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03 May 2017 @ 10:49 pm
In another life, the 1-2-3 rhythm of Shostakovich’s Waltz 2 had lifted her to a balancé, the oboe swelling in tandem with her rising arabesque, the easy turn of a pirouette as airy as the lilting flutes.

But she has not the space – physical or emotional – for such frivolities now. They do not speak of such things, for what good is it to spare thought on a world too expired to resuscitate? Whatever memories entwined in her muscles must stay dormant, for her body serves one purpose in this new world: to Feed. She is only Friday, nothing more.
02 May 2017 @ 11:07 pm

The Swan has asked one simple thing of her, and paid good coin for it, too. Despite her distaste for her fellow thief, the Feather is glad that her reputation is so sterling that even the Swan – who has staked her embattled councilship on rooting out such practices – trusts the Feather to the task. The Feather has not once in her second career ever reneged on an assignment.

And yet.

The council spot is hers for the taking – she has the seniority among Keepers, and the Swan has left an absence. If pride were her foremost instinct, then she would finish her task. But her self-preservation – a far keener attribute for a thief – has her wondering if perhaps her future would be better served by breaking this promise, just this once.

02 May 2017 @ 01:59 am
Dee found her roommate in the usual position: hunched at her desk, poring over a terrifyingly large and presumably boring science textbook. “Hey, Dallas…”

“What do you want?” The blonde snapped at her before Dee could even put on her best wheedling voice.

“Why do you assume–”

“You’re greeting me by name instead of ‘raging bitch.’ Spit it out.”

Dee hissed through her teeth, willing the head-pounding throb of rage to go away. If only Dallas weren’t so insufferable. But she had to ask her roommate a favor, and even if Dallas seemed geared for a fight Dee could not indulge her. For her own sake.

“Would you mind maybe clearing out the room for tonight? Just for tonight. I’ll get you a six-pack or something as thanks.”

Dallas looked up from her book with a bland, emotionless poker face, save for the slowly rising eyebrow of plucked disdain. Dee’s ulcer throbbed harder.

“Knowing that our relationship is… let’s see, what’s the nicest way to say this… unfavorable, you thought you could ask me to let you fuck in our room by offering me shitty cheap beer?”

“It doesn’t have to be shitty!!”

“Dee, we’re eighteen. It’s going to be shitty.”

“Look, I’m offering you booze when I could’ve offered nothing—”

“Ooh, am I supposed to be grateful?”

“I could’ve just dragged someone in here without warning, I’m trying to be considerate—do you want to be here while I’m hooking up with someone, you perv—”

“Hey, I didn’t say I wanted to witness anything, don’t be gross. I never said I wouldn’t leave you the room. I’m just saying, if you really don’t want me to cockblock, maybe sweeten the deal.”

The ulcer did not quite wane, but at least it didn’t increase. “I’m sorry, am I incorrect in assuming you’re a studyholic nerd with no regular booze access? I’m giving you a lifeline here.”

“Well, I don’t trust your taste. How about instead of a six-pack you just get me an ID.”

Dee looked at Dallas, coolly blonde and still poker-faced Dallas, and frowned. “You serious?” The paranoid part of her wondered if Dallas’s hatred extended to a possible narc ploy, which would be low, even for this raging bitch.

Dallas assessed her too, taking in Dee’s narrowed eyes and puzzled expression. She sighed “Yes, I’m serious. Just because I don’t travel in your uber-social circles doesn’t mean I don’t have friends to drink with–”

“Whoa, I called you a nerd, not a loser, no need to dump your complexes on me—I just… this feels like this could backfire onto me as a way for you to get a new roommate and me, I don’t know, expelled.”

“What?!” Dallas’s ever-unchanging face, for once, was shocked. “Dude, I know we’re not exactly friends but it’s not like I have no moral compass. Jesus. I know we don’t get along but at least you stay out of my way and clean up your shit. You may be a bitch but at least you’re a neat bitch.”

In spite of the discussion, Dee laughed at that. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re a pretty neat bitch too.”

Dallas didn’t quite laugh, but her mouth quirked in clear amusement. “Thanks. I think.”
“Well, if you swear to whatever gods you’re into that you’re not narcing on me, I can get you an ID – not by tonight, though.”

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot, nor do I want some bargain laser-printed piece of shit. Just like… give it to me by next Friday or whatever.”

Dee nodded and extended her hand to shake. “Cool cool cool. It’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal, roomie. Have fun fucking tonight.”

“Ugh, I thought you said you weren’t going to be gross.”

“I only promised to clear the room and not narc. Everything else is fair game.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.”

“Right back atcha, neat bitch.”

notes: whoop this challenge was supposed to be 100-word drabbles, but I forgot how carried away I get with these characters. probably not gonna be this aggressive for the rest of this month. for reference, every word is a prompt from Table C here.
12 April 2017 @ 11:58 pm
steel, stainless
     of traveler fingerprints,
     no mark of the toddler cough
     or the crossfit sweat
     thousands (tens of, hundreds of)
     holding the same bars to save them
     from the train’s unpredictable
     touching the same three inches
     of bar but never each other.

     a cool silver line
     unfettered by the ass warmth
     grated into scratchy cushions
     safely above the mud and stick and sick of blackened floors
     a connection to a city (and its greater boroughs)
          “Well, she & Todd just got engaged—”
          “—beats me how he got promoted—”
          “—ten-page essay I pulled an all-nighter for—”
          “—he still hasn’t texted me—”

     stainless still.
     the only thing we share is
     this pose: head tilted at 105o,
     eyes on a little rectangle
     of acquaintance photos,
     increasingly depressing news,
     faces to swipe.

I coil myself too, trying to
use the least amount of
surface area & volume
until my stop,
scooting off to my destination to forget these
twenty strangers in my airspace,
a cellophane presence.
06 April 2017 @ 11:17 pm
My misery manifests as
a drip,
a slow trickle
unceasing, of
je ne sais quoi
my mother tongue cannot capture these
intricacies of melancholy—
would that this ennui
in a land of some freedom
were a true affliction, yet

this dissatisfaction arises
from a score of middling mediocrity,
craving coveting clamoring
for heights just beyond
fingertips stunted by
its phenotypes

parts overwhelming their sum,
filigree of filiality
woven betwixt bone and muscle
entwining me to roots
I lost long ago.
31 January 2016 @ 03:14 am

the child of last january,

a doubter (a shouter)

a silent storm of anxieties

wept at her despair,

certain of a future blanketed by uncertainty

– this child, grasping at hope,

whispered a promise of a prayer:

by next year you will be certain,

you will be solid,

you will be settled,

you will be fine.”

(by late spring a bright spark emerged

out of the clouds of winter, and

the child – no, woman, now –

found all of january’s storm dissipated –

the anxieties, the despair, the uncertainty,

all evaporated under the returned sun.)

— and then

the woman of this january,

a bad-dreamer (a screamer)

a muffled hurricane of hopelessness

mired in her labyrinth,

knowing not where an escape would be,

knowing not when an escape could be

– this woman, who watched

sand pass through her hands, an

endless cycle of certain routine,

whispered a poem,

a wakeful dream to quell her despair:

“by next year you will be elsewhere,

you will be free,

you will be wandering,

you cannot be this unhappy,

for this state is unsustainable and if you

do not break it within a year

you will never find the strength to,

and you owe it to the child of last january

to be –

the woman of next january,

a staffer (a laugher)

lives for a present that satisfies

and sees a future that does not terrify.

notes: my god i think this is my first new poem in maybe 2 years. maybe more? don't know if that's a good or bad thing.

Current Mood: in a fun insomniac mental state
Current Music: dream a little dream of me – the mamas & the papas
17 July 2015 @ 11:04 am

Gameface Media, Inc.

We provide free photos to amateur athletes in sporting events like Tough Mudders, 5ks, color runs, all sorts of fun stuff. But we'd love to get into Brandathon so we can get to the next level!

Shares work via voting :D
08 August 2013 @ 02:11 am
"Look at yourself," you whisper.

The mirror is edged in silver, each ridge a new level of wealth. The glass would be cool to the touch but you dare not mar the pristine surface with the grease of a fingerprint. You also cannot bear to move just yet.

The woman in the mirror has a face like boiled meat, with uneven lines of scarlet that have begun to dry into cracked mahogany. One eye is swollen, the violet shadows of sleeplessness replaced by the tinges of teal and lavender and yellow.

You stupid bitch!

The woman in the mirror is hideous. She is unbearable to look at but you continue to look because this is your face and you cannot hide from it. You can hide it from everyone else but you always know.

Slowly you lift your left arm towards the collection of brushes and paints you use to paint your face. To cover your face. You are not left-handed, but your right arm still feels too tender to shift even a little. Your hand finds the powder puff, which you dip into the pot of foundation that matches your skin tone perfectly, the pale cream color of luxury and perfection. Your first hit is right on the cheekbone, that sharp angled bone you are praised for.

How dare you speak to me that way?!

There are times when you fist the puff into your cheeks. You don't even feel the pain. In an odd way the sensation simulates stabbing and seems comforting. Perhaps because it is a pain you inflict on yourself. It is a pain you can control.
In the old days, in your younger, innocent days, you would have cried and ran to your brother and sobbed into his shoulder so he would avenge you. But he is long dead and you have not cried in years. Your tears are useless and ineffective and it would ruin your mascara.

Shut your fucking mouth!

You run the puff along your cheek, turning slightly to observe the effects. The purple seems only a hint darker. It seems you will need at least five layers today. That is a shame, as it means tea will have to be later than usual.

Your right eyelid dips down as you brush the puff across it, to paint over the marbling of purples and yellows with the porcelain color your skin is meant to be. Your left eyelid flutters shut too, muscle memory taking care of the action that has become automatic. With your eyes closed you can see herself the way you used to be, perfect at seventeen with smooth, unmarked skin and sparkling eyes. Lovely. They all called you lovely, and pretty, and beautiful. The fairest one of all. How long it has been since then. How much has changed.

Get out of my way, you ignorant whore!

Your eyes flicker back open, and you are greeted with the sight of your face. It is not the perfect face you dream of, but it is no longer the horrifying monster it was an hour ago. Now all you need are the finishing touches - the hint of pink on the cheeks, the charcoal lines on the eyes, and the perfect shade of cardinal to rest upon your lips.

This is as close to perfect as you will ever get.

notes: Originally wrote this in August 2012, but posting it here for future reference. and what is this druella rosier black headcanon i didn't say that
11 May 2012 @ 04:49 am
dear You -
(the person who
one day breaks
    through my walls of disbelief
to steal my
heart from its jar of

I promise
to love You,
in all the ways I know how,
from the baby knuckle
of my smallest toe
    (curling in wordless
to the infinitesimal 
whispered prose and lyrics
I sigh into your shoulder.

I ask for only
patience, for I
cannot promise mine -
    I descend from lines 
        of we who hate to be
          detained in lines -
You will be my first
in ways I will not reveal
    (at first)
but wait for 
my sign, glowing
dim in the dark,
and my best-kept
silent secrets shall 
be Yours.

I warn that I will 
frustrate You,
in countless, minute ways -
    (my faults are few
    and many)
veer from warmth and laughter
to a chilled, unfeeling veneer,
back and forth illogically
    (You must guess
    my qualm).

But know that I
promise to always miss You
when you are absent and
find You when you are near,
listen to Your secrets and fears
and keep them to 
    (for my ears only).

In return You
will be mine and I
will be Yours,
my ever-patient
steadfast, tireless
    Best friend.

notes: I kid you not, this is inspired by Tom Hiddleston's lovely reading of the equally lovely "As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H. Auden and my Hiddleston fangirling so you should totally listen to it.

This is the first poem I've posted on here in awhile and that's because even though this is in a rough state I rather like this poem. I think a lot of it has to do with this one actually coming from my heart.
23 November 2011 @ 10:32 pm

I've actually been posting new stuff on RC&R and have just been too lazy to cross-post here.

This post is mainly just an update, since I changed my layout.

Needed a fresh look, and I've missed having a sidebar.