That night, jazz reigned by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
That night, jazz reigned
An elderly gentlemen in a tweed suit twirled a lit up hula hoop, borrowed from the twenty-something girl in cut off shorts and a blue wig next to him. A cloud of cotton candy vape smoke drifted across the crowd, blending with the scent of fried pickles and kettle corn. On the stage, an emoji robot face created from fluorescent tubes provided a pulsing backdrop to a pianist, a saxophonist, an accordion player, and a man working an entire bank of synthesizers. My French wasn’t good enough to understand all the lyrics, but Caravan Palace had me just as entranced as everyone else who had stumbled on this unique corner of the Jazz Festival.
I bounced up and down like I was in a European disco, while a young couple made enough room to waltz in front of me and two of my brothers shouted lyrics back to the chanteuse on the stage. In this crowd of old and young, listening to this blend of electronica and big band, I felt myself soaring. My heart pounded; my cheeks ached from smiling so widely.
I lie awake
in the middle of the night
because Pain won’t let me sleep.
There’s an emptiness on my left side
where the ghost of ovary past
rattles its chains and screams
the endo is still eating us alive!
I’ve been reassured
by doctors that the endo
is not still eating me alive.
They stopped my periods,
they sliced me open,
excised, cauterized, and gently nudged
organs back into place.
What I’m feeling now
is after effects.
Side effects.
Chemical miscommunication
between body and brain,
caused by decreasing one medication
from 1500 milligrams to 1200.
But the empty space won’t stop
screaming.
And the lance now perpetually
piercing my side laughs.
I lie awake
and remind myself
that these tears are a chemical imbalance,
nothing more and nothing less,
and the screaming
stabbing aching
hole is a memory,
not a truth.
The Weight We Carry by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Paris is a vague childhood memory,
the kind that floats like a wisp
of cloud across your mind.
Hot chocolate in a big mug,
melted strands like seaweed
on the surface; the bite
and sweetness of mandarin
oranges; a little pink bottle
of l’eau de toilette—
Real French perfume my parents
told me.
I still have that
little pink bottle, even
though now it smells
like carbonated alcohol.
The Paris I visited
in my childhood hides
there, in a squat pink bottle,
waiting for the genie to emerge.
My Pain is Like an Old Friend by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
My Pain is Like an Old Friend
It’s the kind of friend
you can’t really remember
how you met, or why
you still hang out.The kind of friend
who gives you a monkey’s paw
and tells you it works
just like a genie’s lamp,
go ahead, make a wish.The kind of friend
your Momma warned you about,
who gets you hooked on drugs
and drags you down dark alleys.The kind of friend
who takes you to the banks
of a wide river, and says
stay here. Float for a while.
Drift on the meditation of agony,
and tell me what you learn.
That night, jazz reigned by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
That night, jazz reigned
An elderly gentlemen in a tweed suit twirled a lit up hula hoop, borrowed from the twenty-something girl in cut off shorts and a blue wig next to him. A cloud of cotton candy vape smoke drifted across the crowd, blending with the scent of fried pickles and kettle corn. On the stage, an emoji robot face created from fluorescent tubes provided a pulsing backdrop to a pianist, a saxophonist, an accordion player, and a man working an entire bank of synthesizers. My French wasn’t good enough to understand all the lyrics, but Caravan Palace had me just as entranced as everyone else who had stumbled on this unique corner of the Jazz Festival.
I bounced up and down like I was in a European disco, while a young couple made enough room to waltz in front of me and two of my brothers shouted lyrics back to the chanteuse on the stage. In this crowd of old and young, listening to this blend of electronica and big band, I felt myself soaring. My heart pounded; my cheeks ached from smiling so widely.
I lie awake
in the middle of the night
because Pain won’t let me sleep.
There’s an emptiness on my left side
where the ghost of ovary past
rattles its chains and screams
the endo is still eating us alive!
I’ve been reassured
by doctors that the endo
is not still eating me alive.
They stopped my periods,
they sliced me open,
excised, cauterized, and gently nudged
organs back into place.
What I’m feeling now
is after effects.
Side effects.
Chemical miscommunication
between body and brain,
caused by decreasing one medication
from 1500 milligrams to 1200.
But the empty space won’t stop
screaming.
And the lance now perpetually
piercing my side laughs.
I lie awake
and remind myself
that these tears are a chemical imbalance,
nothing more and nothing less,
and the screaming
stabbing aching
hole is a memory,
not a truth.
The Weight We Carry by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
The Weight We Carry
When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean the fifty
pounds of textbooks
I stuff it with, filled
to bursting, then
take the stairs two
at a time to hear
my abdominal muscles scream
and feel my breath flee,
never looking back.When I say my bag is heavy,
I don’t mean in pounds,
kilograms, ounces or stones—
maybe stones
the kind that Virginia Woolf
lined her pockets with
when she walked
into the Ouse.When I say my bag is heavy,
I mean that Atlas staggered
under this weight,
and when my therapist asks
“Do you feel strong?”
I feel the crushing
of my collarbone
and answer truthfully,
“No.”
Paris is a vague childhood memory,
the kind that floats like a wisp
of cloud across your mind.
Hot chocolate in a big mug,
melted strands like seaweed
on the surface; the bite
and sweetness of mandarin
oranges; a little pink bottle
of l’eau de toilette—
Real French perfume my parents
told me.
I still have that
little pink bottle, even
though now it smells
like carbonated alcohol.
The Paris I visited
in my childhood hides
there, in a squat pink bottle,
waiting for the genie to emerge.
My Pain is Like an Old Friend by anapests-and-ink, literature
Literature
My Pain is Like an Old Friend
It’s the kind of friend
you can’t really remember
how you met, or why
you still hang out.The kind of friend
who gives you a monkey’s paw
and tells you it works
just like a genie’s lamp,
go ahead, make a wish.The kind of friend
your Momma warned you about,
who gets you hooked on drugs
and drags you down dark alleys.The kind of friend
who takes you to the banks
of a wide river, and says
stay here. Float for a while.
Drift on the meditation of agony,
and tell me what you learn.
lifeboats never float by EternalSunday, literature
Literature
lifeboats never float
listen to me little castaway,the lionheart sewn into your chest still beats
but the threads are loosening,forced bravery
will always crack in the end.your sleep is dreamless but you always wake up
vulnerable. (survival cost more than you could spare, so you replaced yourself
with a huntress. she roars in the night, and claws her way
through the days like a rabid animal, always hungry and never afraid.)it is time to step away from your gods
they listen to your footsteps in the grass, the rustling
of leaves and hurried breaths,
but they cannot see you.(do not abandon them.)it is time to isolate yourself from the fear
my warrior, it wi...
Funny thing is, maybe I'm as bad as her when it comes to just knowing things, sometimes. At least, knowing how she operates. Shauna Mull and I hadn't been face-to-face in over two years, and I still knew exactly how to break into her apartment.
Chicago was moving behind me as I clambered up the stairs, half-stumbling a bit from the exhaustion of it all. Travel-sick and sleep-deprived. Maybe heartsore. The dark wood of the steps was slightly damp and smelled of mildew, and the dull thumping of my boots as I climbed was too loud in the weird and half-suspended dawn before rush hour. There was the soft sound of traffic, down below, and papers...
Desperately, I Grab Hold Of Something That (LT) by fadingreverie, literature
Literature
Desperately, I Grab Hold Of Something That (LT)
On the day I tried to read Ulyssesmy feelings grew and shrank
in tempo with my horrid thoughts
(I couldn't decide what I truly want
in all the banality , in the all the mediocre ways
we hurt others).You bought this book because I asked you to.
Now I can't read a page without seeing your face...
Lestrade was rapidly coming to the boil. But then, he was a kettle.“Look, Sherlock,” he said to the tall teapot, “any information about the missing spoon, you have to tell me. It’s part of a very expensive set!”Sherlock hesitated but then he saw the steam coming out of Lestrade’s spout.“It was the cat and fiddle figurine that inadvertently gave the game away,” Sherlock began. “He and the cow creamer have shifted slightly to the left, away from the Spode dish. To allow access to a hiding place perhaps.”He looked directly at Lestrade. “And there was the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”Lestrade appeared puzzled.“Mrs Hudson’s b...
What Need Have I of a Husband? by SkysongMA, literature
Literature
What Need Have I of a Husband?
The first son of the king was born when the king's three daughters were twelve, eighteen, and twenty, after a long string of miscarriages, childhood illnesses, and general bad luck. He was healthy and smiling, and no one doubted that the king finally had his heir.The king's first daughter, Penelope, was already married to a leader of an island nation. The king's third daughter, Sibylla, was too young to marry. The middle daughter, Chloe, was just old enough for men to come calling, and call they had, but after a year of her brother's life, she came to her parents with a request."Don't make me marry," she said to her father and her mother. ...
They Also Serve Who Only Stand and Wait by orphicfiddler, literature
Literature
They Also Serve Who Only Stand and Wait
I don't know when we first went underground. I don't even know if it was one mass exodus, a swarm of mankind trickling through the earth's crust so vehement we carved our own caverns by the force of trampling feet, or whether it was a gradual process, perhaps even a repetitive one, a family here, a neighborhood there. For all I know, the echo of the damp subterranean machine has always reverberated off the cave walls, created long past by the Angels, who think of our well-being even while they shake their heads helplessly at our flaws.They say that those who remained on the surface were raptured away in a great flash of light, like a milli...
It was a time of love, a time of hate, the era of justice and immorality, the season of both insanity and clarity of mind. Sound familiar, don't it? Me wife used to love Dickens. Read him to me all the time, she did. That Jane what's-her-face woman, too: it is a truth universally acknowledged that a criminal who committed a crime is in want of a good hanging. Ring a bell?Yes, I like me literary allusions. I do, you know. Remind me of sweet Elaine. She was a messy death, but worth it. Oh boy, was she worth it. Crying and begging right up to the end. She had it coming to her, bet your arse she did, mate.Why am I here anyway? I've already con...
It starts with a flash-bang and a Majulah by TheGreatSpyExperim, literature
Literature
It starts with a flash-bang and a Majulah
i.
June's hauled her here again and
she's tapping at my classroom window,
A gazillion tiny fingers rapping in succession
(When she said "invitation" I didn't realise she meant
soaking half the country, the spike in umbrella prices has
nothing to do with me)
What's worse than an impatient child
is one with the whole atmosphere as her battering ram
when she tries to say something the urgency brims over
and one million exclamation marks
is beginning to sound like static frazzling
out on the pavementsii.
She is without choice: when Cloud mother tips her out
she must go, and go she will
caught in an obtuse cycle, fought over by heat and
gravity...
a prayer I whisper to your closed window by miserabel, literature
Literature
a prayer I whisper to your closed window
hey, cupcake
I hate speaking a language you don't understand
but I love it, too
all these things I can tell you,
provided you don't fully grasp them
je t'adore trop, et je ferais beaucoup
plus pour te faire sourir
qu'un petit meurtre
de moi-même
pardon my french, it is
a coward's way out
je rêve que de toi ces jours, je regarde les autres
et j'vois que des spectres, que des silhouettes
c'est ta visage qui rend tout un peu plus réel
j'sais pas comment te dire
I wish to pray to you;
hear me,
I want nothing more
than to dip my fingers into your frosting,
hear me,
you're not happiness but you are
magic and I like who I am when I'm with you
I like who I am
and you're helping
thank you, I want to
unravelled nowhere cradling garbage
like woman I have hands swallowed
feeling week Wide strange God
bought wounded pink
that's winter thinking
Alleluia, somebody's hills are peaceful
anything yellow will work
for wanting
the Sunday river
good one love on the kind bus
For spill of diamond, refrigerated
used glass STOP you're happy
forever
wake when the light starts running
cloud mouth stupid bed rush
he can't open the day
or the door with a real face
body forever little girl in the wanted always
i was Like shit
things splintered
let the train find heaven
Stay beautiful
Already
Nobody's crazy first leaves
through ritual death the ritual daughter
rinse the damage endless Milk sleep
i YES ran
For the likelihood
of moonlight
i came to check my feed & saw i got a DD for this poem:
thank you everyone who has stuck around & kept reading my stuff for years even though i am very dramatic & inconsistent. i love you all. i see the names that crop up in my notifications & the ppl who recommend my work for DDs & a lot of them are people i havent spoken to in a long time but i think so highly of all of you... it is crazy that hundreds of people have read my poems. i feel like i grew up on this site in some ways. am still growing for the last couple of years i was writing a lot of the same things because i was in a lot of pain. i feel like i woke up from a weird fever ...
advice for the one who doesn't know by miserabel, literature
Literature
advice for the one who doesn't know
movie tears sparkle, but darling,
they’re not yours.
there’s something about true sadness
that makes it unsuitable for hollywood screens;
and I think it might be those watching.
don’t be a display case,
dearest, for it’s a hollow existence,
and you don’t need them, you don’t need
to be shining brighter, your face doesn’t need
to make men dream of immortality and gilded cages.
don’t be a songbird,
because we are not meant to fly,
but even less are we meant to sit in stillness,
chanting about freedom we don’t truly understand.
wear your confusion like curiosity,
and all your sadness on your sleeve.
hell, make them uncomfortable
when they dare judge your skin,
the way your atoms combine, or
the way you sail on through.
cry.
and when you do,
forget about
how it looks.
Norma Jean drew a heart on the back of my hand in hoop snake blood.“When that fades,” she said, tapping the center of her work, “you may forget about me.”Norma Jean and I dated on and off through high school and then some. We grew up wandering the forest and exploring the caverns surrounding Ripple Creek, running from the hide-behinds and hodags when we stumbled too far into their territory. The backwoods of Minnesota were our playground, from the shores of Loon Lake to the edge of Crazy Dan’s property, where the pine trees grew so tall you couldn’t see the sky.The day Norma Jean disappeared, I saw a teakettler scuttling around the shed be...
JayHenge Publishing's 'Wavelengths' Now Released! by SCFrankles, journal
JayHenge Publishing's 'Wavelengths' Now Released!
@jes6ica's publishing company JayHenge has just released its newest anthology of speculative fiction Wavelengths . :thumb750524276:I have two pieces of flash fiction included in it under the pen name Charlotte Frankel, and as always I am very pleased and proud to be a part of it all.Please take a look at Jessica's journal entry for the full details and perhaps think about submitting to future anthologies yourself. You can see what anthologies are currently being planned here!
In January, Elsa got new neighbors. She greeted them with apple cinnamon tea.
It gets so cold, here , they told her, shivering in overstuffed parkas. Snow had turned to mud in their front hallan unavoidable side-effect of moving in winter. Elsa nodded along to their complaints and observations, silently brewing the tea in their kitchen. They were young; they had big plans. Allison and Steve, newlyweds, just starting out. They sat on the cold floor together, sipping with chapped lips. The house filled with cinnamon.
In April, Allison knocked on Elsa's door. We're pregnant! White tea in a china teacup; the taste of flower petals...
Tonight I begin the long drive to Chicago, where I will (hopefully) begin a summer internship with the Public Guardian's Office. I know travel is what got me sick in the first place, but there are foster kids in need and my partner waiting for me at the end of the journey. At the very least, I will have something more to write about.What are your hopes for the summer? What is your strangest pandemic story so far?
1) Law school is hard, and takes up almost every waking hour.
2) An apocalypse happened when I wasn't looking.
3) After driving around in the apocalypse, I got sick and am still slowly recovering.
4) On the bright side, I suddenly have a little bit of free time.
5) I started a collaborative blog, Intersectional Frameworks (reframetrauma.weebly.com) for people to share their experiences, and we've received a broad range of responses from all sorts of backgrounds and all sorts of places (though we're always looking for more).How have you been? What are you doing to stay sane in this apocalypse? What does isolation taste like?
ing, sweetpea. I always appreciate you! 
:origin()/pre00/016c/th/pre/f/2018/075/a/0/thank_a4_by_alimera-dc61aht.jpg)
