / on shrieking analogs
stones down my throat / tripping off curbs
smite me / touch me / inebriate me

diamond chalices crack / drip venom through blood-stained teeth

||then||

us / dancing on tightropes
gazing through kaleidoscopes / memorizing your face
smokey cologne / waves part like kisses
stoles on melting soil / stamp mine
sun blankets / hugs / snowflake days


||after||

me /
you /
hearts coil / a snake's skin
branches shed the deceased / ink in wells
shadows spring / on the windowsill / my precipitation



 

YOU in threes

Me??? A Character???

"First I'd like to ment—"

"CUT! CUT! CUT! You can't write THAT!"

"What? You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"But I know YOU. And turbulence, Missy, is your sobriquet."

"No it isn't. My profile's literally called Taizi M"

"Ah-ah-ah! I know where this will lead. You stubborn opiniate!"

"Well, you're definitely using that word wrong. I suggesting consulting Merriam Webster before your talk."

"HA! I have no need for dictionaries; my wisdom is beyond the reach of trees and ink!"

"Okay then. How do your pronounce s-u-p-e-r-c-a-l-i-f-r-a-g-i-l-i-s-t-i-c-e-x-p-i-a-l-i-d-o-c-i-o-u-s?"

"Infant play! Supgal- er, supercafri- uh, escypalido- OHHH! My head pains me! I submit, you insolent peace-wrecker! Do as you wish!

*clears throat* "Very well then. As I was beginning to say:"

1.    Three quirks or idiosyncrasies.
  • ​Belching really loud at rand- *uurp* -om time intervals
  • I'll forget who I am and what I was doing every thirty seconds (Memento, anyone?)
  • My face twists & twitches when I'm socially...

ASK WtW (1)

Question: So say you have an already published post. You edit it to fix some grammar or add a little more flair to it or etc. Now, you go to re-publish it but all your stars and comments from before disappear. How do you publish an edited post while keeping all of your likes and comments that it received before?
 

Melody

Honey notes whisper
Pervading my ears
I sleep while awake

 

Intersection

On the Corner of Wick and Wood

On the corner of the street
Before the half-built cot
Where the greens are trimmed neat
And brick tiles bask hot

There's a crippled tall tree
Caught in the arms of black wires
Arched an aged back's plea
Leaves crying bright fires

Its sorrows are pain send
Reborn with hurt peeling bark
Of it slain sapling friend
Ill-fated too close paved mark

The gold of late arrows
Over brick roofs—copse fingers
A ghost breeze night harrows
And at dawn bricks turn harbingers

Glad to have grown, today's sad wooden feat
Serrated roars drown tweets in the air
Two stumps now; metal grinds till defeat 
Wheels drag canyons in earth & timber despair

 

Sky Dust

Cascading tiny worms
Slivered snowflakes
Floating silk seeds
Light; Weightless

Landing on my eyelashes
Camoflauge in my scalp
Piling grains to sandy ground
No breath without

Invisible sleuths fall
Yet exposed in sun
Fed by inky moons
Lusting for discreet

How sly you are


 

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Hearse

I am rocking sweet baby Virginia in my arms asteep this rocke cliff whose plateau soars mountainous into the dark heavens and showes eyes greate obscurities morphed to squinting vicinities. Behind and soe below, colonists take the likes of skittering ants as they scamper for treasured belongings, while before and even more below, the sea stretches eternal and skye. My two-good-eyes eagle into the on, and far, on, and wide, on, and distant sea of grey-blue. I don't want to assent to 'shant hither', Papa, ye words are those of disappointed folk nay not a shrivel of hope, for I have lost soe much in the wheel-turn of seasons thy navy set for stocke with nil return and my heart wishes to peice no more.

The overcast September skye appears near and reachable, and I longeth to be as God-mighty to rid the curse that smothers cold and bitter ov'r this bone-dry land wh're our trying grains reap no fill....

Unbiased Anthropology

Step

    Welcome, to this new step in your life! It's only one peg down from owning a screaming bundle and much more enjoyable. What type do you fancy? So many options, you say? Not one-hundred-percent sure, are you? No problem at all—just scour the virtual shelves for a wonderful step!
    You've been spinning that clicker for quite some time now, d—Ahh yes! That one is handsome, isn't he? And foreign too, from German those black squiggles are saying. Does he mind being shipped across the world? No worries; you want him! Just type in that pin and assassinate the order button!
    It'll take a couple of days so keep busy for now. That's right, moving screens are quite entertaining, enough to distract you for seven whole sunrises. Ding Dong! Oh goodie, he's here! Beautiful and inside silver wires just like you wanted! Freedom? Haha, pay no mind to that—he's all yours to keep!
   ...

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Hearse

I am rocking sweet baby Virginia in my arms asteep this rocke cliff whose plateau soars mountainous into the dark heavens and showes eyes greate obscurities morphed to squinting vicinities. Behind and soe below, colonists take the likes of skittering ants as they scamper for treasured belongings, while before and even more below, the sea stretches eternal and skye. My two-good-eyes eagle into the on, and far, on, and wide, on, and distant sea of grey-blue. I don't want to assent to 'shant hither', Papa, ye words are those of disappointed folk nay not a shrivel of hope, for I have lost soe much in the wheel-turn of seasons thy navy set for stocke with nil return and my heart wishes to peice no more.

The overcast September skye appears near and reachable, and I longeth to be as God-mighty to rid the curse that smothers cold and bitter ov'r this bone-dry land wh're our trying grains reap no fill....

Inventory

Amanda Brown

Name: Amanda Brown
Age: 15
City: Lancaster, Pennsylvania
Country: United States of America

In a crisp powder-blue tote bag:
  • 9-tablet pill bottle of Prozac
  • 176 pages of a heavily highlighted Wizard of Oz, bursting in lines of bright teal and neatly tucked into a cerulean folder
  • 18 oz navy hydro flask, one-third air, two-thirds luke-warm lemon water
  • Vacant snow-white airpod case graced with a neon cobalt sticker "They heard me singing and they told me to stop"
  • Incisor-dented # 2 pencils inside a mayan case with ballpoint pens, large erasers, thick highlighters, and peeling denim house keys
  • Panda bookmark between the worn paper sheets of Wuthering Heights, Chapter 31 displayed to the left
  • Notepad titled "Don't" woven of varying shades of blue and after dozens of jagged stubs, "Remember to call Dan"

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 8

Challenge Completed

Day 1

You Are A Fugitive.

Dashing through the tenebrosity of merciless scrutiny. On the daunting pavemented streets splattered with looming buildings, countless captious heads turn to you, their eyes widened by arrant disgust. 

"Conform! Conform! Conform!" Voices shriek at you.

Hundreds and thousands of uniform individuals berate you. Desperately and without a second of hesitation, you dart pass them through the narrow streets, dark alleys, and sharp corners. The garbage littered on the tar fuels your fury, the smoke hazing the air exhilarates your lungs, the haggard reaches of their dry figures pours oil on the fire propelling your legs. You evade their seizes, slipping through their bare fingers like a rogue fish from imprisoning nets.

You are an escapee.

Out of the polluted city and in the barren countryside you continue to flee. Skeletal arms grasp out from the rows of dirt ground, wretchedly eager to consume the bright life of your youthful soul. You kick them away, smashing...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 5

Staring Into Twin Jade Eyes Of A Beautiful Boy, You Think, "Aishiteru." That's What A Koibito Would Say.

But Mother Nature sings no verbal tongues. Her tenor is an orchestrated composition of squally gales, briny seawater, crowned moons, prickly thorns, and woodsy soil. Her conduction is infinite; the chorus indefinite.

Your hands are cherished in his warm ones. Admiring his presence, it comes to mind that he could be a sculpture. But molded marble would be too rigid to contain his carefree spirit. The valleys, hills, and rivers are a looping flash in his gaze. Intensely wild, he is freedom personified.

Leaning, ever so slowly, inching, your faces draw close and near. Seconds are becoming their own eternities. The grass between your toes and the sun against your back is spreading as if reaching to fully embrace you. Finally, your lips touch.

Heat from deep within your core blossoms and surges through your veins. The air becomes...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 4

Above, The Waterfall's Roar Tumbles In Your Head. Fore, a striking boy with unparalleled jade eyes stands tall, dripping. Beneath, slippery granite attempts a trick upon your formerly steady legs. Wobble. Slide. Careful.

Perhaps, it is, in fact, your eyes that are deceiving you.

One—screw tight. Two—clamp impossible harder. Three—bite the tip of your tongue. Now, open.

Unchanged. He's still there.

His toned torso is bare like a peeled orange and bronzed as molded metal. Exposed, the only thing covering him is black shorts jutting mid-thigh. He is extraordinarily open and wild in somatic ways. Damp, midnight curls prick his forehead and his green eyes gleam impishly against his knife-chiseled face. Daringly, the boy bridges a hand to you. You think of the claustrophobic prison you escaped from, cruel and suffering. And gazing into his soul, there's an aura which radiates hot as summer's sun, brighter than the ruinous sorrow you ran from, and more savage than any maned king....

The Apartment on 44th Street: 1ne hitch || REVIEW 4 REVIEW||

I Think I Must Be Insane.

    That’s the only explanation for why I would get into a strange woman’s car in the middle of nowhere. 
    “Are you lost?” she pops cheerfully. My shoulders jump as my head dashes to the left. I hadn't even heard the hum of an approacher. The windows to her satiny-red small Toyota are down. From the side of the jagged road, I stare into the driver’s seat, assessing the proposer and my situation.
    She’s a thin, pale woman with sharp features and a petite figure. Her hair is short and hellish-black, matching eyes and lashes with the lush of a spider's legs pop above her cheekbones. 
    “Uhh...”
    A second begins. My head swivels around. It looks like a horror movie out here. The narrow road is lined with groves and thickets of towering pine trees. I have a slim polo on, but the chill in the air is still pricking goosebumps onto my arms. There...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 4

Overhead, The Waterfall's Roar Tumbles In Your Head. Fore, a striking boy of unparalleled jade eyes stands tall, dripping. Beneath, slippery granite attempts a trick upon your formerly steady legs. Wobble. Slide. Careful.

Perhaps, it is, in fact, your eyes that are deceiving you.

One—screw tight. Two—clamp impossible harder. Three—bite the tip of your tongue. Now, open.

Unchanged. He's still there.

His toned torso is bare like a peeled orange and bronzed as molded metal. Exposed, the only thing covering him is black shorts jutting mid-thigh. He is extraordinarily open and wild in somatic ways. Damp, midnight curls prick his forehead and his green eyes gleam impishly against his knife-chiseled face. Daringly, the boy bridges a hand to you. You think of the claustrophobic prison you escaped from, cruel and suffering. And gazing into his soul, there's an aura which radiates hot as summer's sun, brighter than the ruinous sorrow you ran from, and more savage than any maned king....

Writing Streak Challenge Day 3

You Are Day-Dazing Of Wild Exploration When A Harsh Drizzle Pierces Your Reverie.

Erratically altering still shots of you traversing to the cusp of grand leafy beauties and trekking past the coast of frenzied violets and citrines disrupts—

—Your eyes flick open.

Light floods your vision, blinding for a finger-count of seconds, then the sharp pain stabbing your oculi dulls. There is a single puff in the blue sky, one that mirrors you more absolute than a mirror. The drizzle which roused you continues its calling from near surroundings.

​You glide up from the heavenly alstroemeria mattress which rested you. Your exposed legs stretch athwart the cross-paletted petal sea like two logs over a fire, your head swiveling in a madly curious cursor to identify the source. Swinging speculation brings fruitless avail, and your feet hither coplanar to the grassy soil. Triplet coral flowers land atop your toes. Blades tickling your heels, curiosity launches you in search of this rapid...

Writing Streak Challenge Day 3

You Are Day-Dazing Of Wild Exploration When A Harsh Drizzle Pierces Your Reverie.

Erratically altering still shots of you traversing to the cusp of grand leafy beauties and trekking past the coast of frenzied violets and citrines disrupts—

—Your eyes flick open.

Light floods your vision, blinding for a finger-count of seconds, then the sharp pain stabbing your oculi dulls. There is a single puff in the blue sky, one that mirrors you more absolute than a mirror. The drizzle which roused you continues its calling from near surroundings.

​You glide up from the heavenly alstroemeria mattress which rested you. Your exposed legs stretch athwart the cross-paletted petal sea like two logs over a fire, your head swiveling in a madly curious cursor to identify the source. Swinging speculation brings fruitless avail, and your feet hither coplanar to the grassy soil. Triplet coral flowers land atop your toes. Blades tickling your heels, curiosity launches you in search for this rapid...

IT'S A secret


    Shhh… it’s okay. You can tell me—I have one too.
    What is it? Well… first, you say yours.

    … No? Okay, okay, I’ll go. So, gee where do I start? haha. Um, I think it was… ten years—no twelve! Yes, twelve years ago. Haha, we’re getting so old now, aren’t we? I can remember everything like it was yesterday. Even the time we went on vacation to Connecticut to see the Atlantic. I nudged you to the edge of the boardwalk as a joke, but then you really fell! And your ank—
… Oh yes, I'm getting off track, aren't I? I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous right now. You know this is something I’ve never told anyone. You promise you won’t share it, right?
Haha, you’re locking your lips and throwing away the key! It’s been a while since I heard that one. But wait, if you do that, someone’ll see it....

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 2

You're Back Is Cool Against The Dampness Of The Grassy Plateau.

It is a beautiful day; the clear cerulean sky harbingers warming basks of seraphic sunbathes. Slowly, savoringly, your arms and legs expand and contract in the soft blades of untamed green. In, out, in, out. The velvety hairs against your bare skin are caresses of pure ecstasy. Your eyes close to dive deep into your newly discovered fondness.

Ceaseless waves of fresh soil ride through your nostrils, the bright beams of the sun press against your smiling lips, and a faint breeze carries away your pestering thoughts. They float like seeds on stings and disappear far away to a place where they won't ever bother you again.

Now, you are thoughtless.

Now, you simply feel. 

The undisturbed tranquility of wild nature. The rapturous resort of endorsing creatures. The affectionate embrace of caring Mother. You wish you had discovered this emancipation years ago.

With a smirk as wide as Cheshire's, clear...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 1

You Are A Fugitive.

Dashing through the tenebrosity of merciless scrutiny. On the daunting pavemented streets splattered with looming buildings, countless captious heads turn to you, their eyes widened by arrant disgust. 

"Conform! Conform! Conform!" Voices shriek at you.

Hundreds and thousands of uniform individuals berate you. Desperately and without a second of hesitation, you dart pass them through the narrow streets, dark alleys, and sharp corners. The garbage littered on the tar fuels your fury, the smoke hazing the air exhilarates your lungs, the haggard reaches of their dry figures pours oil on the fire propelling your legs. You evade their seizes, slipping through their bare fingers like a brave prisoner from tyrannical guards.

You are an escapee.

Out of the polluted city and in the barren countryside you continue to flee. Skeletal arms grasp out from the rows of dirt ground, wretchedly eager to consume the bright life of your youthful soul. You kick them away, smashing the evilness...

Writing Streak Week 8 Day 1

You Are A Fugitive.

Dashing through the tenebrosity of merciless scrutiny. On the daunting pavemented streets splattered with looming buildings, countless captious heads turn to you, their eyes widened by arrant disgust. 

"Conform! Conform! Conform!" Voices shriek at you.

Hundreds and thousands of uniform individuals berate you. Desperately and without a second of hesitation, you dart pass them through the narrow streets, dark alleys, and sharp corners. The garbage littered on the tar fuels your fury, the smoke hazing the air exhilarates your lungs, the haggard reaches of their dry figures pours oil on the fire propelling your legs. You evade their seizes, slipping through their bare fingers like a brave prisoner from tyrannical guards.

You are an escapee.

Out of the polluted city and in the barren countryside you continue to flee. Skeletal arms grasp out from the rows of dirt ground, wretchedly eager to consume the bright life of your youthful soul. You kick them away, smashing the evilness...

The Apartment on 44th Street: 1ne hitch || REVIEW 4 REVIEW||

I Think I Must Be Insane.

    That’s the only explanation for why I would get into a strange woman’s car in the middle of nowhere. 
    “Are you lost?” she pops cheerfully. My shoulders jump as my head dashes to the left. I hadn't even heard the hum of an approacher. The windows to her satiny-red small Toyota are down. From the side of the jagged road, I stare into the driver’s seat, assessing the proposer and my situation.
    She’s a thin, pale woman with sharp features and a petite figure. Her hair is short and hellish-black, matching eyes and lashes with the lush of a spider's legs pop above her cheekbones. 
    “Uhh...”
    A second begins. My head swivels around. It looks like a horror movie out here. The narrow road is lined with groves and thickets of towering pine trees. I have a slim polo on, but the chill in the air is still pricking goosebumps onto my arms. There...

The Apartment on 44th Street: 1ne hitch || REVIEW 4 REVIEW||

I Think I Must Be Insane.

    That’s the only explanation for why I would get into a strange woman’s car in the middle of nowhere. 
    “Are you lost?” she pops cheerfully. My shoulders jump as my head dashes to the left. I hadn't even heard the hum of an approacher. The windows to her satiny red small Toyota are down. From the side of the jagged road, I stare into the driver’s seat, accessing the proposer and my situation. She’s a thin and pale woman, sharp features with a petite figure. Her hair is a short hellish black with big thick-lashed eyes to match. 
    “Uhh...”
    A second begins. My head swivels around. It looks like a horror movie out here. The narrow road is lined with groves and thickets of towering pine trees. I have a slim polo on, but the chill in the air is still pricking goosebumps onto my arms. There’s no animal in sight, no bird cawks...

The Apartment on 44th Street: 1ne hitch || REVIEW 4 REVIEW||

I Think I Must Be Insane.

    That’s the only explanation for why I would get into a strange woman’s car in the middle of nowhere. 
    “Are you lost?” she pops cheerfully. My shoulders jump as my head dashes to the left. I hadn't even heard the hum of an approacher. The windows to her satiny red small Toyota are down. From the side of the jagged road, I stare into the driver’s seat, accessing the proposer and my situation. She’s a thin and pale woman, sharp features with a petite figure. Her hair is a short hellish black with big thick-lashed eyes to match. 
    “Uhh...”
    A second begins. My head swivels around. It looks like a horror movie out here. The narrow road is lined with groves and thickets of towering pine trees. I have a slim polo on, but the chill in the air is still pricking goosebumps onto my arms. There’s no animal in sight, no bird cawks...

Inventory

Amanda Brown

Name: Amanda Brown
Age: 15
City: Lancaster, Pennsylvania
Country: United States of America

In a crisp powder-blue tote bag:
  • 9-tablet pill bottle of Prozac
  • 176 pages of a heavily highlighted Wizard of Oz, bursting in lines of bright teal and neatly tucked into a cerulean folder
  • 18 oz navy hydro flask, one-third air, two-thirds luke-warm lemon water
  • Vacant snow-white airpod case graced with a neon cobalt sticker "They heard me singing and they told me to stop"
  • Incisor-dented # 2 pencils inside a mayan case ballpoint pens, large erasers, thick highlighters, and peeling denim house keys
  • Panda bookmark between the worn paper sheets of Wuthering Heights, Chapter 31 displayed to the left
  • Notepad titled "Don't" woven of varying shades of blue and after dozens of jagged stubs, "Remember to call Dan"

IT'S A secret


    Shhh… it’s okay. You can tell me—I have one too.
    What is it? Well… first, you say yours.

    … No? Okay, okay, I’ll go. So, gee where do I start, haha. Um, I think it was… ten years—no twelve! Yes, twelve years ago. Haha, we’re getting so old now, aren’t we? I can remember everything like it was yesterday. Even the time we went on vacation to Connecticut to see the Atlantic. I nudged you to the edge of the boardwalk as a joke, but then you really fell! And your ank—
… Oh yes, I was going off track, wasn’t I? Haha, I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous right now. You know this is something I’ve never told anyone. You promise you won’t share it, right?
… Haha, you’re locking your lips and throwing away the key! It’s been a while since I heard that one. But wait, if you do that someone’ll see it....

Dust Jacket

Let Me Tell You...

PROMPT #1: WRITER ID
  1. What is your favorite genre to write? 
    • Dark/Horror
  2. What is your favorite genre to read? 
    • Anything good, but I've read a lot of books with romantic subplots and splashes of humor
  3. What draws you to the WtW community? 
    • The diverse and passionate community
  4. What do you find most challenging about writing?
    • Getting over writer's block
  5. Most exhilarating?  
    • Finishing a hard-worked piece
  6. What is one goal that you have for yourself while here? 
    • Improve my writing capabilities


PROMPT #3: YOU IN THREES
  1. Three communities to which you belong (these can be unusual).   
    • Wattpad, Death Note Lovers, People with Messy Rooms
  2. Three places you learn well (these can be unusual).   
    • My room while laying on my bed, My room while sitting on the floor, My room while standing on the carpet
  3. Three adjectives your peers would use to describe you.
    • Not-talkative, Focused, Passive
  4. Three adjectives your family would use.
    • Untidy, Sister, Book-worm
  5. Three adjectives you would use.
    • Curious,...

Inventory

Amanda Brown

Name: Amanda Brown
Age: 15
City: Lancaster, Pennsylvania
Country: United States of America

In a crisp powder-blue tote bag:
  • 9-tablet pill bottle of Prozac
  • 176 pages of a heavily highlighted Wizard of Oz, bursting in lines of bright teal and neatly tucked into a cerulean folder
  • 18 oz navy hydro flask, one-third air, two-thirds luke-warm lemon water
  • Vacant snow-white airpod case graced with a neon cobalt sticker "They heard me singing and they told me to stop"
  • Incisor-dented # 2 pencils inside a mayan case ballpoint pens, large erasers, thick highlighters, and peeling denim house keys
  • Panda bookmark between the worn paper sheets of Wuthering Heights, Chapter 31 displayed to the left
  • Notepad titled "Don't" woven of varying shades of blue and after dozens of jagged stubs, "Remember to call Dan"

IT'S A secret


    Shhh… it’s okay. You can tell me—I have one too.
    What is it? Well… first, you say yours.

    … No? Okay, okay, I’ll go. So, gee where do I start, haha. Um, I think it was… ten years—no twelve! Yes, twelve years ago. Haha, we’re getting so old now, aren’t we? I can remember everything like it was yesterday. Even the time we went on vacation to Connecticut to see the Atlantic. I nudged you to the edge of the boardwalk as a joke, but then you really fell! And your ank—
… Oh yes, I was going off track, wasn’t I? Haha, I’m sorry, I’m just a little nervous right now. You know this is something I’ve never told anyone. You promise you won’t share it, right?
… Haha, you’re locking your lips and throwing away the key! It’s been a while since I heard that one. But wait, if you do that someone’ll see it....