Bite MeBite Me: An Analysis of the Myth of Woman in Stephenie Meyer's Twilight
Since being published in 2005, Stephenie Meyer's Twilight has gone from just another young adult fantasy novel to a cult phenomenon that has gripped millions of readers of all ages. When a piece of literature becomes as widespread as Twilight, it becomes especially important to examine the messages it is sending to its readers many of whom, in Twilight's case, are impressionable young women. By applying a feminist lens to the novel and examining it in terms of Simone de Beauvoir's myth of woman, it is revealed that Twilight is a hotbed of antifeminist sentiment, from the skewed balance of power to the simple fact that none of the women in the novel are employed. If only because of the book's wide range of impact due to its bloated and romance-blinded fan base, it is important to take de Beauvoir's advice for viewing literature and expose how the myth of woman is perp
Writers BlockIt begins with a pen and a thought.Writers Block5 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
You hold the pen in your hand, poising it above your page, as you shift through your never-ending thoughts. Each one trying to grab your attention, to be the one that is chosen, but you want something. . . Right. But no matter how many thoughts and ideas you go through you just can't find it. The pressure of all these useless thoughts begins to build up inside your skull. They are pushing each other around, trying to be heard. They smash against the walls, and your head is throbbing, and starts ache.
You know! You bloody well KNOW that the right thought is in there somewhere! There's just too many other noisy thoughts getting in the way. Of course, it would have to be the one to hide itself, deep in the dark vacant corners of your mind. It probably feels like it has to be there so it doesn't get trampled by the others. Poor perfect idea, unable to venture forth and give itself a chance to be chosen in fear that it would get destroyed or taint
It's okay to have cheesecakeI get overwhelmed quickly if there's too much of something,It's okay to have cheesecake7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
That's why I steer clear of long lists
I hate Dora the Explorer.
We like TV, but it doesn't make us happy.
So why do we spend hours in front of it
Instead of doing things we like?
TV is a narcotic. We're addicted.
I'm compulsive. I inhale food.
I don't want it. I'm not hungry.
I need more.
I have no self control.
I act on impulse.
If I want something, I need it now.
I'm obsessive. I have intrusive thoughts
About death and scary images.
I stayed up late to watch a show that I thought would be good.
But I still watched it.
I like even colors, numbers and days of the week.
Yellow, green, orange, white.
2, 4, 6, 8.
Thursday, Friday, Saturday.
It doesn't make a difference though.
It's just being irrational.
I complain about washing dishes.
But I don't mind it.
I sort the dishes in a certain way.
Spoons, forks, and knives first.
Little plates, medium size plates, big pl
The 13 Ways of The Tidesi.The 13 Ways of The Tides4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'd love to harmonize in a beautifully
choreographed act, swimming in intricate
patterns and never the same circles.
Do you not feel the waves of water and sound?
The current was so strong, rip tides
had only the right ideas,
taking us where we went.
Apart, apart, apart.
Never swim against the undertow.
It is all-knowing, it understands
the proper path.
I have lessons to learn from the tides.
Our ideas went up, down, up, down,
under control of the sun and moon.
We used to count the months differently.
I used to mark off days by suns.
We watched them sink, together.
Any tide, any sunset, is never the
same as the ones that came before,
before, before, and all that will come.
Endless nights of emerging stars
taught me of change and to
expect everything from the world,
but never expect anything from anyone.
You're like sand dunes,
rising up and down.
Highs and lows.
I'm not up for the climb.
No scrambling up your
slippery, sandy slope
fairytales"Mira, if you don't open this door this instant, I'm going to break through your window."fairytales4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Peter, I'm reading."
"Tell me something I don't know. I'm serious. Open the door. We're going out. As in outside. As in into the real world."
"I can't. I'm just getting"
"To the good part. I know. And I don't really care right now. For the last time, open the door."
"No, Peter! I'm sick of you telling me what to do."
"You're being unfair, and we both know it. There's only one thing I ever tell you to do and you ignore me anyways, so it's irrelevant."
"I reserve the right to make my own judgments. I'm an adult."
"No, you're not. You're like some starry-eyed kindergartener. Stuck inin a fairytale world!"
"Then my fairytale world suits me just fine."
"Mira. Please. The rest of the world is moving on without you. Grow up."
"You know what's unfair, Peter Killinger? You telling me to 'grow up' all the time when you only treat me like a little kid!"
"Don't slam things around. What are
mind over mattermind over matter4 years ago in Fan Fiction More Like This
"you have no power over me."
oh, what a lie.
because he is barely touching her--no, he never touches her, only his fingers a breath away from her skin, only his lips warm by her ear, only the strange wild scent of him around her--
he never touches her, but already, as always, she is threatening to shake apart. she can feel the tremors starting, deep, bone-deep from the places in herself that she was born afraid of, from the dark recesses where once she swore she would never go.
not with him.
but no matter the promises she made to herself, no matter the bravery she once possessed, she was wrong. she has always been wrong. because she's possessed, now, possessed by his radiance, by the warmth of his body behind hers, by the hot sweet whispers of magic that he breathes with every word.
she's run so long, so far. and still every night he finds her, walks out of the storm bright with magic and power and she can't resist him, she never could. fear him--she does. love him--she must. do
theologyi don't believe in Godtheology5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but if i did he would be the kind of God that wouldn't forgive us until we forgave ourselves first
he wouldn't judge us according to all that we've done wrong, rather he would weigh our sins against the things we did right
the people we helped rather than those we hurt
the ones we were able to truly love rather than those that loved us
there wouldn't be any heaven or hell the way the Bible tells it, oh no
heaven wouldn't be fluffy clouds and rays of light and harps and hallelujahs
after we die we would go back to that moment in our lives we can all remember where everything still made sense
before we finally felt the burdens of life
and stay there for as long as we wished.
in hell we would go back to the defining moment in our lives where we condemned ourselves (because some things are just unforgivable)
and we would get the chance to do it all over again (but only one)
because everyone deserves a second chance (even in dea
EPIC: they make outThe wineglass slid out of his fingers to break with a crunch on the foot of the table.EPIC: they make out4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Oh, come on," she said, exasperated. "Now we're going to have to clean--"
Robin didn't finish her sentence before he lurched out of his seat and towards her, and she had time for one squeak of protest before he grabbed her waist and kissed her.
Appalled, she said, "Matthew!" and tried ineffectually to shove him away, but then suddenly she tasted the wine on his lips, and any resistance she'd felt melted away into a heady haze. She could feel his mouth insistent on hers, his tongue on her lips, the wine-laced tang of his breath. His hands were hot at her sides, firm and possessive, and she reached up to touch his face. He was, suddenly, unspeakably handsome. He hadn't always been so good-looking, had he?
Matthew, breathing hard, wrenched away from her and pushed her back a few steps, until she was up against the edge of the bed, prevented from falling only by his hands on her waist. He pulled her hip
Parentheses All Clicking Shuti.Parentheses All Clicking Shut4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Let's say you have a story. Let's say you have a page where there should be a story, but the paper is empty and the inkstains are fresh on your tongue and the words keep diving back into your throat every time you try to speak or write. Remember, darling, when you told me that a bare book is like the faces of newly-made angels? You used to have something for this: a shallow well inside your chest where you could put the thoughts and the silence and the prayers and other forgotten things and every time you needed something beautiful I would reach inside and pull it out for you. But it's gone now, the well and the water and whatever else was in it. Everything is gone.
I once was a writer too, you know, back before there were things like castles and dragons and fairytales and true love always ended in flames. I built a story built a world built a kingdom, a forest filled with arrow-backed saplings and leaves swimming in golden light, the sun gliding down to illuminate the dark patc
againso here i am crying over the silliest things andagain4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
falling in love with the stupidest. there is you pressing too far into my shoulder
and me loving it. there is you looking at me a little too long. this is me
forever trying to crawl out of the countless graves i have dug painstakingly.
but you are not what i expected. you are small.
and this is disappointment
Like an Unfinished Love PoemShe calls him a poet but in truth he's just a dreamer with too many words in his head. He doesn't believe that he's fallen in love so he pretends to be a lovestruck stranger and writes how it might feel.Like an Unfinished Love Poem4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
When I touch her lips with mine,
I'm not smiling,
I'm just living.When she said goodbye her heart pounded weakly against her heavy chest. With every pulse of blood through her veins she felt tension in her wrists; she was holding back, holding back. Her breastbone still feels like the wall of a jail cell her heartbeat thumping wildly like a prisoner begging to be freed. She wants to rip off her jacket because she's burning up inside.
She was full of empty goodbyes and dreams that didn't last long enough.
I've never been in love.
Don't you think I would know
how it feels?
My body's a wreck,
my eyes are stained with tears
my heart is hot underneath my skin.
I wonderNow that she's gone he's finally started to fall apart. It feels l
airskinny boy kissed meair4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
kis,ses l,ik,e c,ommas , ,
breaking the waves of my own selfish sadness
o god skinny boy (willow man)
if I am worth something let me know. reasons 1,,2,3, , (4,5,6)
fingers curling over the top knob of
My spine (your spine is tall and proud
skinny love blue-eyed boy godless heathen /while You have no god I find mine in my own blood wide grin kid who is
, ,,, , , , ,,,,,,,,, , , ,,,,, ,,,,,,,
MusicI see music in colors, like a heart-rate graph, oranges and blues and deep purple fluidly flowing up and down and along the parameters of sound. High; sweet flutes, silver and gold twisting gleamingly through the air like DNA. Low; baritone drumming, a rap-tap-tap of dashes dancing across the page. Liquid glass-- liquid fire, it's the soulful thrumming of an organ playing in the church... It's like the notes could lift you up, up, up... Straight into sunlight. Except you don't fall, not like Icarus. You dance.Music4 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I see music in colors, and yet I can't ever draw it right, can't write it right. It's the color of safety and home, it's the color of happy. Except you can't see those colors, not with your eyes open. You see them inside of you, that place where the bold sound rolls through you, pulls you, pushes you, until your bones are burning with the color feeling. That color. You know. That one. It's special, don't let go of it...
I see music in colors, but it's quiet, and everything
longmy hair is shorterlong4 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
i made scars longer instead
are you happy now?
Across the OceanI stood outside in the rain today. I know it sounds cliché, but the steady drumming of raindrops drowned out the beat of my heart and I swear I could hear you crying.Across the Ocean4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I've never felt as complete as I did then.
Let's just pretend that you didn't break my heart. I'll bandage my bleeding knuckles and go find that fake smile you left behind.
I won't be lonely. We'll pretend I'm happy standing outside in the wet; these are raindrops, not tears. I'll give you every excuse I have to offer, and someday when the rain clouds disappear I'll realize that I'm just talking to the sky.
I've run out of words, you know. I can feel it.
When it started raining last night I burned all of my poetry books. Page by page. I can only remember one line:
I know just how it feels
to think of the right thing to say too late.When I think of the right words, I'll write them down. And leave them for the next broken-hearted boy to set on fire.
confessionmy writing is justconfession4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
the questions that i never
wanted to answer
untitledi could never achieve anything more stupid than this. this is the fold in the page that your elbow kissed when you brushed my words away and laid down so that all i could hold was your breath, hot and terrifying against the place i despise most. you thought to do this once and only once and i will say that i do not want this ever again. i do not want to be the one ripple in a sea fighting against the shore. i do not want to be dragged against the sand and sharp rocks or weighed down with this salt. every night that i am alone, i leave this place. i'm pounding faster against the coast, the footfalls erased in each angry beat of the ocean. every step builds my ship higher and i promise you that i will be leaving. my sails will take me. you will not be my anchor.untitled4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where engines begani remember the shape of your body,where engines began6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
the curve of your back as you slept.
you reminded me of
a human and perfect machine.
the curve of your back as you slept
always too sacred to touch,
a human and perfect machine
that my mortal hands would soil.
always too sacred to touch
and yet you never told me
that my mortal hands would soil
your skin and hair and body.
and yet you never told me,
in all the time we spent,
your skin and hair and body
had belonged to someone else.
in all the time we spent
the words you were speaking
had belonged to someone else,
another man i would never meet.
the words you were speaking:
empty, hollow as if
another man i would never meet
had shot me in the heart.
empty, hollow as if
my heart was breaking, and if he
had shot me in the heart
it would hardly have mattered.
my heart was breaking, and if he
and you had run away,
it would hardly have mattered
because your heart was only a machine.
and you had run away
and it did not matter
because your heart was only
Confession FourThe sad fact of the matter is,Confession Four4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm running out of ways
To describe you in
he rationed his breathshe rationed his breaths6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
In the ICU she promised she would be back no later than July first, and of course she would visit as soon as she docked.
That was the last promise she ever made him. Her boat was delayed four days.
Safe as Houses"Ready, Grace?" James calls from upstairs, and I check the jury-rigged circuits in front of me once more. Everything looks right. I check again, just in case.Safe as Houses4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Ready!" I call back, pulling my jacket tighter around me against the chill. What with the more necessary safety adaptations, few people bother with things like heat anymore although as winter approaches, survival will become dependent on that as well. I wonder if the van's heat is still functional.
"Plugging in!" James yells.
There's a moment of silence and I cross my fingers, hoping this won't be the time that I do it wrong and cause the entire house to go up in flames. There's a loud crack like a lightning strike and cheers come from upstairs. I close the circuit breaker box and emerge from the basement to join the rest of the team upstairs. James, Nick and Lisa are all clustered at the bay window, which has been fitted with heavy iron bars. There is another electrical crack from the front yard and the smell of burnt ha
caulfieldIt was impromptu and it was gorgeous, lilting and powerful and innocuous and somehow, the lullaby sounded the same way the night felt, and i understood everything she felt in that moment, felt it for myself. It wasn't until then that i realized why she never wrote down any of the pieces she wrote. She knew that no other night would ever feel the same as this, or any other. And it scared her. She wanted to remember every piece so vividly that she was afraid to hear it again, for fear it would never be the same, and it would remind her of it-- everything she had, everything that was-- and with it, she would know, once again, that she wouldn't ever get to be there again. And she wanted it, so much, that she would either have it exactly the samecaulfield4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
-- time travel, she said--
or she could not have it at all. Simple as that.
And I understood.
the passage of timein that moment you fancied that you could hear her heart, each beat enough to shake the ground beneath you both. you imagined that the bass-hum of music was the slow labor of her muscles, rhythm and rhyme. you wondered if it would go on beating foreverif she were somehow keeping the time of the universe. slow. slow. slow.the passage of time3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
half-light threw the topography of her bones into relief, and for long moments you watched the pulse at her throat. slow. slow. slow. it made no leaps, no bounds, nothing but the measured march. slow. slow. slow.
you thought about touching her, wanted to discover if you could make that heartbeat race. your fingers reached into the space between. slow. slow. slow.
she shifted, and sighed, and slept on, and the shadows tumbled into the hollows and stayed. the thread of her pulse murmured, and was lost.
the bass rumbled and the grass around you answered, whispering in the breeze. you let your hand fall. slow. slow. slow.