I also made a discovery on the colour of clouds. The thunder kind, specifically. They're not grey, and not black. They are tinted pink, in the creases and swells; a deep, blue purple on the dark belly, and in the centre, occasionally on the edges; midnight blue accents, and spots in-between the purple. And, by gods, I love walking in the rain.
No, no, of course not, she answered, before taking a sip of her Chardonnay. Hundreds of dogs have died in my arms. Of course I dont keep count, I couldnt possibly.
Six, in her arms. Four in her husbands. Two alone: one at home when they were at a party, one asleep.
Oh, gods, I fucking love you! he moaned. He always did that, barely fit to roll off her and proclaim his love. Here goes. I love you, too, honey. There, the words were out.
Who are you? Why are you in my room? Someone is in her room again. The light is always so bad in here, she can never tell who it is.
He leaves his coat on the chair, the one to his left, where someone just left another coat. And approaches the stage, where someone just put the microphone back into its stand. He reaches out and touches the microphone, the one someone just proclaimed their drunken love of some bartender into. And he opens his mouth, the one the girl in the back would so much like to stick her tongue into.
"I know what the problem with amateur poetry is: they don't know what they're doing. They don't know how to create rhythm, how to write a sonnet; they don't know how to allude; they have no sense of the world, they have no experience; they don't even read
When I retreat, I fall into the arms of middle-aged men. It's not that they hold me, kiss me or keep me warm, they keep me company intellectually, with sarcasm, thesaurus-caliber words and actionless narratives of their lives. It's not that they are particularly intriguing, or innovative, I just can't resist them. They have a most persuasive charm
When I retreat, I do so to listen to Beethoven, Bach or ballads. I favour the ones I can cry to, the ones that remind me of people, or characters, dying. The repeat button on iTunes is almost always on, and set to repeat just one song. Something with female vocals, preferably, and piano. Or perhaps
Psychologists tell us that when we are young, we do not play together, but along-side each other. The sand-castles we share are inhabited by double, or triple, sets of royalty, that never encounter one another. As we grow up, our sandcastles are abandoned or demolished and turned into banks and lancsaping firms, in which we later buy shares. We stop playing altogether, and write theses instead.
A select few of us bring our castles with us, and replace the royalty. The castles are no longer of sand, but, for instance, of words or people, instead. They are prisons, in which some of us are held captive. In school, you can see them hiding in the
I know why, and how we fall in love; what types we're likely to fall for, based on traits of our own; how we spin myths around the object of our desire, and how they fall short.
It is not an idea that I miss, it is a man. No, it is the idea that I miss, not the man. I fall for the ideas, and the myths I spin so fancifully around the objects. For the clothes, the mannner, the collar bones and the nails are my ideas.
I point at your fingers and want to steal them for my Frankenstein, but then there's the nails of the other person I just saw, the ears of the guy next door, brows of a friend's girlfriend and feet of the model on the cover of th
Aggravated, she pushed the tweezers harder. That last hair was coming out, take all day if it must, she had time. There, the tiny bastard was out. No more icky eyebrows to clutter her complexion.
46, 39, 31, 17, 2 seconds left. A beep later her wax was ready to meet her legs – not that anyone would see her legs in a portrait, but they would gnaw away at her mind nevertheless.
All she had to do now was dress up and walk across the street to the station, where the photo-box would be waiting. Eyeliner for her eyes and brows (in nice, high arches this time), purple lipstick, pale foundation, a bloody red rouge and black mascara. Had she ever lo
She dances in her nightgown again, watches it whirl about her legs. Bedtime was hours ago, but she can't sleep. Her head is too full of presents, guests and cakes.
Light, maternal steps have just fled down the flight of stairs, leaving the girl dressed, shod and radiantly delighted. Tugging at a golden braid, she skips down, two steps at a time. An aunt has just freed herself from the grip of a monstrous coat, and turns on the girl with promises of an equally horrific embrace. Darting to the safety of a grandmother's hug instead, she's safe. For in a few moments, there'll be presents to tear open.
Oh, there has to be hundreds of them! No, t
Name: Neren
Age: 26
Sex: Female
Appearance: Hair like the deepest red of a sparkling flame, cut short of course
by her own hand, which usually results in it being a complete disarray of
various lengths and shapes.
Lips the ashen silver of a moon, shaped like a ripe plum before it falls.
Eyes like the freshest of springs streams, the shade of blue only freshly
melted snow can carry, they gaze eagerly at their surroundings.
Body in the shape of the tiniest of saplings, nimble, frightened and uncertain,
yet to take the shapes of a proper tree, pondering what the world has to offer
for one of it's kind.
Personality: She lives in a nut
I'm perfect, I know it. They're the problem, they can't see it, with their short skirts and revealing tops, selling whatever it is they have to sell to the highest bidder. And just because I don't want to, they despise me? They know I don't like them, most of them, except him of course. He's not like them, I know it, yet he's part of them. Threats perhaps? Not verbal, no, never verbal, no words have ever been spoken. It's the eyes, the looks of contempt. How can he not've seen it, he is there, every day, all the time. But still, he is different, he saw my eyes.
"Run, don't go! Run, run! Come back!" Shrill voice of broken heart, carried through the childish mind in possession of the book. She had read it before, but this time she got it, she really did. She knew it all: the end, the beginning, the story. She was god.
The pen met paper once more, unintelligible nonsense, of course. There was no use for real words, the book had them, she did too. But there was no point, the woman would still die. All would still fade.
Putting it down, the apparition faded. A cold gust of wind, a lingering wisp of sunlight, the girl was no more, and left in this world only, a yellow piece of paper.
People are weird, and even more so, are the relations that slowly grow and blossom between them. Who had ever thought that the man I laid my eyes on and loathed, (simply because the similarities were too many and too scary to be discarded,) would be one of few I have grown to respect, hold in high regard, and miss? He had shoulder-length, black hair that was about to start fading into grey, and demanded silence with a glance.
The first essay he had us write will forever be burned into my memory. I remember sitting in this very spot, laughing as the thing took shape on my screen. My dream school, lousy assignment, and an even worse product I'
Current Residence: Norway Favourite genre of music: Make me one? Favourite style of art: Photography, literature, fashion, architecture, paintings Operating System: Mac OS X MP3 player of choice: iPod
I have - well, had, back when I actually wrote - moments of attaining a brilliantly sardonic, to me very entertaining, narrative voice. I turn, or turned, into a middle-aged (late 50's or early 60's) man; a British Lord and a fierce defender of the Upper House, he would have been a delighted ally of the Iron Lady had they co-existed, he sports a cane, I think, to wack youngsters approprietly over the head; he would never set foot in the Lower House ("Abolish the other House!") for the sole reason that it is not an arena fit for enlightened debate; he's a dandy of sorts, and takes his Martell alone, though an aged port'll do if you happen to b
:depressed: it's so very, very Marvin. And I can't help loving it to death.
Happy valentine everybody. Can't say I'm particularly fond of today, but I harbour no real hate for it either. Maybe I'll get 'round to writing something later.
thanks for the favs!
I am planning on selling prints of my drawings and comic books at some conventions next year. The convention i'm sure of attending is MoCCa in new york on june 2008. Hope you can make it!