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  1. 4 points
    1. make yourself look bigger than it. YOU are the predator here. YOU are the dangerous beast. 2. distract it with loud noises, bright lights. the beast is stupid 3. show little emotion. do not let it see you are beaten down by its six rejections. do not show your anger at its curving and elusive lines. but show just enough to pass the "I am not a robot test." show enough to remind people that you are still breathing. 4. yell. scare it away. make it hide and cry like you once did. like you still do. 5. try again. deep breath. do not let your fingers tremble on the keyboard. do not let the beast win.
  2. 4 points
    hello, my name is beaten (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) shoes kicked off to dance floor edges one sock black one sock grey sub-basement floor to ceiling mirrors line far wall (and bare pipes line concrete hallway ceiling. to clint: that is a natural gas pipe. we are the canaries.) we face the mirrors. right jab, left jab, hook, knee. block. block. hands up, forearms pressed together. box block. hook. step, pivot, roundhouse. focus on the motion do not focus on the thing you are insuring against pair up. practice hold escapes (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) he demonstrated the 'domestic violence choke' (aside, to me: what a terrible name) focus on the motion do not focus on what you are insuring against box block. twist. palm strike. try not to flinch when your classmate's cool hands touch your neck box block. twist. roundhouse.
  3. 4 points
    i. grey blue roses edged in gold he's standing there in the parking lot of bed bath & beyond just across from the sensible restaurant of the family, friends, and i. he’s wearing ratty old converses and his hair is recognizable and his eyes are those that i’ve missed. his shirt is clean, almost pressed, and it hangs off his gangly shoulders, the very ones i was once afraid of crushing. it's not different, in fact it has a startling likeness to his existence between white and yellow painted brick walls and overheated and overemotional glances. it’s his wings, small jumbled grey ones fluttering in the wind and damp from the rain that separates him from what i think is real and what i know isn’t. he sounds like a d minor chord on an old wheezing piano and sad laughter from an overfilled but too-hollow cafeteria. we stare at eachother, angel and mortal, till his lips part and he whispers a whisper that i can hear clearly in my head, open your eyes. and then the server is setting plates down of food and the angel shivered out of existence. the first time i saw him with those dapple grey blue wings was when i was asleep. he sat on my windowsill and helped me down, carried me over the red brick and shrubbery and smiled as i set my bare feet against the cold cement. it was too quiet, but he walked me to a mcdonalds anyway and sat me outside and told me he loved me in between bites of his chicken nuggets. this is how i knew he wasn’t really the boy i saw in my waking life. but i still saw the angel now and again. he reminded me of his grey blue traced in gold, small veins of something more valuable. i thought i saw him running on the field outside another building of yellow and white (this one bigger) but it was a different boy. still tracings of gold, melting and dripping, but on a backdrop of innocent and good intending white. nothing like the tired and weary blue. i'd gotten my closure, the day our eyes met through the bus door glass as he descended like a king to play peasant with a poor farmer boy. but the angel haunted me. promised me salvation every step of a tiring journey that only ended in me falling off of a cliff. ii. white and gold lilies golden flickering lights poking through the dark of a city, a violin singing middle, then high, then low like a backtrack, feathers dipped in liquid metal. he is an angel, with white wings and black hair and gold everything else, but he's not my angel. he's the innocence of a group of friends buying drinks and ambling down a sidewalk and giggling in the cubby of a large turning wheel. he’s the gentle hum of cars over a highway and the breathing of lover. he floats and sprinkles stardust and dotes over teenagers who think they're going to live forever. we wonder where his golden heart tipped arrows went. he was mumble rap with the twinkle of something lighter over the thrum of a beat, the cheerful whisper of sailor moon and sushi on a sunday. he was a party, confusing, wild, making your heart thump. seconds of something interesting and lovely, but days of that to someone else. someone who needed that. he could be a lion if he wanted to, walking into rooms with his chest out like he's daring lonely hyenas to snap at his heels. he doesn't wait for me in parking lots and doesn't pick white daisies for me but his eyes flash in between buildings and i’m certain the white and gold feather and drifted to my feet belonged to him. of course he wouldn't leave it there on accident, he was the type to pluck it off his wings and hover above me with his cheek on his knuckles as he flicked it from his fingers, smirking as i bent to pick it up. he wasn't my angel, neither was the blue one, but unlike the bluebird the golden cupid had someone (else) to protect, he just liked to dance around the rules. iii. crumpled chrysanthemums this angel was like turning on a spotlight in a dark room. it was inky and the grey blue rose’s hand was on my shoulder and the white and gold lily was hovering over me with a smirk. but then the lights flicked on. these lights are gold and orange. glittering faintly of yellow and radiating warmth. like tapping someone on the arm for them to turn around and greet you with a sunrise of a smile. he was a sunrise. i couldn’t move my thoughts through my mouth. this angel poured himself into my presence so unlike the others did. his hair was on fire and his wings fluttered excitedly. smiles smiles smiles. he told me my eyes were root beer and i wanted to tell him i was losing my power to drag words from my heart or else i would have showered him in what he needed to know: you are beautiful. you are worthy. you are everything to me. this angel sat with me in the park and bought me hot chocolate but his face crumpled, sometimes, too. just like the lily and the rose, this boy crumpled, and it was strange to see someone so alive have so many scars. i saw the other sides of this angel, too; how he curled his feather-down wings around his shoulders when he needed to and cried like any other human. i thought maybe this was the angel meant for me, but i knew this wasn’t the case and that was okay. this angel didn’t have the choice, he was the lion and bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t make people shy away but rather brought them closer. this angel hid things but talked liked he was freedom himself. this angel was terrified of the same things as i was. his wings were pale and freckled with orange, just like the boy. a proper weasley, you could say. and i could see the bravery. he was so mortal so much more living than the angels before him, yet so unafraid to hold me, to let me stutter, to sweep me up in his arms. he wasn’t lingering looks and building tension. he was honesty. when he told me he loved me, i knew it was him. his bravery leaked into my heart, like holding bright orange flowers in the rain and seeing the petals fall and drip over my skin. i wanted nothing more. when he touched my back, i felt something. i think maybe, this boy taught me that i had wings too. we protect one another, now. or at least we try. (note: i'm super sorry if this doesn't count as fiction??)
  4. 4 points
    heartbeats. if there is not room for all the things you need to say shrink down to the size of insignificance and pay attention to what you're made of. atrium. here you will find scar tissue and building block memories in a castle of too-sharp pain. there is something beautiful in broken things, learn to appreciate it and maybe maybe maybe some of the loose puzzle pieces will fall into place. veins. the things you tried to forget are here. when she doesn't talk to you anymore, come here. when you're afraid of losing him, come here. wrap your shoulders in warm-breathed nights of unholy confession, in arms covered in sharpie because we're too young for tattoos. live in the past for a moment or two while you still have the chance. ventricles. step inside and put your hands behind your back clasp your fingers like you're trying to keep from falling apart and watch. if depression is a chasm this place is a mountain dreams like blue-white water froth and your soul is an ocean. maybe if you squint your stained-glass eyes and hold the breath you're already losing there might still be hope. vena cava. fill your lungs with stale air and breathe out something fresh. don't shake too hard. take one last look at the twisted ground you don't understand. like preschool art or a homemade card it's probably worhtless but someone still cares. ________________________ author's note: i live for using different pronouns in romance-y parts of poems
  5. 3 points
    have you ever woken to a blanket-wrapped world? i have. there's a magic in the white light that streams through your window, a magic in flinging back the curtains to a frost-covered earth. everything's clean, in the snow. everything's silent. have you ever stood in a cloud? i have. shin-deep in sugar-spun-frost, staring up as the stars flutter down, as the sky breaks into pieces to dance on your eyelashes. we are not built for the cold. our skin turns pink and our limbs numb and our eyes water and swell and our breath is clouds. by all rights, we should fear it. but who could fear something so beautiful? and in the blanket-silence broken by shrieking, ecstatic laughter, it is easy to see that we do not. there's a magic to it, you know? there's a magic in the snow days. there's a magic in the snow. AN: I. Love. Snow. Okay? I love snow. So yeah it snowed yesterday and I haven't written anything in a while so here we are.
  6. 3 points
    last night i woke up in a blind panic because i forgot i was in my own bed i felt myself in his again, felt his hands around my neck- and this is why i do not sleep anymore. exhaustion is a small price to pay for a fleeting feeling of safety in a world where every word and step i take is dangerous. my world is full of sharp edges and sirens, bright lights and warning signs. is this safe? am i safe? last time i heard his pet name for me i curled up on the floor and did not get up until i was my me again, my body is my temple cracked pillars supporting crumbling facades self care is a futile attempt at recovering something that is not mine and that is far too broken to be fixed. i feel like an anchor thrown overboard and sinking heavy dead weight which is funny because i am most scared of drowning water on me on my tongue in my hair on my skin sends me into a curl-cry-cant-breathe-do-not-touch-me until everything is so empty, i am his alice with her river of tears my hurt is so big that magic mushrooms can no longer shrink it and start, stop, breathe. breathe until my lungs are empty, full, tangible, until i am real again and feel the ache of holding my breath. wait that is not my breath i am holding it is my trauma, laid neat and clean in an evidence locker, organized and numbered in order of importance on a police report, in a shiny new complex-ptsd diagnosis that glows in the dark and does 17 various things like, start, stop. i am laid out on an operating table cold and bare gutted and dissected, when they tell me what happened to me like i do not already know when they whisper soft under breath that i still feel i am not breathing what happened to me, gossip in pastel tones, low-key, on the down-low i am not my own, i am empty and owned. full-stop. (wow that felt,,,, like feeling something again)
  7. 3 points
    she's compacted dust and layers of stratum she's pine wood and wicker and rusted bicycles left in the sun eyelids fighting sleep, her face like desert sand with its blotchy redness, terra cotta clay and deep purple, dry rivers around her eyes face under the faucet to wake up paint on your fake skin and delicate bronze shimmer, banish the arid wind far from this place work your magic veiling mud cracks and little pockmark hills make your eyes seem alive later water will erode the strata, driftwood and orangeade and mulberry stains on old wine glasses beneath layers of photoshop the grand canyon is breathtaking and beneath her foundation so is she ~~~ author's note: we're studying rock in science, this poem was inspired by that, and also the fact that i find people really beautiful before they do anything in the morning, no matter how dead they look lol also, hello! I'm amelia, and i've been reading your guy's poetry for a long time. (that's not creepy at all xoxo) i'm happy to finally be here, and to meet you all!
  8. 3 points
    kicks m leg hiya !!! i'm izaak ?? i'm super new wheeze so a million apologies if i mess something up! um i like bears. as you can probably tell by my username lmao. i draw a lot and im super into green aesthetics (u can see all o' that over on my tumblr at bearajuana wink wonk) i write a lot of gay shit but idk if ill post a lot of it here? probably mostly just rambles or rps ?? i never have any idea what i'm doing i have? a lot of interests? anime and books mainly. hit me up with free / haikyuu stuff or six of crows / harry potter stuff because i'm aggressive eye emoji at that goodness i have a far too long list of bands and music that im in love with on such a high level its kind of concerning also im gay. really really gay. i love my boyfriend lastly: i don't care if this is wrong but i heavily believe that plural form of anus is ani and past tense of wink is wunk. fight me (don't actually)
  9. 2 points
    Howdy! With all this talk about RPing, I was thinking we could do an OC RP? Let's use @drowntown's bio format and tips. The prompt: Can I stay the night with you? My bio: Name: CaenusAge: 2 months shy of 21st birthdayGender/Pronouns (if applicable): male, he/himSpecies: humanHeight:5'5Appearance (plus a visual reference if youve got one): bright blue undercut, root beer eyes, trident tattoo on left shoulder, long legged, freckles. round, wire framed glasses.Applicable Quirks (accent, biases, languages spoken, phobias, etc) queer af, has anxiety around growling dogs, likes black coffee, doesn't like heights, prefers to be in the water but can't swim very well.Quick Backstory: Fell in love with a girl while working at a carnival ticket booth in the summers of his youth. Unbeknownst to each other, they transitioned at the same time. Grew up in a southern, mildly homophobic/transphobic rural town.Weapons Abilities (if applicable): knows how to fight in small scraps, but that's about it.Powers? (if applicable) none Caenus looks at the text with mild curiosity. Who would text him at this hour, asking to crash at his place?
  10. 2 points
    Dear Dearly Departed, I'm not sure how formal this letter should be, or what will comfort you. I’m not even entirely sure how you’ve managed to die in an abandoned orchard of all places, especially with that much medicine around you, considering medicine is supposed to help humans and all, so I don’t know how to ease your worries there. The good news is, you’ll never physically hurt again! Say goodbye to all your mortal fears! The bad news is that you clearly have some unfinished business, so you’ll be trapped here until you figure out what said business is, and how to complete it. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m lucky enough to have befriended a few humans over these years, so I can explain things as best as a random human can. Which is, admittedly, not very well. But I do hope I can help you, at least a little bit! The Unofficial (Though Official Due To Lack Of Other Options) Guide To Being A Ghost: Daylight fades ghosts. Think of it as a very, very slow eraser to your very existence. There’s a reason most hauntings occur during the nighttime. You can choose your haunting spots, I do believe! I’m not sure why ghosts haunt, perhaps you’re feeling a little bitter and you need to vent, perhaps it’s just a fun wholesome activity for the whole ghostly family! You cannot touch the physical world as you normally would. I’ve heard of ghosts who possess people just to eat their favourite food again. I’ve also heard that ghosts normally choose people who are extremely tired, perhaps they’re more suggestible, more likely to wave off strange happenings? Possibly because the dark circles under their eyes can look a little spooky. I’m not sure how into dramatics you are. And, an addition, just to ease your worries when you wake up and see a letter and not much else:) You will not be able to contact me in person. The nighttime is your realm, the daytime is mine. I hope after all that ghostly business this isn’t as much of a shock to you, but I’m a dryad, being out and about after dark saps me. Get it? Sap? I do hope you’re alright, I’ve left some paper and pens behind for you to both practice manipulating real world objects and for you to write me back, but I completely understand if that’s difficult for you at first. Have a great first night! dear someone (seriously, what am i supposed to call you? ash? oak? unnamed tree?) i can write. but its hard to. i cant pick things up, its all just thinking ridiculously hard about what i want to do and trying to get enough energy to do it. so just like i was when i was alive lol. i really want to swear but you sound like a literal angel and it feels all uncouth to. so like. what the fir. (see, theres a tree joke for you.) you seem sweet and all but its weird writing to someone i dont know, literally all the practice i got letter-writing was thank you notes to my grandma for a five dollar bill she gave me for my birthday or whatever. so i might be bad at this. im sorry. dont expect me to use a lot of exclamation points or make all the cutesy little quips you do, im not exactly hyped to still be up and kicking and its one extra line i have to write if i do joke around. im trying to write a lot, not write everything well. i dont want to know any more about being a ghost. i dont want to be here, i dont want to hear about it. i do want to know about you, though. are we writing on the guts of your fallen friends? you just left me a fir ton of paper and youre a tree? why are you so chill about leaving me ground up pulp of you? who are you? do you have a name? do you want a name? why is your handwriting so nice, who taught you that? the suns coming up. im hiding just in case itll just get me stuck but faded. like a really tight jean jacket. have a great three millionth day or however many!!! jamie
  11. 2 points
    after logan @drowntown hook punch. my father tells me when i am maybe 13 or 14 that he would love to sign me up for a self-defense class, but he’d have to get me a personal (& concussion-trained) teacher. this is a fact of my medical history. cross-body punch. my father continues, you might be in college, at a party, and a boy might say—this was before i came out—and a boy might say, “do you want to go upstairs and look at my Marvel Comics collection?” straight punch. he might pin you to the bed and leave you violated. empty. focus not on what is being protected against. focus only on going through the motions. getting these moves just right. and you’ll have to go to the police and let them probe inside of you, looking for the damaged points. uppercut. this is why i need you to be safe with boys, with girls, with anyone, really. fix your stance. i can’t make a fist properly. he gives up on the lesson. i know he’s too fearful of what lurks within me to ever successfully complete a lesson with me, anyway. too worried about me to ever put hands on me, even in a lesson. author's note: i have a crippling fear of assault/rape/etc., and i was in a situation similar to the aziz ansari stuff when i was 14. it's...not fun, hearing my own father say that what ansari's accuser reported trivializes "real" assault.
  12. 2 points
    iron & stone one day, i will ask myself why everything i am is laced with Blood, dark red like the moment despair turns into anger, like the instant before you die pour it into the hallow places in my collarbones, feed them hemoglobin; drain your veins, build up your marrow. paint my skin with it, open wounds in my metaphoric cardiac muscle, drink deep unravel my history like a spool of thread (with a skinning knife) spill my guts in crimson embroidered organs, unhinge your jaw, find my death-(rattle) at the end, (snake) teach me how to dance in death’s arms, i will need to at my wedding (father-daughter dance), should someone ever fall in love with Blood over bone, flesh over wire-frame-posable-skeleton tear off my cult-robe and peel back my skin all at once, rip from me Witch, and Queer, and Flesh, but leave me Blood, and Bone, and Death you can’t, you see. my Self is tattooed onto the surface of my bones: Blood runes when you kiss me for the first time i want you to taste the blood from my chapped lips, be disillusioned from perfection, be grounded, taste earth and take root behind my sternum one day, i will tell myself why everything i am is soaked with Blood, dark red like the moment you fall in love, like the instant you decide you want to live [Author's Note: Sorry about the Heavy Blood Symbolism I took a Homestuck Classpect test in like 2015 and have been hung up on my god tier (Mage of Blood) since then I just really love the Blood aspect]
  13. 2 points
    hello i am alaska, i used to post on the slam as collette and lee i believe. ive recently taken up mixed media journaling using pictures as a base to small lines of poetry. i dont tend to write anymore, but i guess i probably should
  14. 2 points
    little known fact that i just made up: the proper singular of beeves is boof
  15. 2 points
    First: awwww, thanks. Second: I mean, I like that y'all listen to/appreciate my advice, but... I am a fallible human being. Don't put me on a pedestal. Pedestals are distinctly uncomfortable places. (I'd rather you put me in a pillow corner like the kindergartner I can be, or in an armchair where I can be crotchety and tell you stories of the good ol' days of the Slam. That seems more appropriate.)
  16. 2 points
    yeah Aimn's like a slam veteran, but still around and wonderful. Listen to Aimn's advice. But yeah. The rules are basically there are none, just be supportive. Tearing each other apart with critiques is fine if it's consensual. Plagiarism's still not cool, but that's debatable. Don't worry about impressing anyone except yourself.
  17. 2 points
    it is absolutely proper etiquette and i give you my respectful FUCK YEAH
  18. 2 points
    @conradbirdie @drowntown still not sure if this is proper etiquette on this site but h e c k t h a n k y o u s o m u c h omg asdfghkl
  19. 2 points
    It's one of those days Where I can't get him out of my head Long enough to function
  20. 2 points
    Strands of gold in the sunlight, pulled apart so you could wonder. So you could see your dreams unfold in all of the colors you could not see, and all of the dreams you say you don't believe in. Rumplestiltskin made the gold, but you found the golden in Rapunzel’s blonde. You found the light in the darkness, but saw the beauty in shadows. All that glitters isn’t gold, so you caught the sparkles in my eyes and gave them value. And all that shines isn’t sunlight, but my smile still brightened your day.
  21. 2 points
    Bless you Logan I have no clue what I’m doing but I also really want in so thanks
  22. 2 points
    If you can change the color of your room I can change the color of my hair to a brilliant fuck-you-blue What's wrong with claiming this body as my own? what wrong with making this body my home? The monsters used to be in my closet And under the bed but now I'm older and they're in my head and I'm cranking out push ups in my boxers every night so maybe I can get a few hours rest and my chest won't feel so tight I've spent years building up my pride And feeling ok in my skin is so rare that I panic in self doubt
  23. 2 points
    hey, city girl, with your blonde-tipped waves and three dollar lashes, you're gorgeous. I hope you travel the word like you always wanted to spending your money on lipstick and sweet dark coffee and shining spray paint, I hope you turn that dusty alley into a work of art. dance like the leaves on the wind because one day you'll be dancing in front of millions people will line up to see you sparkling under the spotlights. swing your ponytail and keep doodling on those high tops, handmade earrings bouncing. I hope you realize you're a diamond in the rough I hope you get on your bike and pedal as fast as you can and pass all the buildings you've known your entire life belting off-key song lyrics to the starry heavens. I hope you ride right off the edge of the world and keep on going into eternity.
  24. 2 points
    space, black tablecloth (and spilled salt), your starfields shivering behind the light pollution when i was young your immensity terrified me but one day, after loving after losing: you became a comfort where would i be? without your existential enormity and your nightfalling curtain call unwrapping staticky expanse? whose to conquer but mine? whose to conquer but those who know death, know it for what it is, who know it and have held it as a thing heavy and real and cold as a stone in their hands, know it and still dare turn skyward for answers? a man does not pray anymore after that (death and space are inextricable, are twined together in the same rope that contains life and earth and sea) i had no idea. you remind me of home, as freezing and boiling and toxic and friendly as any familial spat you do not scare me. you soar on a canvas (pitch like ocean depths) black like nothing, because you are statistically more nothing than anything (and perhaps we, too: more empty space than things) it is as if you come from the end, and the beginning, and whatever lies between you are not a god, a titan, a deity neither made from man's feeble wishes nor of anything man can comprehend you are more roiling and alive than any sea’s waves than any beryl-vibrant canopies (probability itself keels and chokes at your feet) you arrive bearing tomorrow on apollo's back (apollo who has nothing earthly to fear seizes when daring to comprehend the cosmos) i have marveled at everything you have deemed show me, have humbled beneath eclipse and quasi-stellar radio source youre so much more than any earthly location the celestial sunsong, the solar astrochemistry within supernovae you are not a deity just as polaris, you are as steady as orbital fluctuation you are nothing without the sum of your parts but you are indefinitely infinite, our little spinning top insignificant in its star-spun flight paths within the visible universe how massive you are, how humanly finite (viewfinding opal eyes: how weak and yet icarus had to have something to shoot for) o, sunspots, you are the hydrogen and energy too beautiful to look at for long (without risking blindness) and yet: blindness, pitch dark, natural state of everything that has ever, will ever have existed without you we wither as one with flora, with fauna space hurled together a haphazard goldilocks (everything dies, eventually. everything dies.) with you with inconceivable odds flourishes life, death, space, earth, sea (components woven together in the same rope) this is why, starfield, you are unlikely gravity, dream-maker why you refuse to pull taffy-linked planets too thin why you burst nova like every celestial sunsong i have praised many things, but you are more than any helios of short-sighted civilizations that within the sky found the sun the only thing to fear (and not the spaces between countless stars) by my weak human eyes, you are the very end.
  25. 2 points
    Hey! I don't really know what I'm doing, but it seems like the thing to do is to write a bit about myself, so here goes. You can call me Jane! I'm into art, music, writing, reading, films, comics, etc... I just kind of dabble around in anything I find interesting. By daytime I'm an art student, by nighttime I'm a sleep-deprived art student (trust me-- they are entirely different beings). I love The Decemberists, Sufjan Stevens, my cat, Radiohead, Franz Kafka, surrealist paintings, and podcasts. Though I've been reading Cicada for years, I'm very new to the slam. I look forward to getting to know this site, and all of you creators out there, a little bit better!
  26. 1 point
    Desire should dissolve your lungs, A rich acid made for burning, But only coldness festers inside Though your heart pulses with Another’s flame, My own blood is sluggish in Its bloated vessels I may have lied when I said I was heartless, but I still hunger to want Something more.
  27. 1 point
    Toxic masculinity is running rampant through my life and the guy in Forensics is asking me if I'm "still cooking bitches" I say yes through clenched teeth even though I'm still a virgin it's the only way to survive these ever constricting walls
  28. 1 point
    When you get home to the promise land send me a postcard from the graveyard where you buried that friendship bracelet of ours back when we were in grade school. Back when we were so happy that you didn't think you had to write journals to keep your head from eating your heart.
  29. 1 point
  30. 1 point
    3 months ago i found out that my good friend oliver and i had pretty much been crushing on each other since we met each other, which was... 2 years ago?? but had no idea?? so anyway we're together now and zsdfghjklkmj he's so kind and sweet and so so comfortable to be around serdxftycgvubihjk being in love with your friend is incredible <3
  31. 1 point
    thriving off praise is a tipsy game spending hours repeating 'comfort, advise, distract, both, all, neither', another wave of nausea at every word in case it's not good enough offering to walk the two hundred and fifty six hours to their house, saying it as a joke but actually meaning it, looking at bus schedules just to hold them for another thousand moments, brushing back hair, protecting, cradling, coaxing smiles, unable to breathe 'til they laugh and a feather to balance the scales: it takes me a full day to eat because time spent on me is not time when i'm appreciated ((i finally formatted this so Boom, That's Done. i l o v e my friends i just gotta get tf over a someone way back when who taught me the 'if you're not devoting all your time to them, you're a bad person' mentality lmao)
  32. 1 point
    i don't write anymore because my words are twisted choked and strangled. i thought things could not get worse for me until they did my pen is rusted, my mind dusty and covered in cobwebs. what am i supposed to say when something so bad has happened to me, and i have become a shell of a human, depersonalized, desensitized. there are no flowers in my speech, only thorns. when someone hurts you until there is nothing left, letters twist and break and shatter. i miss myself.
  33. 1 point
    i really like the punctuation in this.
  34. 1 point
    @drowntown @queenie_flower "Aw, fuck, is heroism illegal now? My main dude Spider-Man's gonna get in some deep shit. And apparently you, too? Did you beat up total assholes or something?" He got distracted by bumping back Nick enough to chuck his own bowl in the trash, so the full effect of how baffling Nick's attempt at a comeback was kinda surprised him. Enough that he burst out laughing before he even processed it. "I'm- I'm what? Y'all, listen up, I've gotta get my hair cut into some fuckin' Justin Beiber-y swoop and delete all my music in favor of, like, three MCR songs." He returned back to the counter, grabbing another one of his discarding candy bars and holding it out to June to toast. You know. With candy bars. L'chaim. 'Cause pretty much everyone in the group needed it. "I can add 'totally humble' to that list," he said with a grin.
  35. 1 point
    godddddd this makes me so nostalgic for the old site omfg........
  36. 1 point
    clearly don't listen to anyone who tries to tell you anything else its l i e s
  37. 1 point
    This is such a nice tribute to the now-dead CAPTCHA beast. I'd knight you for your bravery to pass it and live to tell the tale if I had a good sword.
  38. 1 point
    dude this is sweet in the 'you got me to cry in a happy way, congrats, i love this' way and sweet as in the 'holy FUCK. thats some RAD DESCRIPTION, RAD FLOW BETWEEN PARAGRAPHS, RAD ORGANIZATION' way. i'm having trouble w/ the like button again but this was Too Good to not show appreciation of
  39. 1 point
    the moon is like a glowing crescent. it was yellow earlier, but now it's just grayish whitish silver. you've been watching it for hours now. who knows what time it is? who cares? you roll over and stare at the wall of your bedroom that you painted blue last year but you wish it was less colorful. you don't get enough sleep and you know it. you've been seeing a therapist for almost a year now. you're getting better. slowly your hands shake and you're unsteady on your feet. you turn up your music and feel your heart match the beat. you close your eyes. all too soon, you open them, wish it wasn't time to get up and go to school. you know you could live like this. you also know you won't. you are a warrior author's note: sorry this is so fucking long, but i need to rant so. . . .
  40. 1 point
    She sings and the cigarette smoke Floats out from her lips to make a halo Around her mouse-brown hair. Her eyes glitter in the dim light Of the bar but I see behind them; She’s tired of this, of dancing on stage, The chipping paint on her nails from Reaching out to grab bills from weathered hands, Standing alone and singing the same song Over and over again. I look out the window at the colored rush of chaos And wonder what the world has come to, To make this woman burn her life away, Inside to out, to turn on mile-high heels To the beat of too-loud, tattered black speakers. I want to shake her awake from the pattern And tell her to leave it behind, but I’m here too, so there must be something to say For the Godforsaken stage and blinding lights. Through the haze of poison liquor I think Of how this is probably a metaphor For something, like ‘it’s too late To escape the monotony,’ but then The song ends, the woman bows, And I forget everything but the pounding, Thrumming, drumbeat heart of the city.
  41. 1 point
    Late night Starry eyed And though I know there are stars outside, I can’t see them. My midnight oil burns too bright And dims all other lasting light But as the stars and sun fall away with fright My midnight Oil Burns. I close the window to let me sleep, I block out all light taunting, But no matter how often I count sheep, From under the door Unrest comes through the cracks haunting. So though I fight the fire, My midnight Oil Burns. please give feedback! I'm a new writer and need to get better.
  42. 1 point
    I'm in love with a monster. The most mundane kind. The kind that puts people down to make herself feel better. She's the kind of monster that wants desperately to convince herself she's better than everyone else. A hypocrite who pretends like she cares, but in truth couldn't care less. I'm in love with a monster. The most beautiful kind. The kind with long silky brown hair. She's the kind of monster with big brown eyes and freckles across her nose. A girl who looks sweet as sugar, but is rotten inside. I'm in love with a monster. The most dangerous kind. She's the kind that will lure you in with a sweet smile, then cast you aside. The kind of monster that doesn't look like a monster, because there are no tell tale signs. No horns, or tale, or long crooked nose, nothing to tell you what's inside. Life's not a movie and the villain isn't always clear. Sometimes you won't know until it's too late and she has you in her perfectly manicured claws.
  43. 1 point
  44. 1 point
    EXT. TOLERATE NO S*** GROCERY - DAY A few people mill about the front of the store, eating and grabbing carts. INT. TOLERATE NO S*** GROCERY MASON sidles up to LOUIS, who is restocking produce like death would be a welcome change from apples. MASON (whispering) A travesty has come upon us. LOUIS (deadpan) Oh, gee whiz, must be a Monday, hahahaha. MASON Louis, no. You sound like fuckin' Garfield. Have you seen the signs? Louis glances up at the handmade banner reading "BRING YOUR WIFE TO WORK DAYS - JUNE 12TH" LOUIS That phrasing concerns me. How many days will I be bringing my nonexistent wife to work and why doesn't she have a nonexistent job? How are we going to pay the mortgage and my cheese habits and her heavy drinking of coffee and our heterosexual condom-filled love life without supplementary income? MASON Dude, I thought you'd have a problem with the 'wife' part. I mean, that's my beef with it. LOUIS My husband already works here, to help pay for our mortgage and my cheese habits and his heavy drinking of coffee and our homosexual condom-filled- MASON You literally do not have to explain my dad's love life with you, I- LOUIS Every day is bring your husband to work day. And every night is cheese night and coffee night and homosexual con- MASON I know. LOUIS Then what is your 'beef' with it? You can invite your girlfriend over on any off her days off. There is a pause. Mason leans in conspiratorially. MASON The only person who has a wife is our boss. Louis' eyes widen. He seems close to exploding with the sudden amount of emotion. LOUIS That accursed, wonderfully self-centered, spoiling woman. INT. BACK ROOM Mason leans back in a folding chair, a huge grin on his face. MASON Louis and the boss have this rivalry thing going on. They're trying to figure out who can be the most narcissistic and adoring of their partners at the same time, or something? Louis was in the lead by making a beach resort here in the back room for my dad, with a truckload of sand and a dozen heat lamps, but this new turn of events? He shakes his head. MASON Hoo boy. Drama. INT. TOLERATE NO S*** GROCERY FIORALBA, a woman clearly interested in business, is putting posters up on a cork board. They all read "BYWTWD". Louis approaches. LOUIS Good afternoon, Fioralba, you fiend. FIORALBA Please, call me boss. Or, alternatively, 'soon to be holder of the title of self-and-partner-centered-champion'. She turns to the side, whispering a quiet "boo yah" to herself. She turns back. Louis is squinting at the posters. FIORALBA What, cat got your pampering tongue? LOUIS You'll never get away with this. FIORALBA Considering I'm the end-all-be-all of every official in store event? I will, and Boyewtwed will reign on. LOUIS (quietly) What the entire fuck? FIORALBA Boyewtwed. She gestures to the posters. FIORALBA Bring your wife to work days. Get with the program, Lou. LOUIS Please, call me Mr. Dumont-Anne. FIORALBA Yeah, you know what? You know what, Lou? You know who owns the store? Who owns this establishment? Who has their gorgeous wife able to be here 24/7 by the end of this week? A person who's not a fricken' butthole with breath that smells like aged cheese. Bye. She walks off. INT. BACK ROOM FIORALBA It's important to show your employees that you can verbally decimate them without swearing in the workplace. Pow. Boom, baby. I'm gonna get to see my wife so much. ((this is mostly just me trying to figure out how to format scripts in here, but!! have a sitcom script that will probably never be finished!! theres still like 4 other characters that have yet to be introduced, but hey. As The Circle Of Character Life Continues, They Will Inevitably Be Recycled And Born Anew)
  45. 1 point
    Help me clean the pages. Maybe it can come with us to the Heavens.
  46. 1 point
  47. 1 point
    General things: Names of characters should be in all caps in stage directions (or basically anywhere that isn't dialogue). Say how characters do look/act/sound not how they should. Stage directions that occur in lines of dialogue should be in parentheses. Try to eliminate unnecessary stage directions (e.g., things that can be inferred from dialogue [which should be most things], things that are evident from previous/other stage directions, etc.). Go through and edit your capitalization and punctuation for consistency. (There are a lot of little things that I think you can catch on your own, so I've focused my critique more on content than conventions.) Content things: I feel like he'd be a little bit more specific about location? Not that I've ever been on a cruise, but "hundreds" seems pretty vague. I'd eliminate the question/response about where the rooms are. It feels a little confusing/contrived with the other context: Why would the neighbor ask if they already knew where the room was? Okay, this is funny, but... this doesn't seem like a realistic reaction at all. Unless you're going for surrealism/satire (which the rest of this piece doesn't really feel like), the line doesn't really seem to belong. There are girl scouts on cruise ships? This seems apropos of nothing, but if you're going for nonsense... Overall thoughts: This advice probably seems contrary to everything that I critiqued, but I think you need to increase the nonsensical aspects. Make it satire. Make it surreal. Make it worthy of Vonnegut and Austen. Like @conradbirdie said, "THAT STUPID YELLOW SHIRT" has potential to be iconic. Bring the rest of the piece up to its level.
  48. 1 point
  49. 1 point
    omg i love They Might Be Giants SOOOO much!! dont see too many poeple who are into them lol
  50. 1 point
    in the bitter mid-december, my father and i drive half-way across the country to collect the contents of an abandoned dorm room. i do not know it yet, but this will be my last time on the campus for the foreseeable future, the most vivid memory of which will be melting my bike lock open with bare hands in the minnesota cold. on the way home, we will eat indian food at a truckstop somewhere in the vast expanse of nebraska. despite the ghee and the coriander, the saag will taste like sawdust. to compensate for the loss, for the lack of goodbyes and good graces, i will knit innumerable hogwarts house scarves and give them away on every applicable winter holiday. (it will be the third scarf - the second hand-knit - i will have given my best friend in two years.) i will stymie my frustration with every stitch. a visit in the weeks before new years will result in a multi-month identity crisis, and in my attempts at clarity, i will feel starved while drowning in alphabet soup. i will be reassured that this normal. the time that follows will be characterized by monotony; also, statistics. i will be one of twenty-seven to take a mathematics class at a local university. i will be a part of the two point three percent unemployed. i will join approximately six million others in a yearly visit to california. later, despite the flaws of my gpa, i will be accepted as one of approximately twenty-eight thousand undergraduates to study three hours from my hometown. (i will be relieved, if vaguely disappointed.) in the interim, i will take the summer to escape, tumbling off the grid into a quaker summer camp, where i will hike countless miles to destinations unknown and swim in a dozen frigid mountain lakes. i will relearn my laugh and exercise it often. i will remember how to eat three meals a day, if only to set an example, and when my mind begins to unravel, i will discover that the greatest gift of friendship sometimes takes the form of a pillbox and the patience to listen to my babble while doling out a week’s worth of medication. i will leave exhausted and proud. nine months into the year, i will move into a one-bedroom apartment a few blocks from a new campus with my partner. we will adjust to each other’s ticks and twitches - mostly. we will visit his family for thanksgiving, and i will survive the event. meanwhile, i will be put on a cocktail of prescriptions - seven pills a day - that miraculously works. i will take a partial load of classes and succeed. i will feel an unfamiliar optimism. there will be christmas, then the new year. i will make no resolutions but to live.