Running Around

Personal

It feels like a lot has happened since my last journal I've detailed much of it over at Autumn Brontide, but here's a faster summary;

Monday: bruised one of my toes rather badly; it hurt for several days and I'm just now (as in, today) able to bend it without much pain. It's still kinda reddish-purple though and the swelling hasn't quite gone down yet.

I got to class anyway and remember to take some Vicodin with me. After class, I fall asleep in the English lounge. Somehow drove home without crashing into anything

Tuesday: saw Brave. I liked it, but I'm not sure where it stands in respect to the rest of Pixar's movies yet. Definitely darker than their usual standard though. And, as always, the animation is gorgeous

Brave was followed up with a trip to the arcade - only there was racing go carts instead of winning tickets. I didn't leave until I was tired of handing everyone their asses in laser tag.

About that time, it was getting close to go to Drama class anyway. So there was that. While waiting, I overhear it's Minnick's birthday; I am dead tired by now, but don't let it stop me from going to get cake. _{And an apple, because even when I'm being nice I like being a smart-ass.}

And inbetween all of these things I have my usual babysitting and dental stuff to fret over while scribbling all manner of nonsense into my notebooks. It's been a week >.<

deviantART

Finally got my writing notebook sent to MoonlightWillow6 this afternoon. The line at the post office was beyond ridiculous

It seems like all the groups I Admin for are taking a hiatus in some form or another. Can't say I blame them; I think everyone has needed one, if only to get things in order. theWrittenRevolution and EliteLiterature have been needing some clean-up behind the scenes, but we'll be back proper once the spiderwebs are all gone

I would like to remind everyone that I am a General Admin for DailyLitDeviations and would very much appreciate your literary suggestions (especially the prose ones )

Two more days to Flash-Fic-Month!

Don't forget about DLD's Summer Contest. You have until August to get an entry in, and that time may pass by if you forget

Features!

I haven't done a good feature in a while. Let's see what I've found for you today;


:thumb310325594: 206 BonesShe died. And because she was dead, because all her 206 bones were buried and bare, she became special and beautiful and amazing, and quiet, artistic boys went on quests and changed lives in her name, because they all remembered how she had been in life, and how they could have saved her, and how they chose not to. SouvenirsWhen her mom went to check the mail at breakfast, she returned with a thin box in her arms.
It was a package from her father.
Her dad was sort of like a traveler... at least, that was what she assumed he was. His job always had him jumping from city to city, country to country. He'd been to almost everywhere around the world, and every few weeks, he would send her a letter with a little souvenir from his stay. This time, it was a miniature Eiffel Tower.
So he's in France again, she mused, studying the two-foot tall replica. A small chuckle escaped her lips. It was about time he remembered to get it for her! He really should've thought of buying it six visits ago. She opened the small envelope attached to package and read the letter inside with a fond smile. When she finished reading, she stood up and excused herself from the table. Her mom answered with a sad smile as she nodded.
She raced up the stairs and headed for the Gift Room. It was a special place in the house just for h True StoryThis is my story. I wrote it. With my own two hands I have crafted this tale, right from my own imagination. I created it from nothing, or rather, from scraps left over from a dictionary. It starts with a guy whose name escapes me. He does something that you wouldn't believe, (or maybe you would. You can be kind of like that sometimes.) Bad things happen, and he loses faith a few times, and just when you think life could never be good again, it is. He doesn't live happily ever after, but the problem he was facing is resolved to your satisfaction. I just wish I could remember the details.
You'd love it; it was just your kind of story. It had all the elements that I knew you'd enjoy, so I couldn't help but think of you the whole time I wrote it. In fact, I may have accidently slipped you in there somewhere. It was tasteful though. You would have liked it.
I won an award for the story. Everyone dusted off their old typewriters for some reason, and sent me a letter of congratulations. It w :thumb305074634: Things ChangeHe rode their tandem bike, alone. He isn't you.He isn't wishful paper cranes,
or Paris dreams during cold
Autumn nights. He isn't You.
But, he's trying so hard to
make me forget  [ you you you… ]
like pressed flowers hidden
between the bindings of
unfinished books, placed
at the top of dusty shelves.
His eyes are supernovas,
dead and lonely.
They don't sparkle like
your blue ocean iris's.
But…He loves me.
I can feel it through
shy smiles and the way
he touches me with
gentle artist fingers.
[ He makes
  me want to write
  p o e t r y.         ]
He still isn't
               You. regressionit is eleven thirty four in the morning and
i am thinking about how it is stupid to fall in love
because of october and a knit hat.
but it's raining and i can feel
climates shifting and if we can't love each other
at the end of the world, when?
if we cannot feel fire beneath our mouths and eyes.
but my poems are losing control,
becoming mismanaged and unstructured.
infinite regress, a teacher i once had would call it,
but that would imply that there was something to
regress from.
i can feel the chaos and it validates me,
becomes the fiber in my fingernails,
the small circles that surface and re
surface, analysis becoming
nothing more or less than itself. Skeletal FootprintsThe stare of wide eyes
upon ghosts,
along walls with webs.
Setting on boney fingers
cracking in another dream.
Long skeletal footprints
fossils caught in dried blood
with lost skin buried beneath.
Another dream dies slowly,
forming crescents
along the cold northern sun. The Way We Built Bridges"You waste too much time on your words." You once told me.
"No," I replied "you don't waste enough time on words. Words are a tool to you, not a treat. A pragmatic means of communicating, bargaining, exchanging vital snippets of information. Calm down. Stop speaking so fast. We're not fighting a war (not us, not here). You don't prune and select your language. You've forgotten how to roll it around on your tongue, or try it on for size. Revel in rolling Rs, or the sweetness of a string of vowels and consonants, arranged in such a way to create more beauty than you ever thought possible.
Language can be a delicacy to contrast your paltry recital of data. You should try it." thumbprintthumbprint bruises,
all around my chin, dotting my cheekbones,
making an uneven necklace and two broken bracelets,
marking the soft red underside of my ribcage.
tiny patches of blue-black hurt
pressed hard into me.