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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
The man sips from a small plastic cup of wine. Red. He thinks he saw that it was a cabernet, not that he could differentiate between cabernet and merlot, or even a white zinfandel for that matter, if it didn’t explicitly mention the color. It all tastes heavy, thick with weight. He wonders if that is the reason that wine is so linked to culture, because it physically humbles the audience, forces them to look up to these works of genius that he could never create. Tonight, it tastes less like grapes, more like iron. He drops the cup into the trash, and grabs a second bottle of water before approaching the artist.

“They look great,” he tells his friend’s brother. “I really like the textures.”

“That’s probably my greatest strength. Didn’t you do something?”

“Me?” He is genuinely startled by the question. “Oh no, I’ve never done more than sketch. It’s not even a hobby for me. I’m more of a writer.”

The artist flashes a smile, guileless. “Weren’t you writing game reviews?”

“Oh, it’s been a while since I’ve written any of those. Can’t really afford next gen games, nevermind the systems.” He looks past the artist at one of his more colorful pieces, a splotch of pink in the middle of a white landscape. “Maybe when I’m rich.”

“Is that what you want?” What do they say about a dream deferred?

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams lie
Life is a raccoon, crushed on the highway
Dragging itself into the woods to die

He sits down at the keyboard, and swirls the question back and forth with a real glass, half full of Kentucky bourbon. The screen is blank.

His best friend is being nominated for a Pushcart for a poem on soap bubbles
His wife won the Pulitzer for a trilogy of youth fiction about two boys in love.
His mother had just won the Caldecott Medal for the obituary she wrote of his grandfather. She had died a month ago, yellow as aging newspaper. He had barely shared a word with her before then.

He types the word “regret” seven times, in gradually increasing font, and prints out two copies. One he mails to The New Yorker. The other he soaks in alcohol, before lighting it and swallowing it whole.
For Want
The theme of want. Sparked by an art show which left me feeling impressively unfulfilled. Most things do these days.

Will you still love me when I'm not young and beautiful?
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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
The doors aren’t closed to hold back the water. I can still procrastinate, no matter the situation, no matter the number of stars in my sky.

In June of 2007, a lit cigarette burned down a furniture showroom in Charleston. Thirty minutes after the first call, a flashover ignites the entire interior of the building. Nine firemen die. They don’t recover the last two bodies for nine hours.

I type “flashover” in the search bar, and up come videos of burning Christmas trees, lamp shades that melt and hang like Dali’s watches. The tree burns in seconds, lighting like a torch, and in thirty seconds, the room is split in half, smoke and fire. The sofa takes longer, a full five minutes to get really going. They say that when some sofas burn, they give off toxic fumes. Sometimes they don’t have to be burning. Like Barbie dolls painted with lead paint or an award-winning Australian toy that turns into drugs for date rapists. That stuff they spray on sofa cushions, they use to treat multiple sclerosis.

My phone buzzes, and I hit the snooze button. I grab a large orange capsule out of the small bottle and swallow it without water. I can feel it drag dry down my throat, and hold my breath, expecting it to get stuck. All antidepressants warn about the risk of suicide, which is why I’m taking it in the first place.

When I was in high school, I had to have a psych eval before getting on a topical drug for severe acne. A few months later, a pimply-faced teen flew a Cessna into an office building in Tampa. It was not even four months after 9/11. Someone made a joke about the terrorists being low on funds. I’m sure someone laughed.
Flashover
It's been a long time since I wrote. Still picking up the pieces, as it were. I wrote some stuff around Thanksgiving, but the well's been a little dry otherwise. 

Ah well. Time heals all wounds, right?
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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
I'm sitting on my mother's porch and all I can think about is destroying something.

The wicker hassock? I want to tear through the reeds, breaking off the legs one by one, scatter it on the poorly painted wood.

I want to push through the screen until a link gives. Piece by piece, the hole grows wider, until it is large enough for me to seize each side and pull - ripping a passageway wide enough for me to jump from the second story onto the driveway below.

I want to strip off my socks and run into the rain. Leaves and mud stick to my feet in ever-thickening layers. I drop to my knees and pick up handfuls of wet earth and stones and fling them out towards the ocean. I can't even hit the dock from this distance.

I'll lay down, soaked to my skin, crying among the small holes I've left, as we all fill up with water.
On the Day Before
Tomorrow is my mother's funeral. I don't know if I'll ever be ready for it.
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My piece "Still Digging" has been featured in an online journal, along with some very impressive poets. It's nice to see that my writing isn't going completely to waste.

I know it's been quiet around these parts, but I'm still writing, and I'm still keeping busy. It's just that my personal life is kind of a whirlwind right now. My mother's sickness has only worsened with time, and it's made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Take care of yourselves,
DD
  • Mood: Big Grin
  • Watching: Birdman
  • Playing: Arkham City
  • Eating: Skittles
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: ideologically sensitive material)
Inasmuch as God the father has given us this year
We gather around the table for a meal
Of venison and duck
And armadillos and domestic cats still wearing their collars
Organs shattered by tires
Solid blood binding them together in a net

Father makes the first cut
A perfect slice, dense as fruitcake
He passes the slice to his right
It goes hand over hand past all five and ends up
Back on father’s place setting

“I need a blanket,” says Mother.
Son volunteers with a smile and checks the linen closet
Diphtheria is good for regular company
But smallpox is for those special days
Son wraps the blanket around Mother

Before her fever climbs to 101, Father is already drunk
The children cry between mouthfuls of stuffing.
Cornucopia
My Thanksgiving poem, for a contest on dA. Getting back into my French surrealism.
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My piece "Still Digging" has been featured in an online journal, along with some very impressive poets. It's nice to see that my writing isn't going completely to waste.

I know it's been quiet around these parts, but I'm still writing, and I'm still keeping busy. It's just that my personal life is kind of a whirlwind right now. My mother's sickness has only worsened with time, and it's made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

Take care of yourselves,
DD
  • Mood: Big Grin
  • Watching: Birdman
  • Playing: Arkham City
  • Eating: Skittles

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:iconrexivan:
RexIvan Featured By Owner Aug 24, 2014
In light of your recent troubles, it seems so grossly inadequate to wish you 'Happy Birthday'.  I almost believe that doing so might make you feel worse, and that's the last thing you need.  However, I think it's still important to let people know they are not forgotten.  I hope that there was at least a little happiness in your day today.   
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(1 Reply)
:iconrollingtomorrow:
RollingTomorrow Featured By Owner Aug 4, 2014   General Artist

Hello! :iconexcitedhiplz:

 

Thank you for submitting to our trimonthly writing prompt at :iconlive-love-write:!

 

Your submission has been featured in our group journal: live-love-write.deviantart.com…

The newest prompt is also included at the bottom of the feature.

 

Please add the article to your favorites to support your work and the prompt. La la la la

 

We hope to read more of your writing! :happybounce: Thank you!

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:iconflummo:
flummo Featured By Owner Jun 16, 2014  Student Writer

Thank you for joining :iconthewrittenrevolution:, we're delighted to have you with us. Welcome to the revolution. :salute:

 

This is just a brief message to ask you to please read our rules, so we can clarify anything that isn't clear before you start submitting your work (if there's any question or concern you have, we're here to answer).

 

To help our members get the most out of our group, we've created a tWR guide that lists pretty much anything from our current projects, to helpful articles about critiquing and asking for feedback that might be very useful for your future submissions. Feel free to check it out! :D We regularly post prompts and publishing opportunities for our members to try.

 

And feel free to add us on Facebook and Twitter. :dummy:

 

Thank you for joining! :salute:
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:iconpestilence-prince:
pestilence-prince Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2014  Student Traditional Artist
Ayoo B)
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:icontales-of-tao:
Tales-of-Tao Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2014  Student General Artist
Sailing the seven seas Hello! Your delightful work has been featured here: fav.me/d73v7rf. Have an excellent week!
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