(The administration would like to apologize for the fact that we are currently on lockdown, and will likely remain so for an as-yet-undetermined amount of time. Explanations will come to those who ask, provided you have correctly filled out all your paperwork and proven to the guard at the security desk that you are not actually a ninja in disguise.)
(Other people's poetry and various things I've written will be open to the public. Everything else will be going under lock after a week as public posts. Please comment if adding.)
Word Count: 9541
Word Count: 3301
Title: put your records on
Word Count: 913
A/N: For my a prompt in my Creative Writing class, "I've never told this to anyone before."
Word Count: 1000
Summary: "'Ogden's,' he says, 'Straight. And leave the bottle.'"
Author's Notes: Second in a series of thirteen prompts from the tables at rarepair_shorts. Title comes from the Rolling Stones song of the same name.
( yesterday's papers are such bad news, same thing applies to me and you )
Your first time out of the country
of your own skin, I didn't bring a map.
You always hated that I'd been lucky
enough to pick my way through streets
I couldn't pronounce to find cathedrals,
graveyards. If you were a city, you said,
I'd only like to know your suburbs.
If you were a city, I said, I'd like to know
your poor neighborhoods, you inner parts.
Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.
Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.
Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.
I'd know which of your streets to walk.
If you were a city, I'd expect to be robbed.
10 Honest Thoughts On Being Loved By A Skinny Boy -- Rachel Wiley
I say, 'I am fat.'
He says 'No, you are beautiful.'
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls' phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks --
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase "Big girls need love too" can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, 'I am fat.'
He says, 'No. You are so much more,'
and kisses me
I the Woman -- Sandra Cisneros
I am she
in the veins
and good skin
and sharp tooth
no stopping me
in the car
the black smoke
Here's What Our Parents Never Taught Us -- Shinji Moon
Here's what our parents never taught us:
You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.
You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.
A woman will kiss you and you'll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.
All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.
You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.
One day you'll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.
Don't be afraid.
Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.
You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.
But it's okay. I promise.
a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.
Title: This Woman's Work
Pairing: Justin Finch-Fletchley/Pansy Parkinson
Word Count: 1000
Summary: "Pansy knows she's fallen far, and after the day she's had, it shows."
Author's Notes: Title from Maxwell. First in a series of thirteen prompts from rarepair_shorts, and part of an ongoing effort to get my headcanon for these two down on paper once and for all. Really, anything that gets me writing is a good thing, right? :)
realize that time machines
for richstraightwhite men who have
never feared walking down
the street at night.
smoke cigarettes with the luxury
of knowing that
they'll kill you someday.
throw away your record players
and smash your vinyls into bits
that the jagged edges are
nowhere near as rough as the past
(also, just fucking download spotify already).
get dressed how you want
and eat what you want
and marry who you want
and learn what you want
just because you can.
that whalebone corset looks
prettier tucked away
in the glass case of a museum
than it would wrapped around
squeezing the breath from your lungs
and the roses blooming in your cheeks.
swallow pills instead of
biting your tongue.
you won't be left in the gutter
or locked away in a tower,
money was always
hard to come by.
if you're unhappy with where
we can fly, these days.
Title: Right As Rain
Pairing: Charlie Weasley/Parvati Patil, background Charlie/Unidentified Lady Friend, Parvati/Anthony Goldstein
Rating: PG-15 (for sexual situations).
Word Count: 1400
Summary: It's not permanent. It's never been.
Author's Notes: The title is a line from the Adele song of the same name. Prompts are from a generator, and written for the Number Game Ficathon on rarepair_shorts.
( no room in my bed, as far as I'm concerned, so wipe that dirty smile off )
HP Rare-Pair Challenge
|1. the residue of Monday|
|3. two weekends ago|
|4. these young men|
|5. family history|
|6. looking for more oranges|
|8. the opportunities you missed|
|9. for what it's worth|
|10. some people stay|
|11. pining for normalcy|
|12. degrees of freedom|
|13. and that is the sentiment of the hour|