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The Writers BurdenWriters heed your calling,
Bare arms for your right,
Take up your pen in action,
And prepare yourself to fight
Working until distraction,
In you heart it's true
For these things inside
Make the words part of you.
Writers heed your calling,
Words from your fingers slip,
To put bread into your mouth.
For art you would once happily flip,
Will keep you from moving south,
The cold of winter beckons at your minds door
Make sure to prop it open
so they can come inside.
Writers heed your calling,
You read long past stars,
making you intelligent
with words meant to be ours
but beware Astonishment,
for he is a rouge
who bottles you up
and eats you whole.
Writers heed your calling,
remember the meaning of your life,
the point behind it all.
that even in through the strife
you can't afford to fall.
Brush writer's block aside,
take charge of what you know,
and put the hate behind.
Writers heed your calling,
Trust your fellow man,
that when you are writing,
other's are writing your battle plan.
High SchoolBlank white walls,
Lockers sigh as they open,
contents sliding out,
like water in a stream.
You learn things here,
get new information
even if you don't want it
as the sky beckons from outside.
People rush by worried about
and romantic relationships.
They don't notice me,
I blend into the barren walls.
Doors engulf them,
sucking the students into the darkness.
There are so many things akin to,
The JungleMenagerie of hogs and cattle,
No returning from the machine,
Squealing hogs, swooping penalty,
Scraped, severed, slit, cut, chop, jerked
Screaming, crying, and squealing.
Skinning, chilling, boiling, labeling,
Carcasses inch-deep in blood,
Sinclair, Upton. The Jungle. New York: Bantam, 1981
Striking When I first watched the 1943 version of Pride and Prejudice I was already a huge fan of the book. It wound around in my mind like coil, curving and digging into my brain in some palaces while lightly brushing in others. Not surprisingly, I watched it alone, while my parents were out and I found myself captivated by the actors in the movie. The women weren't today's kind of beautiful. The ideal, big breasted, skinny women that men are supposed to fantasize about now days. They were curvy and a healthy kind of plump.
Their features were striking. I love that word, striking. I won't ever be gorgeous, but I have been called striking. That is my word. The one used to describe me. I am not plain or beautiful or ugly. I am striking. Maybe that's why I love older things. Back in the early 1900s, the more striking you were, the more people looked at you, the more you got to sing and dance. The more you got to be an artist and let your hair down as you
Bird The people in my neighborhood stare at me. It's not because I'm crazy like Jordan, who lives down the road in the blue house that her father repainted before we stopped being best friends. She would bounce down the street like springs were tied to her shoes, smiling with crooked teeth that she would hide when you smiled back with your teeth that were straight like cream, brick walls in your mouth.
I am a different girl, some say. Her head is off in the sky with the birds, flitting around ideas that don't make sense, no matter how hard she pulls on them with her beak. She doesn't chirp like a bird, but she sings. They don't talk about it when I'm there, but I can see it in the place in the center of the eye that betrays all lies and feelings. I'm good at hiding that place inside me. That way no one knows that inside I'm braking into tiny, cutting pieces that tear gashes into the deepest part of my soul. Torn into small fragments of myself as the
A Temporary Freedom In my head, I am free. Free to allow myself to dream of soft november mornings and cool summers where I would not melt in the suns fierce rage. Free to dream that my people are not just people that live in my imagination and spring to life when I ask it of them, like I am the puppet master and they are the puppets in my world. Where I am God for a short while, creating and destroying in turn. Sculpting the smallest detail of a meadow, down to the last blooming bud, while leaving the sky blank and starless for a short while. There, words twist like thread, stringing themselves together to create a tapestry of light in my minds eye. I sail along on the ship that is my conscience, my eyes alight with the strength of my excitement.
But when I look out the window into the other world beyond the sails go slack against the mast and my peoples face's slowly fade to black and the starless sky becomes white and blank like an empty page.
Can you blame me for resentin
Clean CanvasI go to my brothers school. It is like I have found a tear in time that sends me back to the time when I could still play with dolls and have imaginary friends without the concerned looks of those older than me. I sit on the blue kiva that I once hated so much because it had corners that caught my shoes whenever I tried to walk around it, and watch as people I once knew walk around the school, not even pausing to look my way. I wonder if they even know my name anymore. I can name them all.
"Mrs. Larson, Mrs. Sand, Mr. Johnson," the names rattle through my head like pennies in an empty jar. I pause slightly after each one to try to rub the rust away and look at it for what it was; a part of my personal history.
I wave at Mr. O, but he gives me only one passing glance, shaking his head like he meets people who wave at him vaguely all the time. It almost hurts that they cannot find it in their hearts to recall that I once went to school here, among the teeming masses of faces and names an
Left Overs It's not the same with boys. My brother can walk into a room and be expected to cruel and vague in his answers to questions directed at him by the room, seeming to breath life around him from all sides. He can suck in those words, engulfing them in the black hole of his mind, then spitting answers out like playing cards in a game that has been played too many times. I must always have something good to bring to the conversation or I will be brushed away from the holiday table, scrapped aside like the left-over turkey. Bones stick out of this turkey, only to be covered with gravy to hide the gravity of the bird body on the table. My words are like that gravy, hiding me inside. That gravy is made of human want and human lust. Yet it is also laced with human generosity. It is made of grades and expectations that haunt our every move, pestering us like the constant tat of a woodpecker against the pane of your window.
My brother moves how he wants, but
God, Whats Her Problem I sit at the table, smiling politely and nodding as that one girl tells me about her weekend in the mountains, her hand drifting over the rim of her plastic tray continually, The constant movement turns my blood a putrid orange, ready to burst forth in annoyance induced anger. I nod instead, wanting to be nice so in a moment, when I leave, she won't turn around and whisper, "God, what's her problem?"
The boy I sit next to in Biology always looks at my paper, smiling slightly as he does as though I'm that blind to him. I want to tell the teacher. but if I do then he will convince the school that I was the one in the wrong. More people wouldn't talk to me and I'd be all alone. He scratches his nose, not even bothering anymore to hide that he's cheating. Too bad for him. I raise my hand and respectfully request a seat change across the room to where it is absolutely silent and eyes are all sewn into place with words. I'm allowed, but as I move I look over and
Childish FearsChildish Fears
Doesn't it scare you that you're growing older, growing up? In days, months, years, you'll no longer be teenager. A fifth of your life will be over, and you'd be all grown up, stuffed in a suit with a tie around your neck, a briefcase in your hand and your whole life before you. Some people may think it appealing, but I don't.
I'm scared of leaving everything that's familiar behind.
I'm scared of having to fend for myself, for having to always be in control yet never really having any control.
But most of all, I'm afraid of being changed, of no longer being who I am.
No One Who Wanted to be SomeoneWhat did you want to be, Grandma? I wanted to be a veterinarian. Why are you not a veterinarian then, Grandma? Well, let me start from the beginning. That is what she said, before she told me her story of how she got to where she is now.
A farm, a large farm on a small island. A small island in the middle of the sound. That is where she grew up. On that farm where there were a lot of animals. There were sheep and cows and pigs and chickens and horses that she helped take care of. Those were the animals her father, my great grandfather, owned. But she also got to take care of the wild rabbits. There were many rabbits, and they were numerous. One could hunt rabbits all night, and not make a dent in the rabbit population on the island, she said. Her father would catch some, just enough for her and her friends to have over the long summer days. Helping the animals from their birth, living and being well taken care of, and nursing them back to health when they got sick, despite the fact tha
Dos frenos, dos alicientes ante el mismo conflicto«Era una idea sumamente atractiva, pero también infantil. El joven Scott, según decía, quería despertar de su "adormecimiento vital" desafiando las leyes de la cordura, actuando sin atender a razones. Ante una idea como esa, solo existen dos obstáculos: el freno del miedo o el freno de la desilusión; y dos alicientes: la ambición y la desesperación. La ambición entorpecida por el miedo es el conflicto antagónico que se desata en los que empiezan a vivir, en el sentido pleno de la palabra: aquellos que se atreven a despertar del sueño de la cotidianidad para lanzarse al mar bravo del mundo.
Mi conflicto era distinto: la desesperación como medio para escapar de la desilusión. Por un lado, la falta de motivación y la desgana echaban por tierra mis intentos de cambio; por otra parte, la desesperación causada por la rutina constante me instaba a romper con todas las cadenas. Pero e
Good Writers Make Bad WivesGood writers make bad wives
Who ever heard of a good wife having an opinion? Good wives are seen not heard. Same goes for good girls. It sounds crazy since we are decades passed the feminist movement and the world preaches equality, blacks, whites, men and women. Apparently what the world doesn’t preach is the unspoken rules wives and girlfriends, for that matter, abide by.
Seen not heard makes you remarkably attractive and to your man’s family desirable. Talk and share your opinions less than his mother does and you will be set.
I thought women like these went out I the last century. That the only reminisce of them were southern belles and the characters of books like The Silent Woman or The Good Wife. The women that never fully embrace that sort of life and either end up in unhappy marriages or with their heads cut off. The stupid ones who speak their minds in those books always end up headless.
That’s why the writers, politicians and women’s rights lead
Desert WorldAmid the throng and hubbub of city life, he saw the face of a young girl stand out. Hers was a friendly face, oddly serene given the time and place. She was garbed in the finest shades of blue and turquoise with accents and trims of cream and ebony black. How could he have never seen her before? Every morning for sixteen years he gazed upon the city's people and learned their routines. And yet, this girl was one person who was entirely unknown to him. Her grace and fluid movements spoke of summer oceans and dancing moons. The stars of far-off Rome and Aegypt flew within her deep eyes. In his mind's eye, he had catalogued the names and faces of everyone in the city. Was this girl new? Had he somehow never in sixteen years seen her? The notion was unthinkable to him. In a moment of passionate resolve, he took off down the stairs to try and meet her on the street before she vanished from his sight. She couldn't be hard to find; in a desert world of dull colors she stood out like a parrot
Come, have a drink.Come over here, dear. Reality is bleeding and all dreams are real. No, don't worry, it's quite alright. Come, sit with me and watch the wounds in the fabric of time and space grow deeper. Yes, of course they'll swallow all things, what did you expect? It's the entire universe. Did you think anyone could prevent it, reverse it? Did you think I could? Aw, poor little optimist. Really, though, it's quite alright.
Come. Sit. My cave is large and the fire burns against the cold rising from its ancient waters. Outside, there is thunder roaring across the vast deserts of insanity, but it's really pretty comfy in here. The cave is just an idea, of course, just a fantasy, but that is a somewhat unneccessary distinction these days.
Can you see it, over there? There is a fire blazing across the skies, every sky in every world. It's not so big now, don't worry. It's burning away the night just for a few moments before the neverending darkness starts. We won't be there to see it, of course. Do you
Die Zeit und ihre Bedeutung Ich glaube, das größte Problem der heutigen Zeit ist das Folgende: Zeit.
Keiner hat mehr Zeit für irgendetwas, so viele Dinge nehmen sie uns einfach weg. Es wäre sicher angemessen, ein Buch darüber zu schreiben, ein Werk von Bedeutung, etwas, das Literaturwissenschaftler späterer Zeit mit Bewunderung lesen würden, eine Abhandlung von großem Detailreichtum und logischen Argumentationen. Aber dafür habe ich sie nun mal nicht – die Zeit.
Sie fehlt jedem von uns, und das nicht erst seit gestern. Wenn ich nur an mich selbst denke…
Ich finde keine Zeit für Hausaufgaben. Keine Zeit zum Lesen. Keine Zeit zum Spielen. Keine Zeit für Freunde. Keine Zeit zum Lernen. Gerade einmal für Sport. Und was ist schuld daran?
Der optimistische Zukunftsjunkie wird mich dafür hassen, ebenso die meisten unserer Zeit, aber ich denke, dass es auch das eine ist, was uns die Zeit stielt, sie uns unter den H
The Mirror GirlI am crouched over myself, trying hard not to fall over. The nerves in my feet send telegrams to my brain, screaming at it to stop me from moving. I hate this, I hate this, I hate this! My mind is on repeat, the recording forever replaying, over and over. The other girls can just move and she smiles and claps, her fingers the only things that move faster than this endless tempo of music that sets my nerves on edge. I glance at the clock. An eternity until I'm free.
"Moorea!" she shrieks in that voice that is too sweet to be human. To pink to be real. "There you are. Will you try the steps, now?"
I shake my head, praying that it will come off so I won't have to step out there in front of all the other girls and stare at myself in the mirror that seems to portray different people than the people I know. The girl in the mirror who grimaces stares me in the eye. She feels the same thing I do and I can take comfort in that. At least she understands. She turns as I do, the same awkward, clun
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More