|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Mon Apr 09, 2012 11:39 pm
PandorasJackinthebox Where I live it's midnight so I'll start on today's challenge. 012. Different Ways of Thinking pure. what does it mean? the tongues of hell are dull, coercive darkness, metallic lashes of flame soon become a comforting warmth. you can feel nothing if you try. ...oh dear I'm tired. XD
I like still the choice of words nonetheless. Although compared to your other pieces, this one could have been expanded and could have been given more depth to it.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Apr 10, 2012 7:49 pm
I cried..my god I'm balling. I love this so much its amazing. Its the way it was written, it flows perfectly..I can feel what was going on..I felt like I was stand in that scene
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Apr 10, 2012 8:02 pm
I've decided to share the story behind "011. Guardian Angels"--how I wrote it, the story fragment titled "the end of the winter". As a teenager, I struggled with bulimia and self-starvation habits, and my best friend Kara struggled with anorexia. Neither one of us thought we were "struggling" with anything, though--we thought we were the skinniest bitches at school, and isn't that hot? Gradually, our friendship turned into kind of a romance--with each other and with self-destruction. As we grew closer and closer, we also got more competitive with each other--we would compete to see who could eat less, who weighed less on any given day, who could go for longer without eating. I began experiencing serious health problems, but she seemed fine, so I kept it hidden as best I could. Unfortunately, what I didn't realize was that she was starving herself to death. It was only after her parents woke up and found that she had died in her sleep that I began to wake up to what was really going on. I went to a doctor, and the doctor told me that I had severe damage to my esophagus, stomach, and liver--and that I might begin experiencing heart problems and tooth decay very soon. Shortly after Kara's funeral, I went to a facility for women with eating disorders. I have since gained back my control of my life.
Everything isn't back to normal, though. The damage to my organs was irreversible, and I still have to take medicine for my heart. I still think about purging from time to time. And Kara's death still haunts me--I see a counselor about it, and I am still working through the feelings that it was my fault she died. But I'm hopeful, and I'm finally starting to learn to appreciate myself the way I am. That's my miracle.
The story is a short scene from the funeral, at which I was talking to Kara's twin brother, Kevin. Besides Kara's mother, no one else at the funeral would speak to me--I was the "murderer" in their eyes, because I had been part of the lifestyle that pushed her to her death. But I felt more hope after the funeral, because I realized that, while I couldn't save Kara, I could still save myself. I hope that everyone who reads this can understand that--you can't save everyone, but as long as you're alive, it's never too late to turn things around.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Apr 10, 2012 8:05 pm
ByeByeFluttershy I cried..my god I'm balling. I love this so much its amazing. Its the way it was written, it flows perfectly..I can feel what was going on..I felt like I was stand in that scene Thank you
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Apr 10, 2012 8:10 pm
That story is a beautiful one. I'm not sure you'd believe me, but I'm proud you've moved away from that lifestyle.
I'm so sorry for all the pain that that has caused. It's traumatic, to say the least, but throughout none of that story did I think it was your fault. I genuinely don't think it is. I'm glad you're saving yourself, and I'm... I'm glad you shared the backstory behind that, because it's as beautiful as any piece of writing you could write. Haunting, but hopeful. I'm sorry you lost your friend. I'm glad you weren't lost. I do think she's your guardian angel of sorts, if not in spirit, then in memory.
Thank you very much for sharing that. I've no doubt it must always be hard to think about it.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Apr 11, 2012 11:08 am
013. Consequence
Irreversible
WAIT.
I need you to listen for just a second, even if it means putting down your pencil and climbing out of the trance you have settled into, a state of mind where erasers are not needed and everything is perfect the first time you say it. I warn you in advance, I will not sound perfect the first time I say this. But I need you to listen, to tune your pulse into the frequency of the heartbeat I am sending you over airwaves. I need you to understand, even though my hands are trembling, my mind is unraveling, and my words are stumbling, tripping, falling flat on their faces. I’ll start by stating the facts: Yes, I heard you telling your mother you’re never going to talk to me again out in the hall. Yes, I know you are justified in being angry with me. And yes, your absence is driving me insane.
Are you still there? I hope that is your breath I hear and not just static. Please, just listen. I can’t stand the idea that you’re not still there.
I don’t know where to start, but starting isn’t even the biggest challenge. I think the biggest challenge is admitting to myself that no matter where I begin, it won’t change the ending. No matter what order I tell events in, this still isn’t a fairy tale. This is my life, this is your life, this is where they collide, like strangers milling about a silent room. This isn’t one story of “meant to be,” this is two stories that merge briefly and then split again. This is what wasn’t meant to be.
I remember you and I remember me. More importantly, I remember you and me. It seems like I never existed before I knew you, maybe because I didn’t—you were there when I was so little, when we chased fireflies through calliope nights into the dawn. Ghost stories, games of tag, camping in the living room within a fortress of blankets and pillows. That was where you first introduced me to your fairy tale: “It’s one I’m still writing, it’s about you and me, and we grow up and live happily ever after together.” You were beautiful to me, even back then with your knobby, grass-stained knees and your missing front tooth and your choppy bangs that I knew you cut yourself. In spite of all of your imperfections, or perhaps even because of them, you were the most beautiful girl in the world. You still are. And in your eyes, I was a handsome prince who was going to swoop by one day on a white horse and carry you away into that marvelous unknown, “forever.”
I remember being in sixth grade and walking to school with you the first day of middle school. You cried when someone started making jokes about your braces, and I got suspended from school for the first time in my life by punching him. Later on in middle school, your braces came off, and you were happy because it meant you could smile with your mouth open. I kissed you for the first time a little while later. Do you remember that? Do you remember in high school, at junior prom, all those years later? You were the most beautiful girl there, and I was the skinny little geeky kid who was head-over-heels in love with you.
Do you remember that night? You were running your fingers down the ridges of my back, observing: “You’re so skinny. I can count your ribs.” Later that night, you muttered in your sleep about how if you count every breath you’ll run out of fingers, just like counting stars. I was still lying next to you with my arms around your body, but it wasn’t innocent to me—there was only pain. Because by then, I already knew. But I didn’t want to tell you. I was lying there under the sheets next to you, and you were beautiful and sweet, and I was skinny and awkward—more than that, though, I was living a lie.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But what can I do now? You can’t take back something that’s already been done; you can’t unsay a word that’s already been said; you can’t reverse time. It’s not going to be long now. And I just wanted to call you because I know what you said to your mother. That you never want to talk to me again.
Please stop. I know what’s really going on—you’re scared, just like I am. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you for trying to pull away. You don’t want to hold my hand while I die. But what else is there to do? I knew all along that I had cancer. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wanted to protect you from the truth. In the end, though…it didn’t make a difference. I tried to keep it a secret because I didn’t want you to leave me. But now I’m realizing I may have lost you forever. And I’m sorry. I was wrong, and it only hurt you worse.
I know, tell a story in any order, happy or sad. It won’t change the ending.
But I love you. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry this fairy tale didn’t end the way you thought it would. I’m sorry I lied to you.
…hello?
*note: The concept of "consequence" is very subtle in this one, but what I was thinking of was the consequences of the lie the narrator told the girl he loves--he lied to her about his having cancer, and as a result, he hurt the one he loved most, he has to deal with the regrets, and he may have lost her when he needs her most.*
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed Apr 11, 2012 9:57 pm
That was heart-breaking. >< I really enjoyed the emotion in this piece.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Apr 12, 2012 5:40 am
xVoldie That was heart-breaking. >< I really enjoyed the emotion in this piece. Thank you...it was pretty hard for me to write the ending, because in the process of writing the rest of it I developed a bit of an attachment to the two characters. cry While even I don't know what the ending "really" means or what will happen next, I'm certainly rooting for her to come back to him. I think she will in the end. But it might not be for a little while...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Apr 12, 2012 5:48 am
Yay, I've made it to 2 weeks! whee
I'm honestly not sure if this piece is poetry or prose. I guess I'll leave that up for debate.
014. Gratitude
Make these words worth it; God painted his face on the mountains and the oceans, on the graffiti's prophetic words, on the spaces in between my xylophonic ribs and the narrow gaps my soul can slip through to touch other souls, on the miracles of two people together and the third one who forgives them both out of love, in the smile of my beautiful little girl. God planted seeds of his eternity in us so that as those seeds grow, our feet will guide us back to him. God is the dance of sounds behind your lips that have no words to create them; divine words, the ancient heavenly connection that makes our hearts beat, that holds our souls together when they want to fall apart, the line of life, the hands of He, the promise that we are blessed to be made of Heaven and walk this Earth.
I can see Heaven. Can you hear this? Feel the branches of the burned tree fall and become the life of a new tree—can you hear the last rattling breath, that tremor of dried leaves grasping to it, waiting for the enigmatic day when they are born again in the sky. I can feel that sky—my heart is too big for my body, it needs to escape its cage from time to time, so I let it fly. The clouds are no stranger to this being of dreams electrified by prayers—they make room on the benches, they smile when they see it, they give it books of names in their language. I feel it—the footsteps of pilgrim spirits crossing over a bridge of clouds and feathers to Heaven, the branches of trees whispering like smoke as I bring winter's chill, and the icicles that sing like bells.
The words twist on the floors of our homes. Prayers and melancholy hymns, gentle tigers that prance topaz and jet along horizons, come to me. There are books with tin pages in the attic, dreams rusting along the edges inscribed within, come to me. Thoughts with no soul to latch on to, come to me. I see the patchwork bark, I feel leaves crumbling in my hands, I taste the sweetness of honey-apples and the bitter softness of heaven and earth and the horizons, visions of sunsets and orchards, of Brooklyn, and memories—16th Street—mosaics on a subway station wall—dreams of grandmothers and grandfathers, of the bustling and hustle of a kitchen table on Christmas, of prudence and pride, of my beautiful sweet little girl. Come here, little girl—the doorknob is glowing like a chance, you are almost home. You just need to open that door and I will take you to see the world. I will teach you to map sunrises and be a stronger woman than me. Until you are tall enough to reach that doorknob, though, I play dolly with you and watch you carry my purse around like you have somewhere to go. Maybe you already know you do, but until you can get there, your bookish aunt sends you dreams in this aromatic, bittersweet harmonic, tingly-fingered flashback world, and sends you heartbeats over the airwaves, this permissive, this written kiss.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Apr 13, 2012 1:43 pm
WEEK 3, HERE I COME!!!
015. Explosion
Ensnared in webs of frost and branches,
Rust blooming from beneath the blackened surface
Windows shattered, glass sparkling with cracks peeks through the snow
Rubber tires touching across the old tree it is wrapped around.
The moon gazes through the black veil of clouds
And tiny pebbles of rain darting at my face and stinging my eyes.
The explosion last week is still echoing in my ears.
I am still running.
I duck beneath a tree that is stretching its lean, sun-hardened limbs
To brush the concrete that sparkles like a million shattered pieces of a mirror
A million diamonds in the rough.
A prostitute on Old Bowery circles for warmth
To her cold fingertips. Hope is in the seed a boy planted
In a sidewalk crack. It feels the liquid diamonds
And wants to grow. A breakdancer in Central Park
Counts change.
When the sky clears, the rain
Is just a memory, and the remains of the crash
Are swept away, but as the explosion fades
There is no wind to guide us anymore.
There is only breath.
(note: I tried to write a poem about a car hitting a tree and the crash ending in an explosion without ever saying the word "car". Does it create the picture?)
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Psychotic Maniacal Sanity Vice Captain
|
Posted: Fri Apr 13, 2012 2:55 pm
Your writing really is beautiful. You have such a unique turn of phrase, reading your pieces invokes very strong emotions (and personal jealousy xd ). The last piece was brilliant; I really like how you never say the word car - and to answer your question, I think you get your point across just fine. The "windows" and "tires" (In England it's 'tyres', lol) did it for me. ^^
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Apr 13, 2012 9:02 pm
PandorasJackinthebox WEEK 3, HERE I COME!!! 015. ExplosionEnsnared in webs of frost and branches, Rust blooming from beneath the blackened surface Windows shattered, glass sparkling with cracks peeks through the snow Rubber tires touching across the old tree it is wrapped around. The moon gazes through the black veil of clouds And tiny pebbles of rain darting at my face and stinging my eyes. The explosion last week is still echoing in my ears. I am still running. I duck beneath a tree that is stretching its lean, sun-hardened limbs To brush the concrete that sparkles like a million shattered pieces of a mirror A million diamonds in the rough. A prostitute on Old Bowery circles for warmth To her cold fingertips. Hope is in the seed a boy planted In a sidewalk crack. It feels the liquid diamonds And wants to grow. A breakdancer in Central Park Counts change. When the sky clears, the rain Is just a memory, and the remains of the crash Are swept away, but as the explosion fades There is no wind to guide us anymore. There is only breath. (note: I tried to write a poem about a car hitting a tree and the crash ending in an explosion without ever saying the word "car". Does it create the picture?)
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Apr 14, 2012 5:59 pm
016. Money
"You will remember this night for the rest of your life.” Sheldon says, taking one final drag from his cigarette before tossing it into the overflowing gutter. It hisses into smoke and is swept away, a spider riding atop the river of rainwater. “I remember my first time, too.”
The calm, cool night air is whispering in my ear with the melody of the inner city—traffic, yelling, a chorus of rattles and clunks from the train tracks, a jackhammer in the distance. Sheldon and I are standing in the shallow darkness that is composed of the shadows outside of one of the many local bars. The rain was dappling the skin of my face, and all was uncertain and irrepressibly fearful inside of me.
“You know, Sheldon, I’m not so sure about—“
“Shut up, Chris! Don’t be a ******** prat. Do you want to eat tonight, or what?”
I sigh. “I know, I know. Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
The corners of Sheldon’s mouth curl into a smile. “Let’s go.”
A man walks out of the bar, and Sheldon nods to me. We creep out of the shadows, making headway for the man. When we’re close enough to grab him, but still just far enough to keep our faces hidden, Sheldon gestures to me. All at once, Sheldon and I are on top of the man, and we have dragged him back down into the shadows, into the alley where we were waiting. Sheldon throws him against the wall, pushing his face into the brick. "Fork over your wallet, kid." he snarls. "Don't make me get rough with you."
"That won't be necessary." the man says, and as he turns around, he pulls out a gun, pointing it straight at Sheldon.
I react without thinking, grabbing the man and smashing his head into the wall. As he collapses to the pavement, I stomp on his hand, and he releases the gun. "Don't even try it, macho." I growl, kicking the gun away. "He said fork it over. You're gonna do that, unless you want to get hurt."
Sheldon nods in approval, but the man just grins. "New guy, huh?" he giggles, "You won't do it. You ain't got the guts."
Suddenly I realize I'm shaking. And he's right--I don't have it in me to hurt him. Sure, Sheldon and I need the money more than he does. But it doesn't mean that we need to do it this way.
Sheldon pulls out a knife from his waistband. "Little punk, huh?" he says, "I sure hope you--CHRIS!!! What the ******** are you doing? Where the ******** do you think you're going, you piece of s**t?"
I'm not speaking, I'm not stopping. I'm just running away as fast as I can. I guess I won't eat tonight, but at the same time...I'm not gonna lose my soul over a night's meal. I can always eat tomorrow. But if I go through with this...I'm done for. I remember Sheldon before this whole shitfest started. He was a quiet kid, that type. Then we both got high for the first time, and things spiraled out of control. Now he's mugging people to keep the meth running, and me...I'm not going to go there. I need something, but not this s**t.
It's sad, I never thought it would get this far for money. ******** money. But I guess that doesn't really matter anymore.
We all do what we gotta do to survive. I just wish it didn't have to end this way.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Apr 15, 2012 6:20 am
I'm going to comment on Prompt 015 first, before your newest, because I really enjoyed it.
I feel like it's pretty open to determining what the source is though. The tires made me think of a car/vehicle accident, and the image stayed with me throughout, but when I read what Nui said, I realised that that could have been (the tires, I mean) any crash or explosion that could have caused that, could have impacted a vehicle to cause that image.
It's a strong piece, and I guess that's why I'm able to extrapolate and imagine it being a consequence of a building exploding, an airplane crash, train crash, car crash, anything. Your words are very powerful and the descriptions somehow... emotional to me heh. I'm not sure how that works, but a lot about poetry baffles me so I'm not surprised. cx
I love how the last image we have is of daily life, life unaffected by the event you describe.
The second piece... I really enjoyed too. There's definitely a struggle of power for money, and this was a very real, physical struggle, which drove the point home. I enjoyed the innocence of the character, Chris, though he obviously has dark views and is obviously capable, physically at least, of getting it. (The description of how he reacted with the gun is what made me assume or feel that).
The man they take, the kid I suppose, he infuriated me, his cockiness even as he's being mugged, even as his hand is stomped and face was slammed into the wall. It gives me the image of money, the tauntingness of it, the cockiness that you'll never really have it because it won't ever give itself completely to you. And, actually, this man who I see as money personified, he doesn't give them any. I feel like Sheldon wouldn't have done it alone, or would have been at a big disadvantage.
lalalaokaydonerambling. cx But yes, enjoyed them both thoroughly.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Apr 17, 2012 10:01 am
017. Traveling Alone
I am stepping towards the great unknown,
Wishing only to be strong as stone.
Even though this little bird has flown,
Maybe she'll fly on home.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Reply
