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 QUICK WRITING JAM!, get the juices flowing!
bird
 Posted: Aug 18 2015, 03:00 PM
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number one dad
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Winter that year is as dull as a switchblade. The snow cringes away from the yellow grass when it can, and thin, crackling ice skins smudged-out footprints.

"Well, I think we should do it," Cassie says, and her grin is at once a promise and a trap for poppyseeds. The cafe two blocks behind them sells coffee in ugly styrofoam cups and warm bagels there for less than the bus costs, and it's become a habit of theirs ever since Lise began to make a point of forgetting her student pass but never a handful of quarters. "They're tearing it down this summer. Don't you want to at least look?"

Lise doesn't want to at least look. The skeletons of the old manufacturing plant are fucking unnerving, late at night, when she has to walk by them after work with her keys threaded in between her knuckles. Sometimes she thinks she sees things, little things, like the back of her own head walking away from her. But she can't be a coward now, and it's just a bunch of old brick and concrete in the daytime. Besides, Lise tells herself, buying time with the dregs of her coffee, nineteen years old is too fucking old to be afraid of ghosts.

"Okay," she says. "Just for a little bit. Don't they have security, though?"

"Like that's going to be a problem." Cass punches her in the arm. Even her breath stays with her, clinging to the wool of her scarf. "Come on. You could bring your camera, take some shots for that big project of yours. Bet Cheever would like it."

"Are you joking?" Lise pitches her voice high into her nose. It's not really fair and she knows it, but it's not like Cheever doesn't have tenure anyway. "Derivative post-modern garbage."

"Wow. Is he really that much of an asshole?"

"Gaping." She frowns. Kicks a can along the sidewalk. "I think he might fail me in studio, actually. I don't think I've made a single thing he's actually liked."

"You're too hard on yourself. Pick you up at seven?"

"Wait. You want to go tonight?"


[n.b: and then i gave up. WHERE WAS I GOING WITH THIS????]

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bird
 Posted: Oct 20 2015, 01:42 PM
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number one dad
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new prompt




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Lar
 Posted: Oct 20 2015, 02:08 PM
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viewing online list
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t h i n b o n e s
hollow and hurting
featherdown mewling
in the gathering morn;
mourn in tulip trees
speared to the earth.
arrowhead roots and
lacing shadows; what
falls beneath is yours
to watch and worry.
constant companion,
this hungry ache, this
greedy glut, curiosity:
you know it kills,
you hope it kills.
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Poette
 Posted: Oct 20 2015, 02:16 PM
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letters, postcards
handwritten telegrams
from servicemen in uniforms
traces of your cologne
seep along the edges:

this is your signature.

when you last wrote to me
our ship had sailed
on a voyage mapped out toward
the homeland, but you were not on it.

the white flag fluttered from the masthead
you had my heart in your hands,
but instead of taking it you
jumped into the escape boat
and rowed away—

now two countries separate us,
and days distance our last meeting
from the next. slashes in the wooden frame
line the molding where I would not forget you
but they, too, will be smoothed out in time.

memory is but a metric whose gap
extends out more and more the further you
step away from it—until, like the oceans and its waves,
like your handwriting as you age
it blends into one motion, indiscernible
from the valleys and peaks that once surrounded it.
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bird
 Posted: Oct 20 2015, 02:19 PM
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number one dad
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By and large, the worst part of getting suspended's got to be losing the motor pool privileges. The cut to her already meagre public sector salary smarts, but it's not as though Ronnie's got too many bills: basic cable, flip phone, and it's June and the air conditioner never worked in her little walk-up anyway. Hours always sucked too, come to think of it. Getting shuttled around the west end by a kid not old enough to drink is something else, though. It's like making plans with your sweaty-palmed high school boyfriend: uhhhh, pick you up at seven?

So seven comes and seven goes and Ronnie Cueto leans her cheek into her palm, her elbow propped up against the window. Freon's not supposed to smell, but the upholstery does. Out there the highway shimmers with heat, tar soft and swollen over the seams like stretch marks. The canal chokes on algae, winding alongside.

"-- I think it's bullshit, for what it's worth," the kid says. She keeps her hands on two and ten, sticking slavishly to the speed limit. Nervous, maybe, but the car's electronic brain purrs its approval. Perched above it, scanner chatters and fills the cooling air. "Wasn't as if you had anything to do with it."

"Thanks," Ronnie says, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. When she looks up, the rearview mirror shows her age. She grimaces at it. "That's sweet of you to say."

The kid looks at her. The look says, you didn't, did you? The look persists until a long-haul truck pings for right of way, the cabin empty. Ronnie doesn't think she'll ever get used to that.

aaand time ran out so we'll pretend there's a story here
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bird
 Posted: Aug 23 2016, 09:58 PM
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number one dad
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MOTHS



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