Thread Tools

zyne
they/them
10935.18
zyne is offline
 
#1
Old 03-06-2015, 12:00 AM

Contrary to popular belief, I actually enjoy writing. This is a lie, there is no "popular belief" and I highly doubt anyone spends that much time thinking about me in the first place. That's a lie also, there is one, extraordinary soul who cares that much about me: myself. God damn, self, you are just too egotistical. Anyway, I'll type in (mostly) proper grammar and spelling here since it is a writing forum.

Also I'll decorate this thread nicely one day. Maybe. Doubt anyone will read or look in since I probably wouldn't read or look in anyone else's thread if I weren't asked to. (Once again, I love being narcissistic as all Hell.) But, just in case, hello - I'm sorry you read this far and I apologize even further if you're going to read more because my writing is not very good but thanks for visiting anyway.

I'm not going to be posting whole pieces because I tend to hate most of the stuff I write except for maybe a few parts that I hate a little less. So probably drabbles, some poetry, and some drabbles of poetry. Great. I hope it's okay if I begin on the second post. I like to keep things separated.

zyne
they/them
10935.18
zyne is offline
 
#2
Old 03-06-2015, 12:17 AM

(Excerpt from a flash-fiction.)

That was the best kind of music: the sound of crackling and the overwhelming heat, the blisters and burns I sometimes get when I let my guard down a bit, when I step a little too close to the flames. There’s an unparalleled song in the fire, a phoenix that sings a tune far more beautiful than any song I’d ever heard, any concert I’d bootlegged, any anything that had ever graced my ears. A chorus of embers. There’s the roar, the feel of smoke stinging your eyes – do you know what that’s like – to feel like all your impurities are being burned away? To feel your sins baptized by fire? It’s defeaning. It’s holy.

So, craving confession, I set fire to the kitchen. Whispered to the flames my secrets and let them lap in my direction before stepping away. It wasn’t my first fire and not my last - didn’t even stand out in any means except for being marked as the one who got me kicked out of the Higginbottom’s and the end of my trombone lessons. By all knowledge of the law the entire thing was a complete accident and I was the poor, poor orphan victim whose cruel parents kicked me out. By all words of the Higginbottoms, they loved me, truly they did, but they just didn’t have the capabilities and proper knowledge to manage a child like me. By all thoughts of myself, I was out of another house that I hated and had given myself a truly burning glory of a gift.

--

(This one makes me feel like an emo kid trying to sound edgy.)

It was on the corner of oak and elm
where the lamp bulb had shattered last Christmas
and no one had cared to replace it
she had taken her first
passed by a boy with hair green
as toxic sludge
He had seen her watching
the cigarette between his lips
"Want to try?" He asked
teeth gleaming like broken glass
Why not? She thought
There was nothing lovely about a cigarette
but, Hell,
she had never been a romantic in the first place
"Why not?" Her voice echoed
and she sucked in the smoke
curling in her lungs,
burning in her throat
but she simply breathed it in
and let it go
"Thought it was your first." He remarked
"It was." She said
"I've always been good
at holding down the bile."

--

(I don't even remember writing this but I'm clearing out my phone.)

"Consider yourself lucky."
They say with smiles painted
The perfect picture
Fitted blazers, argyle socks
Classrooms with no windows
And the ones that have them don't open
Don't want to waste the warm air
"An education like this is enviable"
And we think it must be true
After all, that's what they teach us
There are kids out there Dying
for an education like ours
We don't have the heart to tell them
that we are dying
from the education we have
And it's not volcanoes or calculus or
Henry God-damn Thoreau
It's not Shakespeare or formulas;
It's all in the wrist
Red pen spilling like blood
A-, C+, smiley face, frown
Piles of grades and classes
GPA, test scores,
Have you applied for scholarships?
Some of us are drowning
Salt water in our eyes and
we can't see the life jackets
The rest of us are in boats
Keeping afloat among the waves
Man the wheel, hoist the sails
"How talented" "How impressive"
How we steer through the storm
How so many others have failed
How brave we must look,
turning those icebergs and
riding that blue
How pathetic it must seem then
that we can't quite admit it:
We're seasick.

zyne
they/them
10935.18
zyne is offline
 
#3
Old 03-06-2015, 12:18 AM

(A flash-fiction about dissociation.)

Something’s missing.

You aren’t sure how long it has been although the darkness outside your window suggests that it must have been a few hours now. Time has definitely passed since the faint blue of midday.

A stomach gurgles. You are suddenly aware that there is an emptiness biting and that you require sustenance.

Mouth dry, you part your lips and attempt to speak but nothing comes out. Smoke has clogged up your throat. You open your mouth further until you feel a pain at the edges and a pop in your jaw, securing an opening.

You try to speak but the only thing that comes out is a guttural growling like the whirring of an engine fan. Slowly, slowly – like staring at drying paint or watching reruns on television – your hand reaches the concave of your mouth and you are aware that two of your fingers touch your tongue. You regain some feeling in both, pulling your hand away and staring at it.

It seems foreign. You move it left... right... left… right. It is yours, isn’t it? You aren’t sure. You bite your hand and pain sears, clarity returns. Skin throbbing, you know the engine inside your brain has started again and although the fog has cleared somehow you think that you are so incredibly tired.

All the cords and wires hum with electricity inside of you. A bubble bath of energy and connections – that’s the most interesting part, you think, how well it all seems to flow together. Like mechanical gears turning, turning, turning – each movement perfectly planned and motion flowing and there you are watching it all like some company boss. You head down the stairs.

She hears you coming. You wish she wouldn’t.

“Finally choosing to talk to us?” She asks, always asks. You’re connected now and the electricity is so overwhelming and your parts haven’t been cared for in a while. A bit of clear oil leaks in the corner of your eyes and rolls down your flesh cheeks. They feel hot, burning of shame. She shakes her head and goes back to watching the television. You can’t remember the last time you watched a movie or a show or even just sat around and listened to music. You can’t remember much these days.

“I-“ You begin but instantly stop, leaving your mouth hanging wide open. This isn’t your voice. You aren’t sure who’s talking or what your voice truly sounds like but you know that this isn’t you. “I-“ You try again. This time she turns around, give you a stare that chills the generator inside of you and shuts it down. You recall reading once that computers like the cold but you think that you’d prefer the heat- at least then you’d know that you were working.

“Spit it out.” She commands but you don’t even remember what you were going to say. Were you going to say anything at all? You notice the dark underneath her eyes and the wrinkles on her hands and the way she seems so feeble like wilting petals.

“I’m sorry.” You finally manage with a great deal of effort. The words don’t taste right and you almost wish you could take them back but then you watch her face relax. Something cracks beneath the hard resin and there is tenderness to her eyes that you haven’t seen in months. For a moment it as if you are truly there. Fully witness to the moment that you have created and you try to cling to the feeling. Try to tear off all the wires and gears, try to rip the cables and pull out all the outlets. You want to say that you don’t need electricity - you’ll run on the power of life. But you can’t.

“It’s okay.” She says in a voice so quiet that you can barely hear her above all the whirring inside of you. Captain Hook stares at you and she wants his clock back but it keeps on ticking and tocking inside your stomach and you don’t think it will ever come out. You can’t tell her that you don’t want it there either.

And suddenly you don’t feel sad or empty or detached – you feel angry. Everything inside of you is turning so fast and loud and you’re surprised that she doesn’t comment on the heat rushing to your face or the smoke pouring out your ears. You’re absolutely furious.

You’re furious because you’re sick of not feeling anything and not feeling attached to anything. You’re furious because you keep losing track of time. You’re furious that you’re disappointing your mother. Most of all, you’re furious at yourself, at this monster creeping inside the crevices of your brain like a virus sneaking past all your defenses. Your firewall just wasn’t strong enough.

Nails dig into your palms so hard you know that they must be yours. The hot oil is spilling again. You shake back and forth like there is a glitch in your system.

Then it passes. Your mother’s sad, sad eyes seem to fade and you are looking out at her from somewhere within. A place where the smog is thick and you can barely see out except for two tiny holes peering into the world. Your circuits have been cut and you’re barely buzzing, heartbeat slowing to a dull thud. You don’t know why you were ever so angry. Was that even you? You don’t even think this body is yours. Somewhere distant you are aware that she is still staring at you and for a moment you think you feel something in your chest. Guilt, maybe? The tiniest flicker of the fury barely moments before? You can’t place it. You can’t bring yourself to care to place it.

“It’s okay.” She says again but her voice sounds muffled like you’re underwater or in a different room or on the other side of a glass screen. “It’s okay.”

zyne
they/them
10935.18
zyne is offline
 
#4
Old 03-06-2015, 05:37 AM

(A poem about summer that I wrote so that I could apply for a network.)

And there’s something about summer
Something in the dizziness and the flames
In the popsicles dripping, coating
Your fingers in their sticky mass
Disgusting - you think - delicious

Something in the heat and the blur
In the tall of the grass reaching, reaching
Crawling against your knees and you fall,
grasp the dirt in the palm of your hands
Don’t check underneath your fingernails

Something in the bug bites and the scrapes
In the tails of the comets your nails
Carved into flesh, constellations of red
“Stop scratching.” Your mother says
In that way mothers do, you obey
Ember galaxies fade back into skin

Something in the humidity and the warmth
In the heat that isn’t simply felt, but known
Languid murmurs, sweltering skin
And the taste of molasses
Sweet against your tongue
But so bitterly slow

And there’s something about summer
That you cannot name but it
Nestles in the crook of your mouth
and spills through the part of your lips
“This is it,” it slurs, “you are here.”
--

“There’s a certain beauty to it.”
You tell me with eyes as full of wonder
as the tides sweep underneath us -
an apocalypse embodied.
“There’s no beauty to this.”
I reply with a voice of thunder
but the resolution of rain
You smile, don't respond
And I can't help but think
Of course someone like you
would find beauty in disaster

 


Currently Active Users Viewing This Thread: 1 (0 members and 1 guests)
 
Thread Tools

 
Forum Jump

no new posts