Posts tagged prose

1920stories:

i fell thirteen flights of steps to hear her speak in someone else’s voice, a timbre unrecognizable to anyone but myself, recycled back in loop so that the sound reached my ears milliseconds after the words left my mouth, causing me to pause far to frequently to be taken seriously, and as i waited for her to quit, i could only hear my own thoughts echoing in the space between us.

“we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it. we’re never gonna make it, gonna make it, make it.“ 

wildflowerveins:

• prompt me
• collab with me
• review a piece I wrote
• submit a piece of yours for me to review
• write me something
• ask me to write you something
• tell me a story
• give me a 10 word story
• tell me your favorite line on the planet
• ask me for mine.

I will not say no to annnnnny of these.

I’ll say no to most of them, but feel free to ask anyway :)

(via loveonmysleeve)

we stared from the windows upstairs, having scraped away the dirt of decades that carefully caked itself upon the pane, to see her carried out by the sea. our own waking eye drew the scene in pale pastels, blues and greys, every part of sadness, for that moment we lost our dear white faun. all gold and silver we poured from buckets was of no use.

you leaned back and pulled out your pipe, packed it, and struck the match. the flame hovered over the brown pipeweed, and you heaved a sigh.

“go to sleep now, you little fool. she will return soon.”

even you believed not a word you said.

“Name’s Charles,” I said, “But everyone calls me Sand.”

“Nice to meet you, Sand,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?” I didn’t. Smiling, she slid a clipboard across the desk and tossed a pen at me. To my credit, I was sober enough to snatch the pen out of the air and begin initialing each page in one smoothe movement. It didn’t usually go that well.

“Don’t forget to sign the last three,” she said.

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’ve done this before, you know,” I said without looking up. She smiled the kind of smile that should be a warning sign to you, the one that says I’m pulling one over on you and you don’t even realize it, the one that marks the devious and sinister side of someone the majority of people would avoid on sight. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.

“What number is it this time, Sand? Seven? Eight?”

“Twelve.”

Her smile faded, her nostrils flared briefly, her eyes widened slightly, and her pupils narrowed, a fraction of a second of horror on her face before she composed herself. Her smile was less mischievous this time. More disheartened.

“My,” she said, “that’s… unheard of. You do know that after-“

“Yeah, I know, four-fifths and you lose,” I said. I scribbled my name on the last page and slid the clipboard back across the desk. “Mind if I keep the pen?” It was a nice fake fountain style, good wooden finish, no scratches, and wrote like a dream. I put it in my pocket before she could answer.

She took the papers and looked over them. She nodded, standing with an arm outstretched. I took her hand and shook once before turning to the door. My skin had barely brushed the metal of the doorknob when a voice came over the intercom on the desk.

“Margaret?” it said. It was soft and boyish and sing-songy and devoid of emotion. “Margaret, would you have Mr. Sand wait for a moment, please?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking at me.

“Thank you so much,” it said. I rolled my eyes. The lilt of his voice and the way he dragged out the o’s into a long note that dipped in the middle made me hate myself. I pulled out a chair from the desk and slouched into it, putting my feet up on the desk. Julie gave a half frightened half exasperated sigh and began organizing the desk.

Several minutes later, the door creaked open. A man stepped in. Average in height, not a big man, but not thin either. His eyes glittered and his smile shone, a sort of tangible anger. His dark blue suit and tie made him look all manner of professional, but the smile and slight giggle as he entered the room made him into a child. It was all familiar, and for good reason.

“Mr. Murdoch, this is-” Margaret began to say, but was cut off, the shock of which seemed to glue her to her chair.

“Hello, Sand,” he said, the quick rush of a single laugh, the single ha, coming just after finishing my name. His face was bright and cheerful, as though he were very happy to see me. And in truth, he was.

“Julian,” I said.

“Come for another deposit, have we?”

“As usual.”

“You’re taking too many.”

“Not nearly.”

I grinned at him, the old leathery skin and silver stubble, the old man teeth of mine, always infuriating him. The light left his face like darkness filling the room after the switch has been flipped.

“Sand, at this rate, I’m going to own you next week. Is that what you want?” he said. It was odd to see his genuine concern. Just goes to show.

“No, you won’t,” I said. “That’s not how this works, remember?”

“Of course I remember. But still, four-fifths, that’s legally mine.”

I grinned again. “Sure. But I made the rules, I can change them.”

He passed a hand over his face. “I’ll never win this one,” he said. “I do wish you wouldn’t do this to me, though. It makes the numbers look bad.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a red moleskin. “What is it this time? The usual?” His left hand held the moleskin open, his right arm dropped to his side and he made a sharp jerking motion with his hand, which came back up to the moleskin with the fake fountain pen ready to write.

“Yeah,” I said, “and a few extras.” I pulled a list out of my pocket and handed it to him. He scribbled some more in the notebook. As soon as the pen left the page, the moleskin and pen had vanished from his hands.

“Alright, done, now get out of here.”

“But how’s business lately?” I asked, partially from curiosity, but more to annoy him.

“Fine, it’s almost too easy these days. You really did all my work for me back then. People are far too ignorant now.”

“Well that’s good, I did my job then.”

“Yeah.” He turned toward the door, swung the door halfway open, and paused. “Uh,” he said, looking at his shoes, “How’s… How’s mum?”

“She’s doing just swell,” I said. “She finally stopped cursing the neighbors. I’ll tell her you asked, she’ll be delighted.”

“Sure she will. Always loved me. Oh, and stop stealing the pens.”

I smiled and nodded, Julian sighed and left, and Margaret, whom I’d nearly forgotten about, looked awful. I smiled at her. “Are we finished?”

She shook herself. “Yes, yes we are,” she said unsteadily.

“Thank you very much for your time, Margaret,” I smiled again and got up to leave.

“Do you need fare for the river?”

“No, Kary and I are good friends.”

(Source: cafeofthedamned)

“Name’s Charles,” I said, “But everyone calls me Sand.”

“Nice to meet you, Sand,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?” I didn’t. Smiling, she slid a clipboard across the desk and tossed a pen at me. To my credit, I was sober enough to snatch the pen out of the air and begin initialing each page in one smoothe movement. It didn’t usually go that well.

“Don’t forget to sign the last three,” she said.

“Yeah yeah, I know, I’ve done this before, you know,” I said without looking up.
She smiled the kind of smile that should be a warning sign to you, the one that says I’m pulling one over on you and you don’t even realize it, the one that marks the devious and sinister side of someone the majority of people would avoid on sight. Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.

“What number is it this time, Sand? Seven? Eight?”

“Twelve.”

Her smile faded, her nostrils flared briefly, her eyes widened slightly, and her pupils narrowed, a fraction of a second of horror on her face before she composed herself. Her smile was less mischievous this time. More disheartened.

“My,” she said, “that’s… unheard of. You do know that after-“

“Yeah, I know, four-fifths and you lose,” I said. I scribbled my name on the last page and slid the clipboard back across the desk. “Mind if I keep the pen?” It was a nice fake fountain style, good wooden finish, no scratches, and wrote like a dream. I put it in my pocket before she could answer.

She took the papers and looked over them. She nodded, standing with an arm outstretched. I took her hand and shook once before turning to the door. My skin had barely brushed the metal of the doorknob when a voice came over the intercom on the desk.

“Margaret?” it said. It was soft and boyish and sing-songy and devoid of emotion. “Margaret, would you have Mr. Sand wait for a moment, please?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking at me.

“Thank you so much,” it said. I rolled my eyes. The lilt of his voice and the way he dragged out the o’s into a long note that dipped in the middle made me hate myself. I pulled out a chair from the desk and slouched into it, putting my feet up on the desk. Julie gave a half frightened half exasperated sigh and began organizing the desk.

Several minutes later, the door creaked open. A man stepped in. Average in height, not a big man, but not thin either. His eyes glittered and his smile shone, a sort of tangible anger. His dark blue suit and tie made him look all manner of professional, but the smile and slight giggle as he entered the room made him into a child. It was all familiar, and for good reason.

“Mr. Murdoch, this is-” Margaret began to say, but was cut off, the shock of which seemed to glue her to her chair.

“Hello, Sand,” he said, the quick rush of a single laugh, the single ha, coming just after finishing my name. His face was bright and cheerful, as though he were very happy to see me. And in truth, he was.

“Julian,” I said.

“Come for another deposit, have we?”

“As usual.”

“You’re taking too many.”

“Not nearly.”

I grinned at him, the old leathery skin and silver stubble, the old man teeth of mine, always infuriating him. The light left his face like darkness filling the room after the switch has been flipped.

“Sand, at this rate, I’m going to own you next week. Is that what you want?” he said. It was odd to see his genuine concern. Just goes to show.

“No, you won’t,” I said. “That’s not how this works, remember?”

“Of course I remember. But still, four-fifths, that’s legally mine.”

I grinned again. “Sure. But I made the rules, I can change them.”

He passed a hand over his face. “I’ll never win this one,” he said. “I do wish you wouldn’t do this to me, though. It makes the numbers look bad.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a red moleskin. “What is it this time? The usual?” His left hand held the moleskin open, his right arm dropped to his side and he made a sharp jerking motion with his hand, which came back up to the moleskin with the fake fountain pen ready to write.

“Yeah,” I said, “and a few extras.” I pulled a list out of my pocket and handed it to him. He scribbled some more in the notebook. As soon as the pen left the page, the moleskin and pen had vanished from his hands.

“Alright, done, now get out of here.”

“But how’s business lately?” I asked, partially from curiosity, but more to annoy him.

“Fine, it’s almost too easy these days. You really did all my work for me back then. People are far too ignorant now.”

“Well that’s good, I did my job then.”

“Yeah.” He turned toward the door, swung the door halfway open, and paused. “Uh,” he said, looking at his shoes, “How’s… How’s mum?”

“She’s doing just swell,” I said. “She finally stopped cursing the neighbors. I’ll tell her you asked, she’ll be delighted.”

“Sure she will. Always loved me. Oh, and stop stealing the pens.”

I smiled and nodded, Julian sighed and left, and Margaret, whom I’d nearly forgotten about, looked awful. I smiled at her. “Are we finished?”

She shook herself. “Yes, yes we are,” she said unsteadily.

“Thank you very much for your time, Margaret,” I smiled again and got up to leave.

“Do you need fare for the river?”

“No, Kary and I are good friends.”

i had turned five less than half a month before he died. i didn’t know him yet, but in four short years, some friends at school would introduce me to him and he would change my life. as well as give me some huge pointers on the do’s and don’ts of life.

i remember the first time i heard his voice. it was actually a year after he was gone, on the radio. they were remembering him for the “amazing hero” he was. i’m still not sure whether or not i feel that way about him. all i know is i recognized his voice as my own, long before i knew it was possible to have my own voice.

it wasn’t until high school that my constant listening to this beautiful face made sense. it was after class one day, before rugby practice, when i understood the words that came from his mouth. most would have written them off as the garbled nonsense of a rambling junkie, but not me. i discovered what he wanted to say in those words. i could hear him. and he spoke to me as plain as day.

the first crushing defeat i felt was when i realized he was dead, six years after the greenhouse accident. i felt much the same about James, that it just wasn’t possible that he let himself go that far. i couldn’t bear it. i cried for weeks.

it was childish, i’ll admit. and i got made fun of as well, by everyone, from the fans of his to the jocks to the preppy cheerleaders. but they didn’t understand, as most people didn’t. 

but he understood. and he taught me so much. more than i’ll ever be able to give back to the world. and i still look at his face and wish that i’d have had the chance to know him. not that i think it would have made any difference, but it still would have been the greatest acquaintanceship, and possibly friendships, that would happened on the planet.

i just wonder what he would have thought of me.

he probably would have laughed.

everyone does.

and on the way home, I made a stop.

and a funny thing happened then.

I bought something, there was a strange serendipitous moment, and plenty of good laughs.

my backpack looked like so:

I put it on the counter of the shop and began to pay.

the shop owner asked me if I wanted a bag. I said no, I’d just put it in the backpack.

so I open the backpack and begin to move things around to make room for my purchase.

when I sign the receipt, the backpack looks like this on the counter:

I pull the books out all the way, sign, and grab my purchase.

which is when both the shop owner and I freeze, stare, and begin to laugh uproariously.

why?, you might be asking yourself.

well, because the backpack now looked something like this:

yes, funny coincidences do happen.

“I write because it’s my lifeblood.”

“I write because it’s the air I breathe.”

“I write because no one understands me but the page.”

That’s stupid. Borderline retarded. You may actually be an idiot. And not even subjectively. By law and regulation, your IQ is probably 12.

Write because you love it. And tell people that. Don’t get all flowery and poetic and “oh poor me I’m a tortured artist love me.” That’s annoying. And I can’t take you seriously. Ever. 

Why?

Because every single wannabe writer writes for that reason. They don’t care about transmitting the picture from their head to yours via ink. They want attention. 

And those answers are for attention.

Why do I write?

I love to write. I love the challenge. I love that I can’t write for days and days, but suddenly something will strike me and I can’t write enough of it down. And then I get frustrated and crumple up the page and toss it in the corner for a few days until I pick it up again and think, “Hey, this might actually make something good…”

I write because I love being angry at that blank sheet of paper, that blank document, sitting in front of me, just waiting for me to write on it. I love the fear that comes when I start the first sentence and scratch it out several times until it’s just right and I feel I can continue on with the story. I love how that little blinking cursor taunts me at the end of the last sentence, waiting for me to write more, because it knows I haven’t done my best. It knows I’ll come back in a few minutes or hours or days or weeks or months and fix it. And it lets me know that.

I write because I can’t live without that anxiety, that stress, that comes when you’ve written something you think is fantastic, and despite your conviction that you’re really writing just to write, your heart sinks to your stomach and you dry heave when no one says anything about your latest work of brilliance. I write for the rejection, for the people who criticize me and say they can do better but never try. Because at least I’m giving it my best shot. What the fuck have you done lately? I may not hit the mark every time, hell, I might not even hit the target, but at least I pulled the fucking trigger.

Write because you love it. And tell people just that. Don’t hide it. Don’t be coy. That shit isn’t cute. It’s bothersome, like that fly that buzzes in the room but you can’t find it, and when you finally do it’s because it’s crawling on your face. So you kill it. You smash it. You render its form meaningless.

I will kill you. I will render you meaningless.

1920stories:

As we left Malibu, I could already tell we were done for. My wife, my beautiful wife, the woman of my dreams, hunched over behind the wheel of our newly destroyed ‘67 Mustang, knuckles white as she stomped on the gas and spun us out of the parking lot. “Hand it here!” she screamed over the roar of the engine. I handed her the rag and she took a deep inhale. I poured some of the ol’ high-concentrate onto a spoon and drank it. I could feel it immediately. A nice, relaxing buzz set over me. She was swerving all over the road, face still buried in the rag. I clawed at it, trying to stop her from blinding herself. Trying to stop us from crashing.

As she pulled it away, I was horrified. The goddamn thing had ripped her face off. She looked at me in my terror, my face white and my eyes huge, and asked, all stripped down bloody muscle, “What’s wrong, darling?”

I blinked and shook my head. “Nothing, nothing. Just… Do you still have your face on?”

“What?”

“Your face. The nice one. Do you still have it on?”

She smiled her gruesome smile, handing the rag back to me. I took it from her hand, which had now begun to melt. The whole car was filling with this noxious liquid, oozing in from everywhere. “Get me some fucking golf shoes!” I yelled, and felt her hand on my face. I looked up. She was normal. Thank fucking god.

“Don’t worry, dear. We’re alright. There’s no one in the mountains.” She smiled. It grew terrible and wicked. She laughed deeply, hollowly, and I knew we were done for.

1920stories:

                                      ::[Begin transmission]::

I’m not real proud of this, Victoria, but I caught the bug before I met you. I told you when you first kissed me that I probably wouldn’t give it up. You understood. Driving all those miles through space amped up with the metal blasting through the speakers, yeah, you understood perfectly. It’s what I do. Same as you.

It used to be for the money, but that obsession’s faded away by now. I’ve got my own ship, too, because of those few jobs I pulled outside of Coros on our honeymoon. Twelve mil a pop, babe. It was golden. I saved some of it, and even got you a present, you should be getting it soon.

Odds are, I won’t be back. And I’m sorry. But the game is on, and I have to play. I start to itch if I don’t catch some of those sweet, money-laden heads. 

The gift is an account, number is our birthdays plus the wedding date. The order should be pretty easy for you to figure out, you’re smart. That’s why I married you.

There’s a few saved up in there already. I’ll keep adding with every head I catch, as a way of apologizing for leaving. I hope you’re doing alright, and I hope you don’t hate me as much now. I know it’s been a year or so, but I also know you love to hold your grudges.

If I come back, I hope you’ll forgive me. Hell, I hope you’ll forgive me anyway. But if not, well…

I love you. I’m sorry I can’t ignore the itch.

Adios, cowboy.

                                      ::[End transmission]::

They glance over it, mention it briefly, tell you that it happens, and never spend any time really explaining it to you.

Everything, absolutely everything, that you write creatively is a part of you, a piece of your emotion, a scrap of who you are. Sounds pretentious, right? Lucky for you, it isn’t. 

You can’t write about something you don’t know. Try it. Write about something you don’t know. 

Anything? No?

You couldn’t write about it because you needed to know something about it, right? You needed to have some image in your head, some feeling about it. Even the worlds that you create, you have to learn about them, you have to discover them, form opinions and emotions about it, and put those on the page, learning about the world as you go. Even if you’re writing about something real, like the couch that I’m sitting on right now, I have to think about it, study it a little, describe the tears and the worn leather and the color. I have my feelings about this couch. And when I write about it, those feelings come through. You may not know that other people feel different about this couch, but it’s true. What you read is me, and it’s personal, even when it sounds like it isn’t.

The point is: Everything you write is a bit of you. Every piece is personal. Call it what you want, your blood in the words and ink, your soul on paper, simply your ideas, whatever you like to describe it as, it’s part of you.

You can’t write creatively without it being personal. 

If you think you can, you’re lying to yourself. 

And you probably write poorly as well.

and she keeps walking. day and night, year after year. for as long as she has to, right?

and maybe someday she’ll get lucky. maybe someday she’ll be lucky enough to walk over the tracks and get hit by a train. a metaphor for her existence; everywhere all at once.

maybe one day she’ll get lucky. 

maybe one day everyone will define her as she felt.

maybe.

(Source: cafeofthedamned)

lilysofthefield:

Inkstains and Heartbeats: The Collective
By: Tumblr Writing Community 

A collection of creativity. Featuring 231 pieces and 232 beautiful people.

Paperback: $12.70

Hardcover: $20.45

Hey, I’m totally in this.

Y’all should give me money so I can buy it for myself…

Remember: Your donation is tax deductible.

and she keeps walking. day and night, year after year. for as long as she has to, right?

and maybe someday she’ll get lucky. maybe someday she’ll be lucky enough to walk over the tracks and get hit by a train. a metaphor for her existence; everywhere all at once.

maybe one day she’ll get lucky. 

maybe one day everyone will define her as she felt.

maybe.