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Literature Text
This weekend I will let the wind do my hair. I will wear my bathing suit as though it were the most becoming and elegant ball gown. To me it might as well be. And my eyes will be more brown than green. Brown, which is the dominant color of the gulf's surf, will leak into my eyes as the ocean steals the green, trying to reach dynamic equilibrium.
I will be a cliché, a bundle of ocean metaphors, cheap sweet cigars, coffee, ink, alcohol and late night conversations of things we consider "deep." Ever the personification of "writer" I am.
There will be no sun, just wind, crashing waves and storms as only the sea side can do them. Chaos and entropy! There is no calm in my life and that will be reflected in my surroundings. In the evenings I will find potential pearls in my hair, my clothes, every crevice and unmentionable place they can be. I will wear sea foam anklets, taking moments to whisper eulogies to the little mermaids who died. I will have kelp necklaces with sea shell pendents and seaweed hair extensions. I prefer blue hair but must do what I can.
I will receive salty kisses, on my lips, across my skin. I will give salty kisses to strange, handsome mermen. And sing a siren's song, enticing them all along with me down my path of self destruction. Then I will feel terrible guilt that it only affects them and not me. But I will do it anyway. I will get sandburn tattoos on my knees and elbows from making rough love with red flag waves. The waves will tear at my suit and my hair, the barbell in my ear, at my whole body. Today the ocean wants me, rips at me, begs me in its demanding way. Tomorrow it may have no interest in me whatsoever but be calm and passive, indifferent even. A fickle lover, the only way I know them.
This weekend I will trade my dragon scales for a seashell armor. Weaker than real dragon scales, stronger than construction paper. Shorter lasting than both, but so long as it's sea related who really gives a damn?
This weekend I will be a goddess, a real one, not made one by his empty words. I am Calypso. I always have been, somewhere deep within me. This weekend I rehydrate my soul.
I will not think about foot prints in the sand, or words on paper or my weekend here. These are ephemeral things, gone as quick as the tide. I will not think about the land bound women my ocean eyed boy is laying with while I am off pretending to be an immortal.
I will be a cliché, a bundle of ocean metaphors, cheap sweet cigars, coffee, ink, alcohol and late night conversations of things we consider "deep." Ever the personification of "writer" I am.
There will be no sun, just wind, crashing waves and storms as only the sea side can do them. Chaos and entropy! There is no calm in my life and that will be reflected in my surroundings. In the evenings I will find potential pearls in my hair, my clothes, every crevice and unmentionable place they can be. I will wear sea foam anklets, taking moments to whisper eulogies to the little mermaids who died. I will have kelp necklaces with sea shell pendents and seaweed hair extensions. I prefer blue hair but must do what I can.
I will receive salty kisses, on my lips, across my skin. I will give salty kisses to strange, handsome mermen. And sing a siren's song, enticing them all along with me down my path of self destruction. Then I will feel terrible guilt that it only affects them and not me. But I will do it anyway. I will get sandburn tattoos on my knees and elbows from making rough love with red flag waves. The waves will tear at my suit and my hair, the barbell in my ear, at my whole body. Today the ocean wants me, rips at me, begs me in its demanding way. Tomorrow it may have no interest in me whatsoever but be calm and passive, indifferent even. A fickle lover, the only way I know them.
This weekend I will trade my dragon scales for a seashell armor. Weaker than real dragon scales, stronger than construction paper. Shorter lasting than both, but so long as it's sea related who really gives a damn?
This weekend I will be a goddess, a real one, not made one by his empty words. I am Calypso. I always have been, somewhere deep within me. This weekend I rehydrate my soul.
I will not think about foot prints in the sand, or words on paper or my weekend here. These are ephemeral things, gone as quick as the tide. I will not think about the land bound women my ocean eyed boy is laying with while I am off pretending to be an immortal.
Literature
Satan
May my soul be undamned by the words I piece here,
For as I lay them with ink upon paper, icy hands grip my throat,
Chills rack my spine, aches pound my skull; just for thinking such thoughts.
His form came to me like in a dream, nothing remained solid,
In fact, nothing remained at all upon his exit.
So I now tell this while my hands still serve my will.
His looks are not for mortal words to say, no syllable,
No word, no phrase could carry the weight across a human tongue
To utter his visage even upon paper.
No, the demon-lord's face and body and dress came to my eyes as
Forbidden to look upon directly. And as my eyes averted, his
Literature
Five Elements
The hide flapped closed behind them as he pushed his way into the interior tent. An elderly woman sitting crossed legged in the centre tossed aside her stitching and immediately rose to her knees.
“My, my, my, my,” the old woman chided quickly, “Now what happened here?”
“I don’t know!” Dean confessed immediately. “I found her like this!” He knelt carefully and placed Evangeline at the mystic’s knees.
The yurt’s entrance whipped open again, and Michael cried, “It was my fault! It was after me!” as he tumbled in behind them. “She&rsqu
Literature
I. The Empress of Moths and Secrets
The wind ripped across the city, dragging in a storm. Litter tumbled down the street as the wind howled, forcing itself through alleyways it shouldn’t have been able to reach. The wind chimes of broken wine bottles clanked together sounding more like a warning than harmonic.
From her spot on the rusted fire escape, Lani listened to her friend sing. She leaned against the dirty brick and took a long drag from her cigarette.
Mina’s voice curled the air, slipping through the harsh wind. In the bathtub under the open window, Mina sang a song, old and brittle in lyrics, in a language unfamiliar to air, but with a melody like the last
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If I could have chosen where God would hide his heaven,
I would wish for it to be in the salt and swell of the ocean.
Carried by the currents to all continents' shores.
Reaching into depths where the sun’s light has never shown.
Mixed with algae and coral.
Breathed in by sharks and dolphins.
There is an Ocean in my soul where the waters do not curve.
-The Ocean Against Me!
I'm at the beach this weekend.
I feel this could use work. Maybe later. Maybe never. I won't threaten to scrap it because we all know I won't.
04.24.10
I would wish for it to be in the salt and swell of the ocean.
Carried by the currents to all continents' shores.
Reaching into depths where the sun’s light has never shown.
Mixed with algae and coral.
Breathed in by sharks and dolphins.
There is an Ocean in my soul where the waters do not curve.
-The Ocean Against Me!
I'm at the beach this weekend.
I feel this could use work. Maybe later. Maybe never. I won't threaten to scrap it because we all know I won't.
04.24.10
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Comments10
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Such a calm sort of desperation, a unique feeling at that. Every feeling was caught in your words, every emotion written perfectly. The writing was like the tide, coming in softly then crescendoing into the harsh waves described. Beautiful.