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 super simple writing jam!, ALL ARE WELCOME
Lar
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 10:03 PM
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beep boop! rules are simple: someone posts a song, everyone else writes something more or less inspired by it until the time is up (about thirty minutes), we all share, and then we go again!


IMPERFECTION AND WEIRDNESS ARE ENCOURAGED!!


FIRST SONG:
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Lar
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 10:29 PM
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She bleeds just as much as any ghost can. She walks the halls, her footsteps heavy. She rattles doorknobs and throws pictures off the walls, and she walks in nightmares, and she touches people on the back of the neck with her cold, cold hands. And at nighttime, when the historic house closes down, she tends her garden.

There are carrots and tomatoes growing there in neat rows in the back garden, and some years she gets zucchini or green peppers or potatoes. She isn't the one who makes them grow. The Director, a squat older woman who wears period clothes, procures the specific varieties and speaks for ages about them; these are an heirloom variety from the midwest, rescued from some seed bank, and those are the smaller type appropriate to the age, and did you know that in those days people would swap produce over their picket fences?

But The Director doesn't weed. Her knees never meet the mud.

The ghost watches from the attic window on these days, when the garden is put in. It is an Event for the community, with Volunteers in garish yellow shirts. They clean for the spring and plop plants into the furrowed ground, and they clear the pathway down to the riverfront, and they rearrange furniture to suit what The Director says. The ghost knows where it all should go, and sometimes she tells them—sometimes she drags the chairs back to where they belong, when no one is looking. For many years she's tried, and for as many The Director has redirected.

But The Director doesn't sit there late at night, thinking of her children long passed.

The ghost walks down to the river some nights, when her weeding is done. She looks into the water, pensive. Her hair blows white in the wind, and her old, cold hands skim the surface, frightening minnows, and the mud washes from her palms. Some nights she wonders if they notice that the garden is weeded; they musn't because she sees them with their jugs of Roundup! misting the dandelions that grow wild in the yard.

Some days she picks the dandelions, when they've gone white, and she tries to blow the heads off of them with her intangible breath. When she had a daughter, they would do this together until the yard was nothing but yellow and white. Does The Director have a daughter? No, her daughter is a house.

Does the ghost have a daughter? Her daughter is the garden, grateful and green.
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mellery
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 10:35 PM
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The cold cracks the bones inside her. At the beginning she prepared as best she could. A seal was slain for its blubber to store within her coat. Fistfuls of fire were placed inside her boots, but they burned out weeks ago. She wrapped the scarf she wove around her throat three times and prayed, prayed, that their love was strong enough to keep her warm.

It is a lonely path she walks. No voices, neither god nor human to keep her company. When she closes her eyes she can barely remember the sea.

She wonders; is this worth it? With all she's had to sacrifice, is enough of them left to fight for?

She pulls out the map once more. She only lets herself see it twice a day now. It will become an obsession if she lets it. Above all else she needs willpower.

Can you still call it a map if only half an acre remains? She looks at it, suspended between finger and thumb, and she tries to imagine the way the land looked. No use. It has been 2-D to her for months now.

The cold is becoming too much. She can't feel her fingers. But she must press on. It has long passed the point where she should do it and sacrifice another piece of herself, but – it's the only thing she has left.

Three days ago was the last time she had burned a piece of the map. She felt the flames curl around her and breathed out in ecstasy. Oh! As it burned, she burned. When it was down to that last half an acre, she pinched it out with her fingers, and walked on with the strength to continue.

When she began her journey, the land was whole. It was her Michigan, as much as part of her as any land could be. Before she did it she had looked at her love and asked

“Do I have to?”

And her love had smiled and kissed her.

“Yes.”

And she had done it. She had bent down, closed her eyes and pulled at the ground. When she opened her eyes she was holding the map, and her love was gone.

She had told her to move to that lonely half an acre where their worlds had become one. She said she would protect her there. Her hand shakes as she looks down at the scrap of paper.

One more day. She can make it one more day, she tells herself. Her heart breaks as she searches the horizon.
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mellery
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 10:45 PM
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Lar
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 11:04 PM
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The waltz—
the twist of heel and hip
and fang, the dance of lip
to cheek—
they never touch

his hand—
her waist, curved soft, her dress
slinking snakelike venom-
-red lips—
they never touch

her dress—
the floor, red and velvet
hardwood, plank laid to plank
his fist—
they never touch

the smoke—
his voice, lonesome, sleepy,
the ember burning in
her eyes—
they never touch

they never touch—
her mouth and his, before
the evidence alights
the bodies—
the flame
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mellery
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 11:17 PM
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They say she's lived through all the wars in this world and the last. They say that when you look at the bottom of her feet they're stained red even if no one's bled for days. They say that if you cut her there's nothing but ash in her veins.

I've been told all kinds of stories – her this, her that – but they never gave a name. Fuckers would laugh at me when I asked - “you don't know the name of the undead midwife?”

“You're seriously asking me her name?”

Yeah, I was asking, and if you ask me – they didn't tell me because they didn't know themselves.

It stuck with me a while. Pearldagger, gash, the two-headed oyster – what did any of that mean? All they were really saying was that they were scared.

But I hear all sorts of stories. Did you hear the one about the bitch who birthed a litter of crocodiles? I met her, and after that you forget about the mistress of many names. I got a few promotions, had a few adventures, started telling my own stories. It got to the point that I built up my own little mythology.

Did you hear my daddy was the god of loose lips?

That one didn't turn out so lucky for me. They started saying I was bad luck. They decided I'd be better off in the gutter. Eventually they put actions to words and honestly – I didn't see it coming at all. I was docile as a kitten when we went to the HighTower for drinks that night.

They did it with arsenic. Burned right through me. I was dying. I was screaming raw murder, I said I'd fucking slay them all with my own ribs if I had to. I said I'd do anything to get them back.

I guess that was her cue. She appeared in front of me, all death-in-white, and we made a little deal between us.

She kisses as well as they say she does.

When she pulled back she said my name and fuck me if it wasn't the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. “Anya,” like it was made of sugar instead of two sharp stabs of syllables. Hanging from her mouth was a little drop of poison.

“Babe,” I told her. “You're not so much a femme fatale as a femme vitale.”

She looked at me with such disdain I actually shut my mouth for a second. She wiped the poison away and we got to talking.

To be around so long you probably have to learn how to put together a good plot and – damn! She blew me out of the water. Talking about the way we'd destroy those weasels was almost as good as the sex. I won't give you all the messy details but – she actually found a way to involve fireworks, old infantry cannons and my childhood game of mousetrap. I'm telling you – love at first death.

Together we built up another empire, and I got to see what's really coursing through those blue veins of hers. One day I'll introduce you. The stories really don't do her justice.
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bird
 Posted: Feb 25 2016, 11:22 PM
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lost like 90% of what i wrote but oh well >:C


They used to call it the meadows, back when the river ran through this place, and all that ever came through here were cargo trains bearing fat nuggets of ill-begotten silver. Anything else would curl up and die, shriveling under the hot white sun -- miles from here, road maps still mark the old ghost towns -- but this is Vegas, after all, and Vegas would still be here long after the cockroaches kicked. Down the long stretch of the interstate, under the bruise-coloured mountains, the city glitters like diamonds in an oil slick.

She likes coming out here. This stretch is particular to her -- this one long straight in the road, kept smooth by mob money, without a crack or a pothole in sight for at least fifty miles. Anywhere else the asphalt expands and contracts under the desert heat like something breathing, patched up with black tar-lines like stretchmarks -- anywhere else, you'd have to be careful. Fifth gear grinds into sixth gear with a nasty little growl. She's never been careful. She releases the clutch.

--------------------
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Poette
 Posted: Aug 23 2016, 09:59 PM
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Poette
 Posted: Aug 23 2016, 10:21 PM
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The first scream is the one that lasts the longest. After that, she whimpers, her foot still entwined in the sight unseen below. She doesn’t remember if jellyfish have hearts or minds or sensation, of if they are made of pure animal instinct and nothing more. The feeling doesn’t subside for some time, and even when it does, her flesh is bubbled up where tendrils wound around her. Her mom mentions something about tattoos and the nature of marring perfectly good flesh, but this doesn’t feel like a choice.

The skin quells the marks, but the phantom pain remains in her memory. Pins and needles, electrified spine and fingers that tremble in the air. It felt like being hunted, but it probably reacted as the prey and she the predator.
~~
Years later, she sees them swept up on the shore, pulsing and dying, their insides as fragile as seaweed. Her foot tingles. She walks around one, but so many of them are beached; it’s a graveyard without meaning to be.

How decorated land can be when life is at death’s mercy.

She sits by one—her fingers stretched out to touch it, but she stops just shy of the jellied flesh. Her daughter calls out to her, and she remembers where she is. She leaves it alone, as it should be. That night, looking out over the beach, she swears she sees them glistening like fireflies, or maybe it is the glint of the sea turtles coming in to shore. Her eyes betray her, for it is only the crest of the waves crashing. The dangers of a tumultuous sea never reveal what lies beneath until it is too late.
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bird
 Posted: Aug 23 2016, 10:23 PM
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Morning brings a cold tide and the jellyfish crowd the sea -- white, smooth moon jellies, as big as Kai's two outstretched hands or as little as his thumbnail. They bob in the waves, pulsing gently, gathered together by passing eddies and pushed apart again. Here and there, the surf tears them into pieces; they lie in the sand, gutted, water-clear, their bellies milky-white.

They frighten him, maybe more than he'd like to admit. Cold tides make the fishermen grimace when they cast out their nets. Maya's books call them cnidaria but Kai can only think of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers or the Thing or the rest of his prized collection, smuggled in to the village on illicit flash drives the colour of sweets. Walking along the strand now, the carrion flies eating out the eyes of fish washed up along the shore no longer frighten him. Now, the water pulsates -- eyelessly, mindlessly, spinelessly, heartlessly -- and even the gulls don't dip their beaks to feed.
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Lar
 Posted: Aug 23 2016, 10:26 PM
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They wash up on the beach, alongside ray egg pouches and chunks of melting kelp. Their bulbous, transparent selves warp the seashells beneath. A gaggle of kids moves along the sand, digging the ground out from under them, burying the jellyfish away from wandering tourists' feet. They laugh at how grains of sand stick to the quivering goo, the remnants of something more than they will ever be.

At night, the jellyfish dig free. They roll laboriously into the seafoam, the white froth barely visible in the darkness—but they don't need sight, nor eyes, only the knowing of the briny sea, the deep consciousness of their kind.




(this is as far as i got before the nyquil kicked in, oops)
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