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Short story -- beginning [25 Jul 2007|10:01pm]

Hey all!
I've begun a project - mostly autobiographical, but not entirely - and was hoping for some feedback when you get a chance. Let me know what you think!! :)

This is the first part, still working on the restCollapse )
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poem [04 May 2007|10:12am]

[ mood | curious ]

Hello ladies, might I trouble you for a read? Let me know what you think! I am having trouble with the first and last stanzas...any advice is appreicated! <3


There is a picture of the actress with the red hair
whose jacket is about to be slid off, maybe to the floor
or hung up in the closet. The coat looks to be leather,
and maybe her nightgown will be cotton. Her breasts
are rounded, about to breathe air fully, with no screen
in front, for once. Such a funny thing, ownership -
when the breasts become real, and not just two mounds of flesh
rising like yeasty bread in a vertical oven.

My breasts are disappearing,
vanishing under the efforts of weight loss
and an apathy that grows
from counting calories. My mother has small breasts
for a woman who has grown larger over the past three years.
Stress, she says, her mouth full, and I shrug. I can never
begrudge her that; I am married to it as well, we have
become intimate lovers. Some nights anxiety comes knocking on the door
and we have a threesome, legs and arms akimbo, sweat pouring
out from my body, but at the end of the night they are both gone,
and it is only me left to count the threads of my sheets for sanity's sake.

Her mother lost her breasts to the cancer
I may very well inherit one day,
just as I have inherited their needs
to visit a doctor once a week
and spill my secrets only to him. Like the rest of them,
I have joined the line of women gone mad; unlike
the rest of them - I tell no one. Only strangers who may
very well be telling me lies. I know they don't,

But who's to say? I used to know my breasts
when they bought me drinks at bars, earned me slurs
of compliments issued from the men who were out
to forget the unforseen doldrums of married life. Now
they have become deflated, pale-white mirrors to the ones
seen by the browned natives on the pages of National Geographic.
And I never drink anymore --

Or maybe I do and keep it secret, hoping one day
to reclaim my confidence when I remove a coat
as brilliant as hers in the picture.

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holy fuck it happened. [02 May 2007|07:22pm]

i had this idea that maybe my idea that i was a semi-decent writer was rooted in some overly romantic schoolgirl fantasy about creative types and blahblah. until recently i hadn't written anything of note in MONTHS. no exaggeration there. i don't know how i feel about these, though. my unintentional break from writing has surprised me. i'm a different person now and so follows the writing i guess.

here are a couple:

1Collapse )

2Collapse )

any thoughts/criticisms (!!!) you have would be much appreciated. you ladies are so talented. :]
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prompted... [14 Jan 2007|11:54pm]

Prompt #1b: Describe the longest, happiest, or most excrutiating hour of your life without using abstractions such as fear, death, love, happy, upset, confused. Instead, infuse the piece with concrete words such as chair, coffee, crooked, flavor, sand, shingles, crack. Avoid words like pain and embrace words like pane. If you can't see it, touch it, smell it, hear it, or taste it, leave it. 

wind peeled, tears torn from eyelids
vocal chords
house, ring, chapel, offspring
gloved hands, exposed fingers
a distance from my own
nose running, look at ground, not blue eyes
voice gone, chords tight
turn on heel 180 degrees
walk the tundra, empty handed
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this didn't turn out as planned. [11 Jan 2007|08:33pm]

the face appeared in my window, and i gasped. stopped at a traffic light in the ghetto of north philly, i felt my hand flicker in response to my middle class white impulse to lock the doors. 
her (his?) face was contorted as she tapped angrily on my window, asking for cash. 
"come on!" she screeched. "i know you got something!"
i probably should have given her the twenty in my wallet. twenty dollars that could have been imbibed, through nose, mouth, veins... and guaranteeing her something, anything better than pounding on the windshields of startled twenty-somethings. 
instead, my mind flicked back to a scene a week prior, on a similar street not far from the one where i sat. my companion, offering a homeless man a cigarette on a corner. a small gesture of comfort to the comfortless.
instinctively i reached toward the pack of marlboro lights in my glove compartment, and cracking the window, i hastily shoved it toward the woman's grotesque, scowling face, and accelerated as the light, thankfully changed.
instantly i was drowning in icy regret. i briefly considered turning around and returning for the pack, not the cigarette, just that pack- the pack. the momento. the pack that had been traveling with me, through two cars and two moves, and two years, smoked by two people... one of them now dead. 
tevis dropped the pack in my car on the last night that i saw him (alive). i had considered driving back to his apartment, less than two blocks from my matchbox apartment on rose street. but i never did. i kept them tucked away in my glove compartment, sinfully enjoying their presence and never smoking a single one.
i never saw tevis sober. i wonder if he ever was. he was young looking- at nineteen he looked like he was about to enter high school. perpetually greasy hair, perpetually broken out t-zone, heavy lidded eyes... he was just one in a string of others just like him.
in september he walked straight off the side of a cliff in red river gorge. pilar found him the next morning, and had to sit with his lifeless body for six hours before help arrived. 
the toxicology reports suggest there were enough amphetamines in tevis' body that he likely didn't even feel the fall. dying while high. falling from on high. crashing. 
after his death i memorialised his cigarettes. all but one had been smoked, and the last one, broken (like tevis) by a man who broke me. 
the dead take on iconic powers in my life.... they become objects of worship and trust. i spoke daily with alex for months after his death. and even with tevis, with whom i had never had a conversation, sober or otherwise, i felt a strong connection- an overwhelming urge to preserve him in that little white box.
the broken woman on the corner lit the cigarette- and did what i couldn't/would not do. she lit the cigarette, inhaled the broken spirit, and soothed by the toxins, continued her decline..
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First Prompt! [09 Jan 2007|10:07am]


Beth has given me permission to post the first prompt for the community! We have a week to follow either one (or both) of these, to be posted for commenting.

Prompt #1a: Write about a noise - or a silence - that won't go away.

Prompt #1b: Describe the longest, happiest, or most excrutiating hour of your life without using abstractions such as fear, death, love, happy, upset, confused. Instead, infuse the piece with concrete words such as chair, coffee, crooked, flavor, sand, shingles, crack. Avoid words like pain and embrace words like pane. If you can't see it, touch it, smell it, hear it, or taste it, leave it.

- You must write a response to one of these prompts.
- It can be in any form (short story, essay, long-fic, poem).
- When you post, tag your entry with "prompt #1" and the topic your story is about, so we can have them in
a nice little archive.
- Have fun! We love you!
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Welcome back, kiddies [09 Jan 2007|12:03am]

Christy and I, over a delightful meal of sushi, have decided it's time to bring sethalla back into existence. We're trying to recruit new people to join and we really want to get back to writing -- preferably at least once a week. We are all busy, we are all teaching or working full-time...but that is the perfect time to band together and work creatively. C'mon, guys. Let's do it.
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[23 Sep 2005|11:00am]

[ mood | working ]

Hey all, here is a poem I thought I'd post - hopefully this is the end of my drought!

The Dream

When it comes to you, I can shake nothing away.
Last night there was a dream:
I was getting married, and you appeared
Over the fence, to wish me well.
You never wear basketball jerseys in real life,
But you did then – it masked your body,
Draped it in a long sheath of polyester netting.

It is important to note we were not getting married.
Instead, you came to the reception -
Donning a white suit, you had suddenly grown a mustache
And sweated your way through eager jokes.
We laughed out of pity.
I did not mind having you around.

What’s more telling? In real life I know
We would always remain mute, afraid to wade through long pauses.
We would gather the courage to climb up the banks of safe conversation
That would appear, fleeting, for a moment
And then die, because they weren’t as real as this.

You walked around the fence to meet me, and
My heart broke into a smile.
I prayed in real life that we would talk, I thought.
I prayed in real life that we would talk again soon.

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No Idea How this LJ cut works... [07 Apr 2005|03:06pm]

[ mood | anxious ]

Hopefully this will work. This is a little story I wrote about my vacation to South Carolina. It was written during my lunch break at work, so it could use some cleaning up and possibly a more-involved ending. Let me know what you think!

Read more...Collapse )

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Questionnaire [07 Apr 2005|01:22pm]

[ mood | sleepy ]

Please fill out the questionnaire in your first post so that we can get to know you:
Name: Jess
School: Seton Hall
Authors you read: Banana Yoshimoto, Don Delilo, Michael Ondaatje,Alice Sebold, Audrey Nefenegger, George Orwell, new items on the New York Times bestseller list...
Books you recommend: White Noise by Don Delilo, Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Nefenegger, Life of Pi, The Alchemist
What do you write?: Short creative nonfiction
Why are you here?: Because I haven't written in a while and I am losing my skills
Have you ever transcended time and space?: Every time I am in Gray's class
If you were one ingredient in a salad, what would you be and why?: baco-bits, because they are little nasty bits of flavor that are made from artificial ingredients
If you could have written any book in the world, which one would it be?: The English Patient
If Heaven exists, what do you want to hear God say to you?: You are doing just fine on Earth, keep up the good work.

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poem [03 Apr 2005|01:00am]

[ mood | good ]

Okay, so here are two poems I wrote and will be premiering at the NJCEA conference on Saturday...please let me know of any revisions you think would be good because I want to get them done before then!

Notes from a ClavierCollapse )

The Cheat With the Ace of DiamondsCollapse )

Thanks ladies!

5 comments|post comment

Heaven -- nonfiction [01 Apr 2005|05:39pm]

I figured I should get the ball rolling; this is something I sort of whipped up a few weeks ago. I showed it to Christy and Jess at Cryan's (and haven't revised it yet...sorry!). But I thought I'd post it here for feedback and the like. It is nowhere near completed, but the concept is something I'm pretty excited about.

Heaven, a nonfiction pieceCollapse )
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planet Z (A+ if you get the reference) [31 Mar 2005|11:38pm]

My Questionnaire -- enjoyCollapse )
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application!! [31 Mar 2005|10:28pm]

[ mood | thoughtful ]

Maybe that's all family is...a group of people who miss the same imaginary place.Collapse )

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Welcome! [31 Mar 2005|11:00am]

For the next few hours (days?), I'll test this page out -- Christy, help me out! -- for enjoyable looks and so forth.
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