Starlitskies

Sri Lanka

She/Her
17
INTJ
Reader and Writer
Feminist
Coder

Go check out my WtW twin sister Zirong! She's amazing!

Scribble Chums with remi'sgotinkstains, useless :) and em wilder.

est. 26 Oct 2020

Message from Writer

"They call us dreamers, but we're the ones who don't sleep"

"My words sound better coming from my hands than from my mouth."
(Trust me it does.)

Currently reading: This beautiful novel about love, friendship and finding oneself.... oh who am I kidding? Biology text book it is!

Book recs are always welcome whether it's fiction, poetry, self help or any other genres.

Don't hesitate to ask for reviews. Just comment on one of my pieces and I promise I'll get back to you. I refuse to grow alone.

Published Work

Tsk tsk

Tsk tsk. Your heartbeat in my cheek where it doesn't belong. I lie sprawled across the balcony; naked skin against white tile, naked skin against balcony railing, the moonlight dusting each flat and curve. The sharp eludes me. I am a soft round thing. The kind of thing you wouldn't swallow. But here you are.

Tsk tsk. I should pronounce you a wicked god: the Hades of my hell. But I like to think you earthly. Your pink against my brown, your heartbeat in my teeth, marching down my tongue.

Tsk tsk. I should let you die in a Siren song. Saccharine till snipped thread. But you're too on earth for my kind of magic. Where's the fun if you're not lost at least one foot off the ground?

Tsk tsk. Be my gentle accuser, the cause of my senseless disapproval. I forget so often so I write on my thighs how we are a crime. The highway-to-hell kind. But...

Re-Search

The Assembly of Art

Art is intimate, almost invasive and it always seems to arrive from an unearthly corner of our existence. Maybe heavenly, maybe hellish, but continually mystifying. It seems to stem from a recess deep within us to arise as the first and last of its being: the present and the fossil, not one like the other. I used to believe that art was purely original then.

The more you research the past and the more you live in the present, the future reveals itself. There are patterns whittled down to the bones of history, like those you find in alternating floor tiles or the brown middle of a soft sunflower. And there is a quiet cadence to life that you begin to notice if you absolutely and truly belong to the moment.
 
And so I read Keats, studied Van Gogh, listened to symphonies by Mozart, I listened to the engine humming as the car sped along the highway, and I...

Food Writing Competition 2021

A recipe for kitchens

Right before the water boils the kettle sounds like the distant ocean. I listen to my mother talk of her day at the hospital. She sits on the wooden bench along the wall of our small apartment kitchen and against the hard whiteness of the wall, her blue scrubs are crumpled, so is her face out of tiredness. The ocean ends and the whistle of the kettle pierces our conversation. Without turning off the gas, I snap open the spout lid to let the water boil for another minute or two. Now the kettle works quietly on the stove.

The kitchen often smells of sanitizer these days. The groceries sit outside on the balcony and only arrive on the white countertops after twenty seconds of soap and water. We've dropped into minimal lunches and most days, my mother is missing from home along with the blue hospital scrubs that dominate the washing line. When she arrives late in the evening,...

Sijo

Finale

I often wonder how the stars would end my final chapter;
the peonies leave, bobbing their heads to the sunlit meadows.
I will end like them, with a story for the butterflies to tell.

Mid-February Grab Bag

Stolen magic

Write about the first thing you see when you close your eyes. (by Lata.B)



When I was six and afraid of the dark, my mother bought me a set of glow-in-the-dark stars. She fashioned them into a constellation on the ceiling above my bed. The star-scape was plastic, but as the distance between night and day grew, they transformed into something more; utterly magical. I still slept with the lights on, but the stars served a purpose too: they kept my nightly wonderings company. In the light, they were faint and off-white. I linked them into patterns with my eyes.

When I was nine, my family moved out of the house and into an apartment in the heart of the city. Someone brought the stars back to earth, and one by one, they went missing from our palms, but my sister, she held onto one. Eight years later, yesterday, she handed me that one star. It was less ethereal than I...

the show comes later

i've forgotten that i am not a poet,
on stage, mic in hand, lights trained
on my lips, stressing syllables, 
drawing italics in the air, unrestrained.

i've forgotten that i am a poet,
a single arc of a writing circle; still
learning my truth, still drinking
the feel of the pen on paper, restrained,

trying to free the stories within.

 

25 Words

Betraying Blood

She lied that she was a palace maid; the rebels believed her. Inked at the small of her back, the royal tattoo burned her skin.

 

Names for Nature

Luna Dorada (Golden moon)

I stand where the waves meet Luna Dorada, sand soft and shells crackling underfoot. The ocean is ceaseless. Under a silent moon, it hums an ancient melody of dissonant notes to a magical rhyme. On this crescent beach, boarded on either end by tumultuous rocks, and filled to the brim with golden sand, for a second and only for a second, I feel my insistence evenly match the stars. The skies are an overworked epiphany and the horizon is a line stretched long and hard enough to be a tightrope. I'll walk it one day. I'll walk it. 
 

February Grab Bag

five-stringed guitar

Write a poem mentioning three cities or countries (Fabiana250)



i. rome. i met you here. 
copper curls and dark eyes. you made
me forget how syllables forged
into words and words were meant to be said. 
those mythical skies cast the perfect spell
for our stars to collide. they bedazzled
the earth as we fell.

ii. paris. i loved you here.
the sun smiled when we held hands
and the light shattered 
into fireworks when your lips met mine.
i remember a memory of coffee,
croissants, and you switching chords
on a five-stringed guitar.

iii. london. i left you here.
i lie, my love; i could never do that,
but it's harder to say 
you left me. a tear-stained image
of copper curls and dark eyes 
carried away in a london bus. 
that night, the stars,
they cried for us.

Self-Love

Sitting with the stars

I love,



1. My dimple on my right cheek. A gift from my mother's father; he left earth before I arrived but made sure I always have a reason to smile.

2. My handwriting. When I want neat, nearly printed, but when I chase my thoughts, nothing short of a frenzied heartbeat. 

3. My words. They grant me freedom in so many ways under the sun, but over the moon and sitting with the stars. 

4. My love for knowledge, learning and unlearning. Confounding grammar and unsolvable sums. Anything that piques my mind.

5. My dreams. They taunt my fingertips every morning, every moment, from somewhere above the clouds. Almost untouchable. Almost. 


 

Bread and Light

The poetry in π

Nourishment



1. Sunlight, curtains glowing amber in the morning. Turning dust motes into burning snowflakes and engulfing me in a soft summery glow. Sometimes, I feel it can reach inside me and chase away the dark. 

2. Poetry. The pieces of poetry I find in my breakfast cereal, in the curve of parabolas and the cracks in the sidewalk. Always pieces, never a poem whole. I write to find those missing pieces.

3. My bullet journal, black hardcover and blank. My mission control; holding on to my to-do's while I go in search of missing poems and laze in poppy fields with my imagination.  

4. Night skies, dark velvet fabric pinned up with stars. Myths and constellations and consolation when things go wrong, to look up and feel the insignificance of things.

5. Mathematics. The science in math and the math in science. Theories and equations. Logic and explanation. The ecstasy in finding answers, the bliss of perfect divisions, no remainders. The...

Writing Resolution

The Crime in Writing

I want to write without guilt. 

I want to sit down at my laptop, type away and let myself succumb to the words inside me, spinning off in search of unmarked coordinates in unspecified directions. I want to write without the angel on my shoulder asking me why I'm sinning. What are you doing? Do you want to fail? Do you? D o   y o u? I want to ignore her voice and pin words together with asterisks without the guilt of committing this crime, when instead, I feel I should be calculating the entropy of things and folding rainbows into sun rays at precise wavelengths.

It's a crime to be writing when I should be buried in stacks of textbooks when pages already read have the chance to be reread, the equations already arranged have the time to be rearranged, and when the sums already solved deserve to entangle and unravel again and again and again. I don't want to...

Book Review Competition 2021

The Vendor of Sweets by R. K. Narayan

The Vendor of Sweets
By R. K. Narayan
Indo-Anglian Fiction, Psychological Fiction
Recommended: For ages 15 and upwards

Located in the South of India, the village of Malgudi is a stronghold of tradition and the definition of convention. Everything and everyone in this village bows down to these traditional rules that seldom show themselves; invisible, if not for the deprecating sniffs that rustle white beards and the judgmental looks piercing wiry pairs of spectacles. From the corners of the dusty streets, tradition molds the villagers. Set in the most enthralling atmosphere and enlivened by palpable characters, this classic tells the tale of a relationship between a father and a son, a man who lost his wife and a boy who lost his mother, and how their relationship unveils in her absence.

Fifty-five-year-old Jagan, the owner of a thriving sweet shop, has grown up with tradition breathing down his neck. A product of conventional education, and now running a business according to...

“All Alive”

Patter to Petrichor

It begins with patter, like the impatient tap
of painted nails, the rain thrums on the roof.
The wind swooshes in, positions the curtains 
parallel to the floor, and does a better job than
the house cat at knotting eights between
your ankles. The water falls faster. Faster than
the flurry of feet, rushing to fasten slamming
doors and shivering windows. It's cold.
But the rain beckons for you in pattering
undulations, promising fluttering rains 
and the sweetest taste of the cosmos
on your lips. So you succumb. Fingers wrapping 
around metal window grills, you stretch out your hand
and call for the rain. So it kisses you, like sparks
across your skin. And then, as abruptly as it began,
it ends. And it ends with petrichor.

Mid-December Grab Bag

Stepping through the curtains of time (Message board!)

Dear 2020,

It began towards the end of your life, one December evening. A place where it was too early to make plans for the coming year and too late to make plans for the ending. At this impasse, all one was left to do was stare into one's cup of tea and ponder the philosophies of life. I found myself doing exactly that, but tea is generic and I had Earl Grey in my cup, and of all the philosophies there was to mull over, my thoughts led me to one of time.

You see, 2020, time is a concept. It's a word we use to make sense of the action of always moving forward. It's an abstraction we treat as a concrete existence to bring the meaning of life a fraction nearer. It's a comfort to the human mind to know that time is solid. That it exists in the seconds, minutes, hours, and days. It's a...

The Drabble

Looped in Conversation

Limewater turns milky when bubbled with carbon dioxide. Grandpa's irises remind me. They pierce through my forehead and settle on the wall behind me. I'm translucent like his memory. Like his memory, I don't exist. 

"You're hurt, angel?" He remembers my bandaged hand.

"I had a fall, Grandpa. Nothing to worry about."

"You must be careful with your body."

Nobody warned him to be careful with his mind too. His eyes pierce through my forehead and settle on the wall behind me. Seconds tick by. Like his memory, I cease to be. 

"You're hurt, angel?" He remembers my bandaged hand. 

Dust Jacket

A cloak of star dust


PROMPT #1: WRITER ID
  1. What is your favorite genre to write? Anything that can best capture my ideas. Most of the time it's fiction and poetry.
  2. What is your favorite genre to read? Poetry.
  3. What draws you to the WtW community? The great writing and the amazing people! Every single day I find countless pieces on the dashboard that make me forget to breathe! And can we take a moment to appreciate this great community... I love how everyone is so respectful and always willing to help each other. 
  4. What do you find most challenging about writing? Keeping up with my ideas! I feel obligated to do something with every single idea that flits through my mind. Right now, I have more than twenty half-written manuscripts and a gazillion snippets of poetry.
  5. Most exhilarating? That moment when inspiration strikes and a single sentence, maybe even a single word, expands into this crazy awesome idea in a matter of seconds! Like a seed, it starts growing in my mind, spouting more and more branches, gaining depth and...

don't you dare love me

don't you dare love me. don't tell me
you love me more than your eyes love twinkling
and the stars love the dark. don't make me smile through my tears. don't 
watch the sunrise with me, when
the world is asleep and it's the singing sunbeams and I,
sitting in silence, knowing there's room
for one more, beside me, inside me. don't sing for me 
in your dulcet voice, of the dalliance that lasts, and the denouement that's love and how i am your darling,
cause darling, i'm not.
don't you dare dance with me, don't
you dare be the one to catch me when i fall, like
cobwebs catch dewdrops and your 
fingertips catch my tears. don't you catch me
watching you smile. don't you make me
blush and redden, not like a rose you say, but like
the pomegranate that stains persephone's lips. don't you
dare offer to read the ink that spills across my pages, when
no one ever does. don't you dare. don't you dare. don't you dare.
darling, don't you dare...

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

Polymerase Chain Reaction

Cases.
Deaths.
PCR. 
Positive. 
Positive.
Positive. 

Two weeks into lockdown, these were the words the world fed me daily. Every message, every headline, and every notification. You couldn't escape it. It reached you wherever you were, unavoidable, it parted your lips and made you consume it, and then, it consumed you. 

Day by day, new cases bloomed like mushrooms in the wild, rising in number. Fast and unpredictable. The government closed schools, closed borders, and the country closed in on itself as the second wave rolled through, but in my eyes, it wasn't a wave. It was a tsunami

The news was near and yet, far away. Sometimes, a case sprung nearby, a bullet whizzing close to my ear. But so far, I was never in its path. My life was untouched. I didn’t leave the house, and I was safe inside the apartment. So were my sister and brother, but not my parents. 

That day, I picked...

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

Polymerase Chain Reaction

Cases.
Deaths.
PCR. 
Positive. 
Positive.
Positive. 

Two weeks into lockdown, these were the words the world fed me daily. Every message, every headline, and every notification. You couldn't escape it. It reached you wherever you were, unavoidable, it parted your lips and made you consume it, and then, it consumed you. 

Day by day, new cases bloomed like mushrooms in the wild, rising in number. Fast and unpredictable. The government closed schools, closed borders, and the country closed in on itself as the second wave rolled through, but in my eyes, it wasn't a wave. It was a tsunami

The news was near and yet, far away. Sometimes, a case sprung nearby, a bullet whizzing close to my ear. But so far, I was never in its path. My life was untouched. I didn’t leave the house, and I was safe inside the apartment. So were my sister and brother, but not my parents. 

That day, I picked...

November Grab Bag

Of Everything Unsaid

She is the goddess of everything unsaid. Of words that gather at the tip of your tongue to be drawn back, to the depths of your mind. Of words you whisper in your lover’s ear as he kisses your neck in the depths of the night. Of words sung to the rhythms. Of words flung to the heavens. Of words written. Of words battled. Of words bled. 

She is Iva.

She is the goddess dressed in a paper gown. Watch the words pool on her fabric folds. Words in cursive, words struck out, words that beg to be seen. Watch them blend across her bosom, watch them fuse around her waist, watch them flow down her legs
 in hues of blue.

She is Iva.

She is the goddess who wields a sword. A sword of words she masterfully handles. She draws it across the sky and the people drop to their knees, she draws it across the page and behold,...

Pandemic Memoir

Masked Smile

Lips unmoving, I squint my eyes.


 

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

Polymerase Chain Reaction

Cases.
Deaths.
PCR.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.


Few weeks into lockdown, these were the words the world fed me daily. Every message, every headline, every notification. It reached you wherever you were, unavoidable, it parted your lips and made you consume it. And then, it consumed you.

Everyday, new cases bloomed like mushrooms in the wild, rising in number. Fast and unpredictable. The government closed schools, closed borders and the country closed in on itself as the second wave rolled through. It wasn’t a wave. It was a Tsunami.

For the sake of being aware, I made myself look at the graphs and graphs of statistics. There was one titled Daily Cases with a slanting line reaching for the sky, not a single glance downwards. The other was a bar graph titled Daily Deaths and it resembled a little staircase which kept on climbing higher.

The news was near and yet far away. Sometimes a case sprung nearby, a bullet whizzing...

Setting as Mood

The Sun Set

I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye.

So I stood in the shadow of the elm trees, watching him bid the others farewell. Behind him, the sun was setting and the colors that had flown far and wide with the winds during the day, ran back in flourishing hurries in fear of missing the sun chariot. And now they pooled around the sun, perching on the clouds like passengers waiting on platforms to board a train. The waves were nonchalant, rather unaroused by the mesmerizing mess of colors above it. The water lapped against the golden sand in a frenzy of white bubbles, pausing for a moment in time and then, withdrawing to the depths of the sea. They seemed to be whispering a promise of no return to the sands they stole from the beach. The trees swayed as the winds shifted ever so gently, and above the treetops, the birds too were heading home. It seemed the world...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

Secrets

In all my memories of Mama, she's bent among the flowers in our garden and yet, she never struck me as a flower-person.

"It's for Papa, Cham" I remember her saying once, when I'd asked her why she spent so many of her hours in the garden. 

"But Mama, Papa doesn't use the flowers right." 

She smiled, tucking a golden strand of hair behind her ear. In the soft morning sunlight that filled the garden, her hair was summery and alight, falling in ebullient curls around her face.

"Well, then tell me, what's the right way?" 

"You have to make them pretty in vases."

We didn't own any vases, so Mama took down a tall glass for me and I went around the garden picking flowers. It stood on the kitchen table that day, holding seven daisies and gerbera. That was the only time the flowers in the garden served the purpose of art. It's not that they weren't important. They...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

Secrets

In all my memories of Mama she's bent among the flowers in Papa's garden and yet, she never struck me as a flower-person.

"It's for Papa, Cham" I remember her saying once, when I asked her why she cared for the garden.

"But Mama, Papa doesn't use the flowers right." I complained.

She smiled, tucking a golden strand of loose hair behind her ear. In the soft morning sunlight that filled the garden, her hair was summery and alight, falling in ebullient curls around her face.

"Well, then tell me, what's the right way?" 

"You have to make them pretty in vases."

We didn't own any vases, so Mama took down a tall glass and I went around the garden picking flowers. It stood on the kitchen table that day, holding seven daisies and gerbera. That was the only time that the flowers in the garden served the purpose of art. It's not that they weren't important. They were, but instead...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

Secrets

My only clear memory of Mama, has her bent among the flowers in Papa's garden. All the hours she spent in the garden withstanding, she never struck me as a flower-person.

"It's for Papa, Cham" I remember her saying once, when I asked her why she cared for the garden.

"But Mama, Papa doesn't use the flowers right." I complained.

She smiled, tucking a golden strand of loose hair behind her ear. In the soft morning sunlight that filled the garden, her hair was summery and alight, falling in ebullient curls around her face.

"Well, then tell me, what's the right way?" 

"You have to make them pretty in vases."

We didn't own any vases, so Mama took down a tall glass and I went around the garden picking flowers. It stood on the kitchen table that day, holding the seven daisies and gerbera. To my recollection, that was the only time that the flowers in the garden served the purpose...

That Sort of Person

Overdue

He's the kind of guy who'd love you, but only after you left. 

All Talk

Always

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"That's okay."

"Can you please move closer."

"Of course...... hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just a bad dream."

"What is it?"

"Doesn't matter. It's stupid."

"You're talking to the definition of 'stupid' here. Try me."

"..."

"..."

"I...I lost you to the ocean. You were standing on the shore and then the waves just swallowed you. And the worst part was.... I c-couldn't save you. I tried, Sia, but I couldn't move..... See, it's stupid! We live nowhere near the sea and you know how to swim and-and I definitely would've saved you! I'm sorry."

"Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for. I know you would if that ever happened, and trust me it never will."

"But it did."

"Once. And that was years ago. I was a stupid kid."

"..."

"Why are you smiling?"

"Just happy that the 'stupid kid' survived for me to fall in love with her....

The Blank Page

I wish to begin with silence.
Silence so soundless that it drowns
out the white noise.
And this silence will fill the void.
A vast void of emptiness.
A void that never ends.

There'll be light but no shadows.
Just plain light.
No corners to illuminate.
No soft edges or hard edges
that play with the light.
Clear light glaring against
the blinding blankness.

Stillness will reign.
Quiet and unmoving.
Spreading through
the never-ending white space.
To nowhere and beyond.
Ceaseless, infinite.
Nothingness spreading
far and wide
to corners of a chasm
they'll never find. 

An endless, limitless,
boundless space that runs
far forever in every way.
Hollow to its core.
Bare to its bones.
Broad and barren
and soundless with stillness.
This hushed abyss.
This deep pit.
This vacuum. 

And finally,
I will place a writer
at the centre
of this gaping oblivion
and watch them
bring it to life.