Tag Archives: wordsandotherthings

I Spit On Your Grave (And Other Ye Olde Thoughts).

Writers can kick butt, too!

Last night I peeled myself off the couch (I had been there for several hours by that point) and drove to our local Redbox with the intention of renting Paranormal Activity 2, since I forced Joe into watching the first and wanted him to see the second before he is dragged to see the third in theaters.

::takes deep breath::

So anyway, of course they did not have the movie I had been craving all day. But since I was already standing in front of the machine, 11:00 at night, hair messy, no makeup, a baggy thermal shirt with snowflakes on it hanging off one shoulder, I figured I’d get another movie. And this is how I came across the gory goodness of I Spit On Your Grave. Yikes, right?

The cover features the main character Jennifer Hills (played by actress Sarah Butler), but I opted to post a modified version of it because I wasn’t interested in having a girl’s booty splashed across my page. Sorry boys!

Jennifer Hills is a novelist who rents a cabin in the woods for a few months for some peace and quiet while writing her second book. But then she is attacked and (brutally) raped by a group of local men (the town’s Sheriff included); Jennifer disappears for a month – the men believe her to be dead – living off the land and in a nearby abandoned house, before she finally returns with a vengeance. After playing mind games with the men, she hunts down each one of them and gets her very own writer’s revenge – x10.

Of course my next pick after Paranormal Activity 2 was the gory horror tale about a novelist that kicks some serious butt. I think it’s worth a rent, if you’re interested.

However…it definitely turned me off to ever isolating myself in the woods in order to write, if I ever played with the idea in the first place. Writers’ Retreats are great, but driving into the middle of nowhere alone isn’t.

I soon discovered that this movie was released in 2010 as a remake of a controversial cult film from 1978, with a title that was eventually changed to I Spit on Your Grave but began as Day of the Woman. (Not sure which title I enjoy more!) The original film was condemned by critics for the heavy amount of violence, including the lengthy rape scene. The 2010 version was listed as one of Time’s Top 10 Ridiculously Violent Movies. So if you can’t handle extreme amounts of blood and guts, this movie isn’t for you. Even I found myself covering my eyes and peeking through my fingers at times. (The rape scene is definitely uncomfortable.) But if you can handle it – and are also a writer who wants to see another writer show ’em what she’s got – then seriously, watch it. You can’t help but cheer her on.

So! In other news, Joe and I have slowly been getting our things together for another mountain retreat. And for a whole week this time! With 2 friends and a child coming with us, it’ll be hard to keep myself from being distracted from writing, but I am promising to make time for myself to write and run (I’d rather not come home with an extra 5 pounds on my hips). There’s so much beautiful scenery to work with out there.

Also: On Sunday we will be gnawing on giant turkey legs and rockin’ our lederhosen during Oktoberfest Weekend at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire! (This post contains a lot of links…) I’m sure that will make for an interesting post.

I may also memorize some of these Elizabethan insults in honor of the occasion. Thou be a distempered bunched-backed lout!

Such elegance, even in insult. We’ve gotten lazy!

Exactly!

I woke up on the right side of the bed today (it was actually the left, but you get the drift) and I’m feeling revived and ready to write! Could it be the pumpkin spice coffee? It’s time to go pick up some Halloween decorations!! The leaves are changing and so am I.

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A Prompted Post: The Desert Island Question

I don't think I'd mind being stranded here.

I’m feeling a bit burnt out today, and definitely not too creative. The only things on my mind are the headache Mr. Jim Beam gave me last night and the pumpkin ice cream I’m excited to try after work. (I’ve been passing this ice cream shop for weeks, with its large sign advertising a pumpkin flavor, so I’m finally giving in to its cat calls.)

And so – rather than constructing another post complaining about my creative ups and downs or the rattling in my car that needs to be fixed – I headed on over to this site and took advantage of their Imagination Prompt Generator (I felt like that needed some color).

And so the classic question has been asked:

“If I were going to be stranded on a desert island, what 10 items would I want in my pockets?”

Of course I’d want a cellphone and a boat in my pocket, but I think I’ll attempt a little more creativity than that. I think I got something left in me today.

10 Items I’d Most Definitely Want In My Pockets if I were Stranded on a Desert Island:

1.) My copy of John Milton’s Paradise Lost. I purchased it my senior year of high school and it has since collected years of dust on my bookshelf. I have always been determined to read it, and being left alone on an island sounds like the best setting.

2.) A case of Bud Light Lime. (A refreshing, summery beer. I’m assuming I’m left on this island in warm weather?)

3.) My fancy-shmansy leather-bound journal (a graduation present from Joe – it’s one of the pretty ones you see in Barnes & Noble, with an engraving on the front and gold around the edges of the paper). I’ll need to document my adventures, so I can blog and/or publish them later.

4.) My hot pink, five dollar, totally eighties sunglasses. My favorite item to shield my eyes from the sun. I can’t drive or operate in any way outside without shades, even in an overcast.

Shnazzy!

5.) All of my copies of Weird NJ.

6.) Sunblock. SPF 100+. (Notice the pastiness in that photo?)

7.) My copy of The Lovely Bones, because every time I read it is like the first time.

8.) An endless supply of egg salad sandwiches on wheat from Wawa. (I love egg salad. And boy do I love Wawa’s egg salad.)

9.) My Ipod. Even I get sick of listening to myself speak. If Sarah McLachlan can’t actually accompany me on the island, at least her voice can.

10.) I was considering bringing my wardrobe, but if I’m stranded alone, why bring clothes? I’ll cover myself with all of nature’s offerings – you know, sand and dirt and animal remains. So instead, my 10th item will be these two photos (they’re small so I’ll consider them one item):

That mullet and those braces are a match made in heaven.

Because they make me laugh and that would motivate me to wake from my dirt pile each morning and try to find a way home (but luckily that mullet is long gone).

 

 

So now it’s back to letting my brain recover and hopefully a day of fresh ideas tomorrow.

Happy Tuesday!

 

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Stained

Let's start this out right.

A short horror-fiction piece written about a year ago, for a Fiction course. Very sexual, for anyone reading this.

Comments?

 

 

 

I live alone in a small suburb of New York, surrounded by privileged white families that wear cashmere and mothers who keep their children on leashes during walks around the spiraling streets and cul-de-sacs with names like “Apple Way” and “Sunshine Court”. I comb black hair to the front of my scalp in an attempt to camouflage a withering hairline and the most expensive suit in my closet was bought for my Uncle’s funeral three years ago and was never stained with tears. My home on Woodland Drive is no different from the other dull models that fill the neighborhood, aside from one or two unruly bushes that curtsy onto the stone walkway. I do not watch children play through a break in the curtain of my bedroom window and there is no smeared, red attempt at escape on the inside of my front door.

While a degree in business did not shoot me to the top of the corporate latter, I did accept a customary position as a bookstore manager and have spent the last twelve years taking in the semisweet aroma of paper, ink and glue, and the last eleven pretending it is my priority. During that first year I met Gloria, a delicate looking girl who spent hours filing leather spines in the Horror section. Gloria was fresh, with a Bachelor’s and an interest in the macabre that fascinated me.

Although we barely spoke at work, we often watched documentaries together, squeezed side by side on the small leather couch in my muted living room, caught in our curiosities of the dead more than we were in each other; sometimes she told me her fantasies, when images of fleshy rot and severed limbs began to bore us. This was routine, until our relationship became sexual and tiny Gloria would beg me to hurt her. While reluctant at first, that year became a date-rape blur of blackouts and leather; Gloria would take the bus, hiring a leather corset beneath a cotton dress, and slink into my front door just after midnight, a look of business on her porcelain face.

I’d close my eyes and reach upwards, struggling through a tangle of thick hair until I met warm skin, then tracing the curve from her shoulders to her neck until I found my destination right below her jaw line. It became familiar, with two grooves that developed with time in the places where my thumbs rested each night.

The first few times began with a light push, the anxiety of thwarting her breath draining the strength from my fingertips. But the lack of pressure would turn her attention to me, and she would ungrip her thighs from my sides just long enough to cover my hands with her small ones, pressing my thumbs heard against her trachea. In these moments, Gloria was no longer delicate; she loomed over me, forcing what little I had to offer inside of her while I struggled to take it all away.

One evening, after three bottles of Shiraz and a struggle to the bedroom, my kitchen was dressed in maroon, two wine glasses stained at the stems and left abandoned on the counter. It began with the usual haze of teeth and nails, an impression of Gloria’s incisors left behind as she tore away from my bicep. We continued with accustomed force until Gloria suddenly stopped, quickly detaching herself; the abrupt crashing of our wave startled me, and for a moment I found myself thrusting upward, but only into the thick air of the bedroom.

“Get on top of me”, she managed between gasps.

As I quickly sat up she was already next to me, shoving me to the side of the damp bed with excited hips. I swung myself on top of her and looked down; her broad lips were coated in sweat and two strands of hair lay plastered across the top one like a mustache. I brushed them behind her ear as she grabbed my wrist and I tumbled inside of her, cradling my weight between my left arm and the stained sheets. My fingers found her neck and she closed her eyes, wrapping her legs around my back in approval. I had never handled her from above, and the power I was given in this position worried me.

Slowly I began to squeeze, careful to balance the majority of my strength in the opposing hand.

“Tighter!” she moaned, bear-clawing my chest.

My abs trembled and so did the arm that propped me up. My legs remained outstretched and slightly spread as I rocked in and out of the small space between her thighs. Gloria lifted her chin towards the ceiling and tightened the muscles that surrounded me, so I gripped her tighter until I felt her struggling to swallow beneath my palm. She choked out a small “yes” as I quickened my pace and leaned my face down into the puddle of sweat between her breasts. Slowly my left arm had began to shake, giving out under the pressure I had put on it, but I didn’t notice; my eyes were blurred with the salt that ran into them and my own deep pants crowded my ears. I dove into the odor of Gloria’s skin, my brain becoming hazed with sweat and spice.

It was in those next three minutes, when my own weight switched to the hand that I had clasped around her neck and I put the world on mute just so I could get off, that my life would begin to change. As I was preoccupied with the friction between Gloria’s legs, I mistook for pleasure the desperate heaves for air and scratches left on my back that broke skin.

After I finished I lay in a slump, my right cheek against her left breast. It took a few deep breaths of my own before I realized her chest was not rising and falling as mine did.

“Gloria?” I whispered.

Maybe she didn’t hear me.

I said her name a few more times, slowly, loudly, wondering if she had fallen asleep, although I knew she had not. I stayed there, one hundred and seventy pounds of dead weight suffocating her small frame, for several minutes, until I rolled off of her body and onto the bed beside her, my own blood inking trails into the pillowcase.

I did not look at her until I stood up, the chill of the oak floor stinging my bare feet. I moved to the farthest corner of the room before turning around to face the bed, as if I was going to be looking some very dangerous animal directly in the eye.

Gloria was not asleep. She lay with her arms spread out at her sides as a sacrifice of herself, and her eyes remained open and were suddenly too large for her skull. I stared at them until I was sure she was not going to blink.

Her red cheeks were now flushed to a dark purple and her mouth hung open to expose a dark slug that used to be her tongue, and had died trying to escape from between her lips.

I stood, frozen, trying not to move or blink or let my own breath be heard, certain that someone would hear me and come running to my bedroom, finding me exposed and still erect standing over a very naked and very dead Gloria.

I waited for the tsunami of panic to come hurdling down on me – it was surely the next step in these situations. I replayed the previous moments in my head as I waited, mentally scolding myself for my gluttony that had now left my girlfriend inanimate and me with a serious problem. These thoughts repeated in my mind, but the panic never came. Soon I found myself annoyed by her death rather than  upset; she left me with the need for an alibi, among other things that required immediate care to avoid my own possible demise.

In death, Gloria resembled some of the victims we had read about and seen pictures of: her green eyes were stuck in place with a look of permanent surprise, exaggerated by their bloating from her sockets. Her last view must have been of the ceiling, and the brown outline of a water stain that crept out from a corner of the molding. As I moved closer to the bed the only human feeling I cradled was sadness, but not at what I had done. Gloria was a pretty, young girl who had died beneath a stained ceiling and the sweat of an older man, choked to death in his carelessness and need for orgasm. I felt bad for her.

I threw on my boxers and a white t-shirt, not concerned about the open wounds on my back that would seep into the cotton. I did not bother to dress Gloria before I slid my hands beneath her, one at the middle of her back and one under her buttocks. She was already beginning to stiffen and I had to turn sideways in the doorway, so her legs would not catch on the frame. I struggled with her down the stairs and to the kitchen, planning only with each step. I laid her directly on the grey tile, not worried about a mess with no blood. I then scanned the room, hoping a plan would spring to life in front of me. I noticed the wine glasses first, standing just as we had left them hours before. I suddenly grew anxious, grabbing them by the stems, and flew to the sink, furiously scrubbing Gloria’s lipstick from the rim and her fingerprints from the rest of the glass.

I opened the cabinet beneath the sink and ran my hands through a mess of chemicals and paper towels until my fingers found a box of extra-large trash bags. Without the grace of an experienced murderer I placed one of the bags over her head, pulling it down to her navel; I pulled another over her feet, meeting the top of the first bag in the middle. I stood over Gloria, considering my work, before moving her to the basement. In most documentaries we had watched, it seemed the most popular place for the temporary storage of a body. As far as I knew, only Gloria and I knew of our relationship – I do not think an interest in whips and leather collars is something to be advertised.

Gloria remained in a far corner of the basement for several days, before I spread her over the grassy knolls of my New York suburb, using the first real prayer of my lifetime on the hope that this would make her harder to find. Officers did eventually come by with questions, but only because we had worked together; others had seen us putting books on shelves side by side but no one ever suspected that she kept my company each night.

I keep my fingers crossed each time the doorbell rings, but I am always left alone with memory of her smell and the scars on my back.

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A “Healthy” Dose of Crazy

Me, first thing in the morning. Attractive, eh?

My car needs a good wash. There’s laundry to be folded. I have 3 unfinished short stories and a novel screaming my name. The milk expired 2 days ago. Do you ever just want to scream and throw yourself overboard?

I have anxiety (me and a thousand others) and sometimes the smallest of tasks can send me into an unorganized fit. But I suppose being overly concerned about making the bed is better than not caring at all? Maybe. At least I get things done.

But that feeling is then pushed aside on the days when I can barely drag myself out from under the sheets. What then? The car remains dirty and the laundry stays in the basket. Cue the anxiety again.

I need a vacation.

Oh, so true.

 

 

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Creative A.D.H.D.

Hahaha!!!!!! (Scary...)

I think I’m only just now starting to catch on, but I think digging up lost fiction and trying to revamp everything all at once is my mind’s way of straying from the larger task at hand: working on my novel. Or beginning work on my writing prompt if I want to attempt to win any thing.

But – since I’m already here – I just uncovered yet another flash fiction piece (which I think could/should be more than that, but alas, is all it has come to be for now), and I’d appreciate some feedback on this as well. Forgive me for being all over the place – I am making a promise to myself to do some serious work on the previous piece I posted and put it up again, to prove I can make some sort of progress!

So in the meantime, here are some bits and pieces of a little ditty I call “Refuge”:

I died in fall, in the hours when the air is still and the sky gushes with red, and the drama of New Jersey stands frozen and suspended in some pocket of serenity. I watched the neighborhood slowly spring to life from beneath the solid oak porch of a large woman in her 80s, her pink cotton robe brushing against the cracks in the panels as rays of sunlight gave way to small glimpses of my cracked red lips.

A thin strand of brown hair lay plastered to the open wound on my left cheek. The plastic that covered my face blurred my surroundings, and through it I could just barely see the glistening reflections of frost on the empty beer cans that had found refuge with me there. My glazed blue eyes could scan only the environment which was right in front of them – they remained open, and frozen in a final position.

I couldn’t remember much about my actual death. Those last moments became a blur, like a night of heavy drinking. I had been taking a walk just three blocks from my home, the heavy night air kissing my face as I cleared my mind after a long day. He came as quietly as the wind and squeezed my fragile shoulders, the calluses on the tips of his fingers rubbing against my skin like sandpaper. His nails dug in directly above my shoulder blades and I went numb and disappeared.

It does go on for a bit, but I just wanted to give a general idea for now.

 

Beautiful (and creepy).

Now you may be wondering why this girl is stuffed under some old woman’s porch. Oh, you’re wondering how she’s telling a story from the other side, too? Pft. Let’s just say I was feeling very inspired by a certain Alice Sebold after reading The Lovely Bones.

It was one of those things that just popped into my strange mind and made its appearance on the page. I would love to keep working on this one and developing it into something lively. But for now, what do you think of the general story? Is this something that could be of interest to you, if it was to be built on?

As always, I’d love the feedback.

Decisions, decisions…

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How far do I take this makeover?

A healthy reminder.

I mentioned The Journal of Unlikely Entomology in a previous post, as well as the story I planned on revamping and submitting.

So after lunch today I lit a pumpkin spice candle (mmm) and dusted off the two pages of a would-be horror story, ready to go to work. I figured it would be a piece of cake to work on something that already has some sort of foundation to it. But, as I sit here staring at the tiny manuscript I’m becoming as overwhelmed as I would be starting from scratch.

And why is that? Because it sucks. It really does. It sat in a dark drawer for two years and with good reason. But, deep down, I do believe there is some potential here. A professor of mine referred to the piece as having a sort of pulp-fiction feel, which I didn’t realize it had at the time.

But it certainly needs a ton of work. There’s no real story here. My main character turns into a praying mantis and eats her lovers. Why? Sometimes, in my opinion, the reasoning can go left unsaid, and a great story can still be produced. But in my case, I feel as though it needs some sort of explanation. And maybe more dialogue? Dialogue never was an easy task for me.

The piece starts off a bit slow:

“A thin ray of light kissed the wall, displaying the outline that formed between the arch of her back and the curve of his stomach. Black hair swept his knees and she dug her nails into his fleshy thighs. He gasped, a puff of air escaping between thin lips as she drove him to heaven.”

That is the opening of two years ago. While I will say I appreciate the seediness I created, I think it feels too forced. A quick clean-up today gave me this:

“A ray of light scraped the wall and threw their outlines on display. Her black hair swept against his knees as she dug her nails into his fleshy thighs. He gasped then, as she drove him to heaven and a puff of air escaped between his thin lips.”

“Drove him to heaven” may seem a bit much, but it reminds me of a Quentin Tarantino film and works with the mood I’m trying to create.

However, a few paragraphs down digs right into the “good” stuff:

“She lifted herself from him, the suction-cup sound of parting flesh lost among groans and cries. The white walls were decorated in a contemporary splash of red as she raked at his face and chest.”

So, I was thinking, maybe diving head first into the action is a better idea. Draw the reader in from the beginning, so they don’t have time to wonder what the hell is going on. Catch ’em off guard! Eh? It’s something to consider. It won’t be her first victim, after all. There will plenty of other opportunities to explain.

It’s a welcomed break from banging my head against the wall whilst novel writing. So instead I’ll bang my head against the wall over this piece.

I’ll post something a bit lengthier once I feel confident enough to do so. This baby needs a lot of work! Any suggestions would be much appreciated.

Happy writing!

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If a black cat means bad luck, I’m screwed.

At least the one in my dream didn't look like he was going to eat me.

Could it be that my mind is going into Halloween mode, with the beautiful chilly weather we’ve been having? Or maybe it was the Merlot we drank that evening?

Either way, I haven’t had an actual nightmare in quite a while. But Saturday night brought a black cat and the premonition of death into my head.

First, here’s how it went:

I sat on the couch in someone’s living room, while a co-worker of mine was in the bathroom. Suddenly I heard the front door creak open, and turned my head to look down a long hallway, where I saw a sliver of light creep in along with the black cat. How did he open the door? I have no idea. But he slinked inside and began to make his way down the hall.

Somehow, as most of us do in strange dreams, I knew he was there for me, and that it was bad news bears.

And so I ran, frightened, into the bathroom with my co-worker, where I slammed the door shut and figured I would be safe. The cat, who had reached the bathroom just then, began to sweep his paws back and forth in the crack between door and floor, and I made every attempt I could to bat them away.

Then comes the really creepy part.

The cat’s face appeared as he effortlessly slipped his body through that same crack. Of course I nearly had a heart attack, especially when he proceeded to rise up on his back legs, coming towards me with paws outstretched.

Here, I begged: “I’m not ready to go! Not yet! There are still people I have to help!”

And with that, the cat promised me another 6 months.

I woke startled, and convinced I was going to die unless I did something to somehow benefit others.

Strange, is it not?

I’ve always been aware of the symbolism of the black cat in relation to Halloween, etc. But after a quick Google search I stumbled upon this site, that aids in interpreting dreams as crazy as my own.

The site talks about cats as symbols of femininity, independence, sexuality – all of which I did not feel were trying to be known in my dream. And then I read this:

“To see a black cat in your dream indicates that you are experiencing some fear in using your psychic abilities and believing in your intuition. You may erroneously associate the black cat with evil, destruction, and bad luck. In particular, if the black cat is biting, clawing or attacking you, then the dream means that you must acknowledge what your intuition is trying to tell you. You can no longer ignore it. Do not be afraid to face the situation. If you see a white cat, then it denotes difficult times.”

I definitely don’t think I retain any psychic abilities, but I do strongly believe in my own intuition. It has revealed the truth to me on several occasions, and when it’s at work it always puts knots in my stomach. The curious thing? I went to bed that night with that nauseous, knots-in-my-tummy feeling (but so did a girlfriend that stayed over…we thought it was the chicken from the wedding).

While the cat did not bite or claw me, I’d say standing on your hind legs and running towards me can be categorized as an attack. Is my intuition trying to tell me something? For now, I’m not sure. But I’m trying to keep my mind wide open to anything my little “friend” was trying to reveal.

For now, I’ll keep thinking it was the chicken (and the wine).

And maybe I’ll do some volunteer work…

Have any wacky dreams lately?

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Nutella: A Love Story

Yeah, I'd like to do this.

I was introduced to this delicious spread by a friend on a band and choir trip several years ago. Her German mother always kept a jar in the house, and being the chocolate lover I am, of course I was all in from the first Nutella-covered pretzel.

If you are not familiar with Nutella, please, please go buy a jar. I promise your taste buds will not regret it.

Definitely would enjoy this, too.

This chocolate-y sensation is mind-blowing on just about anything. Apples and peanut butter? Pft. Apples and hazelnut amazingness! An English Muffin smothered in butter? Think again.

Dip pretzels in it. Dip fruit in it. Dip your boyfriend in it. Put it on a spoon and eat it directly out of the container.

OK – so I should probably suggest here that you enjoy Nutella in moderation. So yeah, be healthy, blah blah blah. My waistline will remind me later.

Don’t bring me down while I’m still on my sugary high.

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A quickie!

No, not that kind! This isn’t that sort of blog! Sheesh.

While taking a break from my novel-writing, I thought I’d share a few poems I’ve written. I’d refer to my poetry skills as “eh”, but the majority of the poems I’ve completed hold some special meaning for me.

untitled

I kissed the concrete

and a thousand heartbeats

pounded against my mouth

(We died together down here.)

But who thinks of death

when you’re thinking of

your morning coffee and

collecting change for the subway

and what to make for dinner that night?

He kissed her goodbye this morning

was all he could smile about

as he said his goodbyes from

the belly of an airplane

and fell into the flames of freedom.

 

I am here, I am silent

A mother in a conduit

A daughter in a murky lie

I am here, I am silent

Screaming your name

And bouncing off the steel

That you used to

Hide my limbs

In pieces

In the plastic

That held

Our daughter’s crafts

That were never

Quite good enough

But you scraped them

From the darkness

And put me inside

And told her

I had left her

While you

Kissed her on the head

And I sucked

The cinnamon

Of her skin

And the things

She once held

The Fear

My heart made use

of the knot in my stomach

to lasso a ring around my throat.

It clawed its way

beneath my tongue a while,

a slow tempo

that caught no attention.

 

It hid there,

barely beating,

until the knot gave slack

and I took it back

as an apple,

an easy gulp,

like a snake swallowing an egg.

 

Aaaaaand, we’ll end this post with a bit of mushiness:

 

Timelines

I navigate the

stretch of road

between us

with precision.

Dips and grooves

keep me out

of daydreams

before I diagram

the constellations

I’ve memorized

in his eyes.

Passing Parker, Marilyn, some New York City chic

that lingers just before his home,

my home,

the place my beating heart lies.

 

Feedback is much appreciated. Back to the novel.

 
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

“Lady Lazarus”

Sylvia Plath

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Submit, Submit, Submit!

This is what I look like when I'm scraping for a good idea.

While strolling through the aisles of Barnes & Noble yesterday afternoon (I could spend hours in that store), I picked up a copy of Writer’s Journal and the latest issue of Poetry Magazine.

Picking up magazines and reading the poetry and short stories that get published always gives me the imaginary kick in the butt I need to get back into gear and continue submitting everything I possibly can to every literary magazine and website there possibly is.

So after flipping through the pages of Writer’s Journal, I found information on an annual contest, in which you are provided with half of a sentence to begin your story. I love writing prompts, and am definitely excited to get creative with one of these lines:

Inside the envelope…

Struggling to her feet…

Whatever you do, don’t…

I’m pretty keen on that last one, and already have a few ideas swirling inside my little head.

The possibilities are endless. So please, wish me luck!

I submitted a few poems to Poetry, which is published by the Poetry Foundation. I have all fingers and toes crossed on that one.

I’m praying that something will stick, and I’ll be able to start a platform for my future as a creative writer. In other news, the job market is still quiet. So to keep myself somewhat immersed in the literary world, I am working to get a job at the bookstore. Anything to surround me with what I love (but so bad for my wallet).

I continue the uphill struggle, sometimes bursting with inspiration and sometimes wanting to wave my white flag. So it goes for every writer; we must keep our chins up high!

                                                                                                                                                                                                       “All these words for love (for you), all these ways to say believe in symphily, to say let us live near each other.”

Reginald Dwayne Betts

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