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Literature Text
It was on the shores of the sweet Louisiana bayou that I met Arabelle.
It was a thick night, the heat and moisture was seeping in my cells when she came into view. I watched the moon cast shadows across her delicate features, making her milky white skin glow more brilliantly than in sunlight. She wore a blush pink dress that fell elegantly to the middle of her shins. Her legs were long and slender, and she walked like a swan swimming across the moonlight.
All of her features lead to her pure white hair, loose and wavy- slightly frizzy from the humidity of the night. Beads of sweat swelled on her collarbone, glistening like morning dew on grass. Arabelle was stunning; her features were that of a porcelain doll placed high upon a shelf and encased in a glass sarcophagus. Her eyes were dark and hollow, but filled with wisdom well beyond her years.
As Arabelle walked past me, I watched her glide along the matted, muddy bank.
Where did she come from? I'd never seen her before.
Arabelle could have passed for a princess, or yet- a goddess. I wondered who she was; I wanted to talk to her, to smell the rosewater and baby's breath parfum she was wearing. I wanted her words to lick the insides of my eyelids, and whisper through the strands of my hair. I wanted to feel her spidery fingers laced in with mine.
In the moment that Arabelle walked past me, I fell in love.
I think Eros' arrow hit me square in the forehead; I think I've become stupid. I haven't seen Arabelle for three years, but I still go out to the same Louisiana bayou where I first met her. I go out on dark nights, when the moon stays below the horizon line, and all the stars come out and shine so bright it looks like they're about to explode. I sit and listen to the tree frogs chirp, and the alligators calling out to their mommas.Sometimes, I think I hear her humming something soft and sweet; and although I've never heard her speak one word before, I know it's her. I know it's my Arabelle, drifting and whispering through the tall grass of the bayou.
My sweet, sweet Arabelle drifting through the darkness of the hot Louisiana night.
It was a thick night, the heat and moisture was seeping in my cells when she came into view. I watched the moon cast shadows across her delicate features, making her milky white skin glow more brilliantly than in sunlight. She wore a blush pink dress that fell elegantly to the middle of her shins. Her legs were long and slender, and she walked like a swan swimming across the moonlight.
All of her features lead to her pure white hair, loose and wavy- slightly frizzy from the humidity of the night. Beads of sweat swelled on her collarbone, glistening like morning dew on grass. Arabelle was stunning; her features were that of a porcelain doll placed high upon a shelf and encased in a glass sarcophagus. Her eyes were dark and hollow, but filled with wisdom well beyond her years.
As Arabelle walked past me, I watched her glide along the matted, muddy bank.
Where did she come from? I'd never seen her before.
Arabelle could have passed for a princess, or yet- a goddess. I wondered who she was; I wanted to talk to her, to smell the rosewater and baby's breath parfum she was wearing. I wanted her words to lick the insides of my eyelids, and whisper through the strands of my hair. I wanted to feel her spidery fingers laced in with mine.
In the moment that Arabelle walked past me, I fell in love.
I think Eros' arrow hit me square in the forehead; I think I've become stupid. I haven't seen Arabelle for three years, but I still go out to the same Louisiana bayou where I first met her. I go out on dark nights, when the moon stays below the horizon line, and all the stars come out and shine so bright it looks like they're about to explode. I sit and listen to the tree frogs chirp, and the alligators calling out to their mommas.Sometimes, I think I hear her humming something soft and sweet; and although I've never heard her speak one word before, I know it's her. I know it's my Arabelle, drifting and whispering through the tall grass of the bayou.
My sweet, sweet Arabelle drifting through the darkness of the hot Louisiana night.
Literature
Dear Reader
on the roof
simpering with
the pigeons
i throw
sheen after sheen
from buckets of paint;
you do all
the work
getting
in the
way.
awnings
spattered
like lips
with the color
of kisses
shiver
and move.
and listen
to this:
the birds
open their mouths
in the rain
spread one wing
then another
and lean out
and over--
the river
opens
onto salt
as the moon
blooms
like a coin
in a fist;
lovers
part lips
while
friends
part ways.
the bartender
peels a lime;
the doorman
pulls at the door
while the waitress
clears the table.
i open
a window,
you open
your eyes:
work
is making space.
here and
i have
Literature
The Waste World
She said create the world, so I did. I made it dark and dusty, coughed up from my own black lungs. I gave the trees an ashen hue and the ground a color to match the starless sky. The creatures were murmuring oozes, globs of drying acrylic that inked across the orb of my bubbling imagination.
Repulsing, it was in fact the product of an industrial mind. I was born from man's smog goddess and, if memory serves me, her breath was laced in exhaust which I inhaled nightly with her songs. She was soothing and complacent, her voice smokey like a hazy bar. No one could deny her features were hideous beyond belief. Her skin dripped pollution like morp
Literature
Don't Talk To Me
"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.
She nodded, her expression unfathomable. "Me too."
There was a long pause.
"Just two days ago," I said quietly, avoiding her eyes, "we couldn't even be in the same room without going for each other's throats."
She turned away. "Yeah," she admitted. "But look at us now."
I continued, "And just two months ago we were the best of friends. But look at us now." This time I looked directly at her, smiling mirthlessly.
"But look at us now," she
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Well, I'm wondering how everyone feels about this piece.
A couple things have been pointed out to me about it in the past...
1. I know this is technically a prose piece, but I can't stand literal prose. I throw in things like "licking the back of my eyelids" etc. Does this work? Is it too abstract for the piece?
2. Is my alluding to Arabelle being vaguely ghost-like or lunar too much?
3. Does it seem like I'm trying too hard?
4. Any comments, suggestions?
5. Praise or other comments. (OPTIONAL)
For #theWrittenRevolution [link]
A couple things have been pointed out to me about it in the past...
1. I know this is technically a prose piece, but I can't stand literal prose. I throw in things like "licking the back of my eyelids" etc. Does this work? Is it too abstract for the piece?
2. Is my alluding to Arabelle being vaguely ghost-like or lunar too much?
3. Does it seem like I'm trying too hard?
4. Any comments, suggestions?
5. Praise or other comments. (OPTIONAL)
For #theWrittenRevolution [link]
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Comments3
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This is fantastic! I really wanted more, actually. I felt like it was too short. Where's the novel that accompanies this beauty? It's interesting...those stories about people who fall in love with a person but had never made a move, never taken the risk at actually being the persons love....while I was pitying the character a little bit in that respect, it still was very well-written. I could see everything clearly. Everything was projected with just enough imagery. I think it's a lovely little piece to even continue and develop, eh? If you do choose to....I'd love to read it!