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Literature
Lightning in a Bottle
Here's something they teach you at home: play by the rules. Be so good at the game that nobody can keep you off the team. Let your results speak for themselves, because the words that fall out of your mouth only push people away, because nothing says outsider like someone trying too hard to fit in. Everyone has a dry mouth back home. Rainclouds are something you only see from a distance. Still, you can recognize good and bad by sight. White clouds are harmless. Black clouds are a warning.
Here’s what to do if you ever hear thunder. Wear rubber shoes. Stay in your car, keep to the low ground. If the storm breaks, hide in the closet, where skeletons will keep you company. And remember: you have the right to remain silent.
The first time I hear thunder, I see a poet on a stage just like this. She makes her body into a message, like metal forged into a knife, and her words stop my heart. The lightning knocks me out. It wakes me up. It splits my world in half, burns a hole through my
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Literature
Poet of Body and Soul
Dear Walt Whitman, you make me feel like a birthday balloon. I write CELEBRATE in capital letters on my chest, and I float way up, crinkling like plastic at the corners of my eyes, my lungs so full that the only sound I make is birdsong. You open the world for me. Rain in my hair. Car lights in blacktop. The smell of wet earth. I am transparent as cellophane - I am a body-less soul.
You look me in the eye and invite me into your body. I smell your armpits, taste your sweat, I lean across the mountain of your belly and hear the drums in your chest. I unzip your skin from neck to pelvic bone and admire the plush heat of your organs. I fold myself inside you, brace my back against your spine. I rise and fall with your breath, and the miracle of your body expands, contracts. Expands, contracts.
When you go, you leave me nothing but a handful of grass.
Outside of you, I am reminded that I have a body. My feet are tied to the ground. I turn light into shadow. I live in my body alone. But lef
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Literature
The V Stages of Sophomore Slump
A monologue
----
So last week Kit asked me how to get over sophomore slump. You ask this like as a junior I somehow know the answer. But hey, friend, things do get better. Let me explain to you the five stages of what is known as The Slump.
Stage 1: Denial
Hi! How are you? Oh, me? I'm FINE! No really, I’m FINE, everything's good, don’t worry about it - I said I’m FINE! What do you mean I look tired!? I look fabulous. I spent 30 minutes on my hair this morning to prove that I’m in control of my life. Yes I was sending you snapchats of the ceiling last night at 4am, but at least that’s better than the freshmen in the dungeons of Bass Thursday nights! Have you seen the fear in their eyes? I used to be one of them, but I got this now, I start working on my psets the day before they’re due and I roll out of bed exactly five minutes before class starts. Things are going FINE.
Just kind of fast, is all. Like there’s no space to breathe? I keep missing
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Literature
The Eyes and Ears and Fingers and Nose and Tongue
I am in too many places and too many time zones. I hold my hand up to the light and I am partially transparent, red tinted by the veins in my flesh. My body is breaking apart and I don’t understand. My body is breaking like a mirror breaks: a hundred glass shards with the same image and the same confused face, a hundred iterations of my body looking out and asking: “who-who am-who-who am I?”
I don’t understand the body. The wisest people before me have called it a prison, a distraction, a lie. When I was 12 I sat in a bathroom and wondered what it would be like to carve a wound into my wrist, find out what bled under my skin. It’s not that I felt too much. I felt not enough. I felt not quite like everyone else. I was convinced that something had gone wrong at my birth, my nervous system criss-crossed, left foot wired to right pelvis. I sat there crying at the bathroom wall, and even though I never actually did anything, I still get scared when I hold a kni
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Literature
Dancers
    I don’t cry. Mr. Richards says I am very brave. He reminds me of the robot toy I used to have, because his face doesn’t move, and he keeps saying the same things: I have to be strong, and Papa would want me to keep going, and God has a plan, and I’m gonna be a man some day. But when he looks at me, I feel important. He was one of Papa’s “drinking buddies” and always looked me in the eye, even back then. I do my best to be brave. We walk up to Amancio’s apartment together. As Amancio puts away the boxes, Mr. Richards bends down to shake my hand.
    “You watch out for yourself, young man,” he whispers. “God knows, your brother certainly won’t.”
    Amancio didn’t cry either, at the funeral. And I know he cries a lot. He cried all the time when he still lived at home. After the funeral, people didn’t call him brave. They said he was heartless. T
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Literature
Ding Dong
Shhh! Don't let the vampires in!
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Literature
Windows
He’d always felt the house looked a little like it was blinking when the woman fiddled with the shutters in the windows. Especially with the lights on at night, when the tendrils of purple mist came in from the sea and wrapped around the base of the house like an overfed cat. He could see into the window on those nights, in brief spurts as the woman opened the blinds and closed them again. A kitchen table. A glass chandelier. A bright red rain coat hanging from the wall—odd, because the woman never went out. There was a boy, her son probably, college age, who went in with an armful of plastic bags every weekend, and presumably cleaned the house and took out the trash; Reynoulds wasn’t interested in the boy, so he hadn’t paid much attention. Generally, he watched the windows blink, sitting on his parents’ porch and nursing an after-work beer, exhausted and cold, wondering when Charlotte would get better, when they’d be able to start saving up again fo
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Literature
Shore Ngozi sketch
She was lonely, I could tell. It weighed down on her eyes and the corners of her mouth, so that it always looked like she was half-asleep and dreaming of something that wasn’t sweet. Still, she came towards me with unerring grace, not so much walking as drifting; she wove through the crowd like a whisper, like the shadow of a breeze, and nobody was there to pin her down and give her shape. She wore dark red lipstick and striking kohl around her eyes, fingerless gloves and black, billowing clothes, as if to remind herself every morning that she existed. She was outrageously out of place. Nobody gave her a second glance. I saw her only because I knew her, and once I knew her I couldn’t look away—she moved her body with an endless reservoir of coiled strength, and her face was mesmerizing, too strange to be called beautiful. She seemed to be aware that the mortal plane was temporary and her body was only the medium for her brief existence here on Earth, and she was simpl
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Mature content
The Wolf Skin :iconvolkeswagondaotaku:VolkesWagondaOtaku 1 0
Literature
The Pinata
Don’t tell anyone, but I really don't understand Josephine sometimes. I mean, she’s the sweetest thing since zero calorie sugar, don’t get me wrong, but she just doesn’t really think things through. She’s the kind of person who goes vegan after crying her eyes out over a documentary on food, in a place where the only vegetable is corn, if corn is even a vegetable. She’s the kind of person who makes little badges with the words “SAVE THE DOLPHINS!” handwritten on them and tries to pass them out to the football team. And she’s the kind of person who refuses to hit a piñata during her own birthday party because she’s a pacifist.
Now, this birthday party. It was Josephine’s sweet sixteen, so all the relatives were there, even Mary Anne with the bad breath and jerkass nephew Gus and Granny Witherspoon who’s pushing 90 years old, and my brother the lumberjack Paul asked me to do up something really spiffy for his pr
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Literature
MI 1 Inheritance
Fanfiction!!! Love it, embrace it, do not sell it. I do not own Marvel or its characters.
---
The truth was that Tony never actually joined the dark side. He was born into it.
Howard Stark spent the majority of his post-WWII career with Arnim Zola whispering in his ear. Never directly, of course. But the seeds were planted in everything Zola touched, and by the time Howard and Maria married, he was touching almost everything that passed from SHIELD’s science division on to Howard. Captain America wasn’t there; Director Carter was mostly occupied by her vast, temperamental network of field agents and trusted Howard perhaps too much; Maria Stark had never seen HYDRA and didn’t recognize it growing in her husband’s work. And besides, the Cold War was a bad time for idealism. Howard was growing weary.
He built the atomic bomb. He built the hydrogen bomb. He built enough to destroy the world three times over, and he was never sure if he was saving the world or if his
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Literature
MI Prologue
Fanfiction!!! Love it, embrace it, do not sell it as original. I do not own Marvel or its characters.
---
“You really fucked up this time, boy. You don’t know the things I’ve done for you, protecting you, watching your back, keeping the monsters at bay for years and years, even before your parents died. But now you’ve opened the floodgates. Without me, they’re going to come for you. They’re going to get me out of this hole in the ground, and then they’re going to hunt you down and make you bleed, and all the clever lies and inventions in the world can’t get you out of this one. You’re going to regret the day you were born, boy. Whether I’m here or not, you’re going to regret it.”
Tony sat in front of the glass partition, listening to Obie’s voice over the phone. The man was still trying to puff his chest out, look big and confident, snarl in a vaguely patronizing way at the glass. Christ, it was depressing. H
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Literature
The Song of Mao
I roll a body into a grave
I roll body after body into a grave
I am a body burying bodies in a grave
And the bodies come together to form a fist
I am the head of the national body
Here are the hands to burn wood and strike iron
Here are the feet to march through snow and mud
Here are the voices to sing my name in the streets
I have made the nation into a body
I have washed it in blood and clothed it in skin
These are the cannibal triumphs, the children crusades
Genius is the reversal of wisdom
And progress is the ignorance of time
When I die my body will no longer be a body
You will eat of my flesh and become one with my flesh
My face will be a monument and my eyes will never sleep
I will be immortal, I will be everybody and nobody
And you will forget that, in the beginning
I was just a body
Next to a body
Next to a body
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Literature
on bradbury and table dancing (title poem)
on bradbury and table dancing

man created god in his own image
but one piece was missing -
the child, the portrait 
of human curiosity, which
the last of us 
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Literature
To Mom
    I am cheap and I don’t understand fashion, and my gifts are sad little affairs. Every time it’s socially required for me to give a present, I will panic and say things like: “Hey, Mom. What should I get for your birthday?”
    This happened last week. My mom, bless her, already knows all about my dilemma. She’s had eighteen years of saying, “It’s the thought that counts” and “My love is unconditional,” so it’s easy for her to make a compromise.
    “Just a little something,” she said. “Maybe write me a poem.”
    A poem! That’s perfect! For Christmas I quoted Maya Angelou, and for my mom’s birthday I could steal a few lines from Shakespeare, and nobody would think to check for plagiarism. “As much as child e’er loved, or mother found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable; Beyond
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Literature
Ghost Stories
This actually happened:
In fifth grade the lights went out of the girl’s bathroom while my friend and I were at the sink. We screamed, and then we laughed, because back then girls went to the bathroom in pairs and made fun of anyone who acted like a wimp. We kept washing our hands. And then we looked up, and our reflections looked back with blood on their faces, and I stepped back but my friend didn’t. I watched as her reflection reached out and took her by the neck and broke it like a piece of chalk.
--
This is fiction:
In fifth grade there was a rumor. The rumor’s name was Bloody Mary, and she lived in mirrors and lights going out, sleepover stories and bad dreams. When I heard the story for the first time, I screamed, and then laughed, because a good spook is all in good fun, it’s not supposed to really hurt anyone. I told the story to my sister that night (she screamed, and then laughed), and I had a dream that my shadow was choking me. I woke up to the soun
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Favourites

Klance :iconfriendwish:friendwish 719 12
Literature
Again.
When did her words
Get thick and sticky
like honey
too old to take apart
and too sweet to cook?
I thought I was
that I could be better
than a bumbling bee.
Guess I'm not.
:iconWordWeight:WordWeight
:iconwordweight:WordWeight 1 2
Literature
7. heaven
i find myself blinded
by the smallest
of things –
plastic rice bowls &
a negligible soft-
drink addiction –
smudged glasses lenses
&
    too many mandarins
there are things that
act in the place of
the ideal,
quick fixes that work
longer than they were
ever supposed to.
my ceiling light is
broken – i use two
dimmer desk lamps instead.
the roof over my room
leaks during storms –
i lay old shower
curtains on the carpet.
and when 1am is the
only time i do not feel
silenced to a void
of words,
i pick up a pen, exhausted,
and tell myself
  ( this is how
    it is meant
    to be. )
:iconwei-en:wei-en
:iconwei-en:wei-en 95 26
Literature
Tilda
When I was six, my dad started going out with a woman called Laura.  As soon as he told me about her, I decided that I wasn’t going to like her, but somehow Dad knew I had decided that and told me to give her a chance.
‘I still miss your mum,’ he said, ‘and I still love her very much, just like you do.  But I love Laura as well, and it isn’t her fault your mum died, so you mustn’t take it out on her.  She doesn’t want to be your mother - she only wants to be your friend.  And I think you should let her try.’
It was very difficult for me to accept that another woman was coming into our lives, because after Mum died it had just been me and Dad for three whole years.  I was only little when she died, but I remembered everything.  I especially remembered how much she, Dad and I all loved each other.  When it was just me and Dad, it was almost like it was still me and Dad and Mum.
:iconThornyEnglishRose:ThornyEnglishRose
:iconthornyenglishrose:ThornyEnglishRose 325 260
Literature
When God Sleeps.
I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cast
dark shapes of water
to nourish the gardens springing forth
from the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.
Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:
the years between us laid out like miles and our feet
that never mark the reddened earth and
the passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.
We are walking in the wombs of
:iconCyneNoir:CyneNoir
:iconcynenoir:CyneNoir 269 109
Literature
Marriage
I'm trying to catch the                         big things,
little things that                  mattered to you. You
started the sparks,        told me what you wanted  
in your wild fire heart.                       It was hard
but the hurricanes                             Of our love,
of your temper,                      and of my patience,
seems to carry                                    the doubts
and put them in the sea.      You made "with" time
so that no one bothered us,          tried to destroy      
the gravity of  
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:iconwordweight:WordWeight 4 4
Runaway Fast as You Can :icondyemelikeasunset:Dyemelikeasunset 1,310 91 Saying Goodbye :icontanikel:tanikel 1,520 378 Wilde Life - 173 :iconlepas:Lepas 30 5
Literature
Marigold
A woman sat against the garden wall, and in her hands was a bag of hair. The wall, built from decaying bricks and old field stones, extended  fifty feet to the woman's right, where it tapered to a small pile of rubble. There had once been a farmhouse where the garden now was, but the woman never saw it. Bits and pieces of it sometimes turned up in the soil: broken nails and chips of cement. Apart from that, only the wall remained, weather-bleached, woven with vines, sitting at the bottom of a grassy slope. The house that was there now–– the woman's house–– stood at the top of the slope, a yellowish ranch-style hidden from the road by thick pines. The woman had planted the trees herself, when she first moved in fifteen years earlier.
The woman, Carolyn, looked down at the parcel in her hands. The hair in the bag belonged to her son, Mark, and there was a lot of it. He had always worn his hair long, even into adulthood, despite Carolyn's occasional pro
:iconG-R-Fracassa:G-R-Fracassa
:icong-r-fracassa:G-R-Fracassa 45 26
Ascent of Man and the Destruction of Magic :iconryer-ord-star:Ryer-Ord-Star 3,248 109 Machinarium. :iconserj-lican:Serj-Lican 391 59 Viraes and Endlye full body :icondyemelikeasunset:Dyemelikeasunset 1,044 90 Self Portrait Gif :iconmurph3:Murph3 3,348 160 sun :iconsyuka-taupe:syuka-taupe 2,091 67 Snow by Night :iconblix-it:blix-it 548 16

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VolkesWagondaOtaku
Victoria Wang
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
This is the beginning, and beginnings make me nervous. So let's take a different perspective.

Find a pillow.
Wear it on your head.
Smile blissfully at the computer screen, which blinks dumbly at you as you sit hunched over in the dark night.

That's better - now we're partners in crime. You should probably prepare a thicker pair of glasses and a chiropractor for scoliosis.

Welcome to my world.
(Originally posted in my blog, victoriawang05.blogspot.com/20….)

Whether you want to warm up your pen, you want to have a bit of creative fun, or you're suffering from a stone wall of a writer's block, writing prompts are awesome. They're stress-free, don't take a lot of time, and help open your mind to creative possibilities. Past prompts I've written for include:
  1. Tell me about your name.
  2. If you were an ocean, which ocean would you be? Next, map your emotions with your body parts, and give each body part an environment.
  3. Various art prompts, which are basically, "See pretty thing? Now write!"
  4. "I’d love to _____ but my _____ just _____!" and continue.
The prompt I wrote for today was: "Pick a situation--mundane, strange, anything, so long as it's simple--and write 3 short mini-stories that could possibly fit the situation. The more wildly different, the better."
The situation: A stranger says “Hi!” and starts hugging you.

1. Undercover Goods

He did his best, his girlfriend could vouch for that: sunglasses, unshaved beard, the world’s most unflattering NYU sweater with the hood up. She’d laughed in his face when she’d finished dressing him. At the grocery store, he didn’t smile at a single soul, and put the cheese into his basket very sternly.
It didn’t work.
“Oh my God,” a high voice squeaked. “It’s Evan Kriss! From The Revengers!”
He started walking very quickly to the checkout line, but he was too late: a swarm of teenage girls instantly materialized, swarmed down the aisle, and leaped onto him, screaming “Hi!” and “Marry me!” and stripping off their clothes to throw at him.
He sighed, smirked, pulled out a sharpie, and started signing T-shirts.


2. Reunion

“Hi!” said a small voice, and a heavy weight latched onto her leg. She looked down. It was a little boy, couldn’t be more than six years old.
“Oh. Hello,” she replied, and shuffled them smoothly to a less crowded part of the train platform. Her military duffle jostled against her shoulder. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Josh.”
“Okay, Josh. Where’re your parents?”
“Dad’s waiting for us at the steps. He has the camera.”
“What?”
She looked up, and there was her boyfriend, walking across the station to her, holding a camera.
“Clara,” he said, with a smile that could break the moon in half. “God, I’ve missed you.”
She blinked back tears. “Mr. Maestro, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Well, I figured it was best to tell you in person.” He cleared his throat. “I may have adopted a kid.”


3. That Spark of Recognition

Do I know that person? I’m not entirely sure. She’s walking toward me though, and she definitely recognizes me, so—oh shit, she’s hugging.
“Hi,” she says, “it’s so good to see you again!”
Fuck, I am so screwed. “You too!” How do I surreptitiously find out her name?
“You really have changed a lot over the years—I mean, I never would’ve thought you’d curl your hair!”
……Ummm my hair has always been this way?
“Oh my God, Anya,” a girl says from behind me.
Anya blinks at the newcomer and laughs. “Oh, you’re Jacky! That’s so embarrassing!”
I turn around—and Jacky and I look nothing alike, what the hell?

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:iconwordweight:
WordWeight Featured By Owner Mar 17, 2016  Student Writer
Thank you for faving, as ever :D
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apok305 Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the Llama!!!
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:iconvolkeswagondaotaku:
VolkesWagondaOtaku Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2016  Student Writer
no problem :)
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:iconkiwi-damnation:
kiwi-damnation Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2016   Writer
Welcome to the Prose-ject family :D. We are so happy to have you :).
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:iconvolkeswagondaotaku:
VolkesWagondaOtaku Featured By Owner Feb 21, 2016  Student Writer
Thanks!
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copper9lives Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2016  Professional General Artist

Hi, there! :wave:


Welcome to :iconthewritershaven:! :happybounce:


We're glad to have you be part of the group! Hope you enjoy your time here with all other writers, because this is your haven!


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:iconvolkeswagondaotaku:
VolkesWagondaOtaku Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2016  Student Writer
Hello! I'm super excited to be a part of this group :D and thanks so much for the fav!
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:iconcopper9lives:
copper9lives Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2016  Professional General Artist
I really enjoyed reading the work! I'm delighted you've chosen to join us! :hug:
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PoetryOD Featured By Owner Dec 30, 2014
Thanks for the fave!
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SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Dec 29, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for faving A Time Before Sunrise :)
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