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Literature
after (part 1)
this morning, when we woke up, there was nobody else.
we had woken long and slow, the sun had risen, as normal
as normal, we had missed it
but there it was, still, rising, notstill
we wondered; was this how Adam and Eve had felt
we wondered; fastnotslow, thoughts racing
(our minds were not yet in sync, that comes later, hush, i promise)
we wondered; then we wandered, then we wondered
we weren’t in Eden, we were in London,
and nobody was watering the trees anymore.
we didn’t know how we knew we were the only ones. we just knew.
everything was quiet and so still
everything is so quiet and so still
was and is, is and was
there must have been fires.
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Literature
prelude to something bigger
i find myself folded, twisted, fingers on my wrist, feeling the steady pulse of 'i am, i am, i am', pen in hand. it's all i can write, page after page of phrase after phrase until it all blurs together. the commas loop and swirl, and the arches of the m's curl like they're kissing. the dots of the i's are missing and to look at it, you'd never know what it used to be.
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Literature
baby blue
emily was born blue.
there was another baby before her - a boy, she thinks, but her mother slurs whenever she talks about him, and there are no photos. in her mind, emily has called him benjamin, and, when she closes her eyes, she imagines that he is pushing her on a swing. big brother benjamin. emily and benjamin, running around the garden, playing hide and seek, emily always the seeker, benjamin always hiding.
emily has seen photos her mother tried to hide from her: emily lying, a cord wrapped round her neck, blue. in the next one, her limbs are a blur and she's choking on her own fluids, but she's alive and screaming. her mother has an expression of relief, but also grief. she had not known she was carrying a girl.
emily imagines her parents, a paired pastiche of bloodshot eyes and shaking hands holding baby monitors, lying awake in the hot summer nights of her infancy. it's no wonder she looks back on her childhood and feels suffocated.
'she's my miracle baby', her mother would bab
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braceless by wonderfulrachel braceless :iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 0 2 keep in time, babies by wonderfulrachel keep in time, babies :iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 1 3 the jesushand. by wonderfulrachel the jesushand. :iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 0 10 curious, she says by wonderfulrachel curious, she says :iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 2 13
Literature
Is, Was, Will Be
i.
There was an oak tree, a bench,
a stream, and a willow.
All of these things have no place in this poem,
but poetic significance never made sense to me anyway. Let’s say
the oak tree is me, and you are the bench,
although I think you’d rather be the stream,
and I wouldn’t mind trailing branches and whispering leaves.
No, I am the oak tree, and there is bound to be something
in how I’ve grown from something warm, brown, and wrinkled,
cupped in a palm and patted under earth. There’s nothing romantic
about being a bench.
The stream is better. Let’s say that we’d sit for it, as it drew us
always, in watercolours. (This may seem obvious,
but you know me, I like to be thorough.)
Always, the ripples across your nose and cheeks - always,
the willow tree, dragging its limbs across us, smearing us together.
Smearing is such an ugly word. But then again, so were you;
an ugly word, all consonants and a lack of Italian vowels. Your a’s were brash,
and every
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:iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 9 16
Literature
'I'm Will.'
"I'm the one they warned you about."
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Literature
Results Day
Frankly, this was getting a bit ridiculous.
She’d had them for over an hour now, clutched in her suspiciously damp palm, but the only indicator that she’d even tried to open them was a slight loosening of the envelope flap on one side. And that hadn’t ended well.  It wasn’t that she was scared of the results, per say…Just that she would be perfectly happy with never knowing what they were, and continuing her life in blissful ignorance. At least until she went back to school.
Come on, she urged herself. Come on. There’s more to me than this, it isn’t the be-all and end-all. This doesn’t define who I am, just how well I do under pressure.
Last year had been different: last year had been better. She’d opened them alone, in a tent in France, without the prying eyes of curious family or friends. This year, it had been extremely difficult to grab her results from school, and escape without anybody noticing her and demanding
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Literature
public transport
today, i feel like saying, "dear x,
i went up an escalator today and
i missed you."
                         i want to say,
"i missed you on the tube, and
beneath the bridge, in all those
cold, damp places that somehow,
we made belong to us."
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Literature
traces.
i.
it occurs to me on a coach,
in the early hours of the morning,
that i've forgotten your hands.
i've left them, curled around a mug
on a stained kitchen worktop,
pinkie comically raised.
you always said that manners
were your fatal flaw.
ii.
it occurs to me too,
that i've forgotten your smile.
or at least the teeth in it.
i distinctly remember one rolling
between the carpet and the wall,
and another, i threw into the toilet.
i find myself caculating calcium density,
and wondering:
do teeth float?
iii.
we've just reached switzerland,
when mountains remind me:
there is blood in my freezer.
iv.
there are traces of you everywhere.
no longer beneath my fingernails, or caught
between my teeth, but instead
imprinted on my retinas, and hidden
in the crevices of a night-time mind.
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Literature
it feels like winter.
i can, i can try
to replace you with sugary tea,
but you were never that sweet
and couldn't blister my palm.
and besides, you preferred to have
a lemon slice and a kiss with your earl grey
and i've run out of both.
i can abandon rational thought
and capital letters
but i can't, i can't stop thinking
in drawn-out vowels.
but it's okay, it's okay.
i walked down a hill this morning
and didn't think of you once.
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Literature
The Late Train
There's nothing that can be compared to this: the first shy nose-brushings and the stutterings, the slow hum of the train beneath you. You could kiss him – your lips are brushing his cheek – but his hands are clutching yours so tightly that he can’t bring himself to let go. The stops blur into each other and he hasn’t explained, he hasn’t said a word, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all. The words you’ve left unsaid can’t compare to his offer to walk you back home because he knows that you fear faceless monsters sliding out of the dustbins – or how he tangles his hands in your hair like he's trying to find something to ground himself, or how he holds his hand palm-up and waits, as if he's too scared to clasp your fingers, as if he's afraid he might break you.
You’re always finding excuses to go on long train journeys at ridiculous times, so that you can have the entire carriage to yourselves and just be, eating sandwich
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Literature
I don't believe in 'always'
"you flinched," he says, a space
where lips had been before.
no longer touching, we remain
silent.
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:iconwonderfulrachel:wonderfulrachel 5 16
Literature
because friendships fade.
Since I can't describe you, I'll describe what you aren't.
You don't have a beard, but you aren't clean shaven. You don't have blue eyes, nor are they a warm brown. That would be far too poetic, and you aren't poetic. You're not musical, but you knew me well enough to realise that words are not always my strong point.
Last summer, you asked me to write you a song, but I started writing your symphony instead. It's winter now, and I wish it wasn't about you. Every time I listen, I can hear your melody - an underlying beat, inescapably you. I tried cutting every bar you were in, but all I was left with was a handful of countermelodies and no tune. Even in those you remained, stubbornly - an afterthought.
In August I left it ending on a diminished chord, the notes rising toward something I didn't have the heart to write. Maybe it was hope; perhaps acceptance. It may have even been fear - fear of writing those final chords and feeling my fingers let go of the lingerings of friendship I've b
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Favourites

The Magic Leaf by MBryn The Magic Leaf :iconmbryn:MBryn 12 10
Mature content
Desire :iconagmeade:AGMeade 90 55
wishfully by AlicjaRodzik wishfully :iconalicjarodzik:AlicjaRodzik 2,274 107
Journal
Artist of Tomorrow
Help promote artistoftomorrow. Just by registering (all you need is an email address) and voting for it here: http://www.dellsocialinnovationcompetition.com/apex/ideaView?id=087800000005FzjAAE , you can help the organization get $50,000.
What the group's about, in the words of poshlost:
"Artist of Tomorrow is about fostering active artists who reach past their art to create tangible social change, because art is not just paint or clay or ink or words, it's an idea, and sometimes ideas are what ultimately change the world. As Mahatma Gandhi and Nelson Mandela proved, sometimes simply standing for something does far more than force because it gives others the opportunity to stand with you.
The tangible goal of Artist of Tomorrow is to create local communities of artists around the world that encourage individuals to express, create, and grow, but in time, we hope to build a global network of artists whose voice is powerful enough to inspire and break down barriers
:iconartistoftomorrow:artistoftomorrow
:iconartistoftomorrow:artistoftomorrow 6 2
Literature
'toilet paper adoration'
old notes you wrote me are so much like toilet paper;
the words slashed across them are fecal skidmarks;
folded into fancy pockets, they're all full of shit;
LOVE
FOREVER
PERFECT
EVERYTHING
NOT YOUR FAULT
NEVER LEAVE
ALWAYS
SORRY
OKAY
all chunks in what would later turn out to be diarrhea;
relics of a relationship that turned into dysentary;
all those lies would have warranted a proctologist;
i'm just left constipated in such a lovely way...
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Literature
The Drive
Sitting here in this pointless office, I wander in my mind to different places, different times, different worlds. Somehow it feels like the world is trying to erase my ambition, creativity and ability to touch other people. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore, it is frustrating to not think that you are a machine, typing and pressing gray buttons to the rhythm of the ticking clock.
Some low whispered empty conversations, annoying mechanical phone rings, the night is falling down so fast you can’t even see it coming. The windows are so dark you cannot feel the real difference between day and night, it’s all the same here, all the same.
A girl approaches me, bends a little on my desk, smiling. She says she’s from Human Resources, wants to interview me about the workers conditions. I nod as I log off my user and detach off the keyboard. She leads me into a small room, round table, two chairs and a little laptop sitting quietly, humming to itself.
She asks me a
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Journal
Project Positivity Competition
1st, 2nd & 3rd will win at least a 3 month sub.
Check my journal for the full list of prizes
My first project - way back when - before I even knew what a senior was, was ProjectPositivity. I forgot how important this concept was to me, and after rediscovering it I've decided with conviction that more people could benefit from this. So to give you all a little incentive I'm going to offer prizes....
But before all that let me explain about what the project is, and what it is for...
The idea of this group is very simple. A lot of artists have self esteem issues, depression, anger, negativity.. that sort of thing. Sometimes we need to be reminded of the good things we have done or can do.
The idea of the project is you make an image, however you like, that has text on it. The text should be positive things about yourself. As many as you like but more than 10.
Its difficult to list positive things about yourself, so if you do one with only 10 good things and sl
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:iconpoetryod:PoetryOD 348 198
Literature
Sackcloth and Ashes
She wears sackcloth like
ashes and kneels
by the river, lets her stones
slip one by one into the rippled sky.
Her hair dark and indistinguished
against night branches,
her fingers become twigs.
There is a shadow
she keeps under her tongue.
And only the dawn-sparrow
knows.
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:iconthebrassglass:TheBrassGlass 6 3

Critiques

Activity


deviantID

wonderfulrachel
rachel.
United Kingdom
home counties resident with a penchant for seasonal tea, opaque tights, and revision flashcards. music taste varies from classical to hip-hop-brass-band, to unabashed cheesepop, to some serious heavy metal. currently very frustrated with state of hair. has an ecofriendly bag with 'MUSIC IS GOOD!!!', exclamation marks and all. would much rather be in paris, where the music is snooty, but better. also better coffee. always comes down to the coffee.

Current Residence: engerland.
Favourite genre of music: hip hop rap big brass band. yuhhuh.
Favourite style of art: literature, but i have a soft spot for anything conceptual.
Interests
www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgbHtD…

using stuff i find in my room. (: love to know what you guys think, fosho.


love from the lurker
<3

Comments


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:iconda-wolf-lover:
Da-wolf-lover Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2010
hey!
dont mean to bother u but i am advertising my fan clubs!!
:iconjared-leto-fc::iconadrien-brody-fc:
pleas join!
Reply
:iconmbryn:
MBryn Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2010  Professional Writer
Belated thanks for the fave.
Reply
:icongaioumonbatou:
GaioumonBatou Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2010
Thanks for the fav, Rachel. :hug:
Reply
:iconwonderfulrachel:
wonderfulrachel Featured By Owner Jan 5, 2010
i always feel AWFUL about faving without commenting. a comment is on its way, i promise. :)

i was a bit brainfloofy and couldn't think of anything more interesting than 'i liked this', and that's almost as bad as not saying anything at all.

D:
Reply
:icongaioumonbatou:
GaioumonBatou Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2010
Don't worry about it, I fav and run a lot myself. I don't like doing it either, but a lot of the time I fav things so that I'll come back and comment later when I can come up with something useful to say. xD
Reply
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