On the Morning Paris Slept In, I Woke UpTo Victor, whose footsteps I followedOn the Morning Paris Slept In, I Woke Up by GuinevereToGwen
on the morning Paris slept in:
the way to a writer’s head is through his Wikipedia page,
but for those who want to smudge sepia tones
into our 1024x768 pixelated spectacles,
the only way to his heart is through his city.
This I learned between the cracks in the cobblestones
when a parceled cyclist knocked me over
the edge of the world and into Paris.
To Victor, whose pages paved the way
from the past misery to the plane ticket:
that is how I wound up with my face in a puddle
at the end of an empty April, chasing after
Prévert and Rimbaud past the tiles of a classroom.
As if I could resist the broken consonants of this stone city,
as if I could stay away from the fantasy-filled gardens,
I promised to never again fall in love with a French boy.
After all, there is nothing safe about this brittle romance,
nothing sweet about a burnt tongue.
But I broke my promise the minute my teeth hit the street.
To Victor, whose ghost held my hand
The Circle of FiveDaniel Carton does not look good in handcuffs, was his first thought as the officers motioned to the patrol car. Not that they had handcuffed him. He just hoped they wouldn’t shove him in the backseat like they do in the movies. He wanted to be in a movie, not turn his own life into one.The Circle of Five by GuinevereToGwen
This was not how he had expected the evening to turn out. It was supposed to be funny, to scare these poor losers who had shown up with their parents at his dad’s house just enough to get a good laugh out of it. His father organized these company events once a year, inviting his employees and their families to his mansion-esque house out in the country. And every year, his father expected Daniel to “entertain” the employees’ kids, all teenagers close to his age.
His father fired and rehired so many people every year, there was a new set of them at every event, sad little failures who spent their time wallowing in their miserable corners instead of havi
SadieThere was something exhilarating about the idea of going to the Square by myself. When I first told them, I think my parents thought I was crazy, or lonely, or depressed. I mean, who wants to see a movie alone? Not the Matt they knew. Enter my mom:Sadie by GuinevereToGwen
“Honey, are you sure you don’t want to go with Jake? Or Dave? Or Ryan?”
Truth is, people have this strange notion that they constantly need to be around people. They’re wrong. Being alone can be just as comforting as the presence of others. I’d never been to see a movie by myself; I figured it was something I had to try at least once in my life.
Besides, who knew who I would run into there? It could be anyone: the new guy with the tire tattoo on his palm (I’d always wanted to ask him about that), or a person I had never noticed before but that once I got to know him was really cool. Or it could be Alice.
Yes, it could be Alice.
That’s how I found myself standing in line alone at the Square on a Satur
UnfathomableI have been told that my eyes
are like someone bottled you up
and poured your color into my irises.
Sure, it’s a lovely compliment,
but I am not you.
You are a child playing dress-up
with your sister’s coats and frocks
because you want to be something bigger;
and she’s sweltering with jealousy
that you can wear those grays and blues
better than she ever could.
You are an angst-ridden teen
who dyed and spiked her hair
to hear her mother scream,
and no matter how many times
she tells you that your boyfriend
is a washed up good-for-nothing,
you keep coming back to kiss the shoreline
because you think that his love feels right.
You are a middle-aged mother
glancing over her shoulder
to check for those nosy neighbors
while putting up your new windowpanes
of sapphire stained glass to cloak
those blistering waves that occupy
your pristine, picket fence house.
You are the woman that sailors
have sworn to for centuries
and the woman that will keep
scientists surprised for year
Determination shall prevailPretty boho babes
With their summer dresses
Hanging out with boys in the senior year
Going to the mall every weekend
Pregnant at age sixteen
Tweeting every second
The "in" thing.
Muscles looking too fake
Smoking at a young age
Wasting their lives away
Dabbed with too much gel
Drinking beer and having sex
At age fourteen
The "in" thing.
Smart, natural beauty
Men and women who pursue a better future
Education comes first
In clean ways
The "lame" thing.
The popular kids keep pulling them to the darkness
Trying to make them
Try to make them
Because it's the "right" thing to do.
"We should all be the same, and if I'm poor, then I don't want anybody else to be rich"
The hidden message is in plain sight.
Man Sold Separately by GuinevereToGwen
( Featured by Beccalicious. )
Golden Ink and Going Back by GuinevereToGwen "is a wonderful tale of childhood, growing up, and then wishing you could be a child again. Using fairy tales that are well-known, a wonderful story is spun that will take you back to your childhood days of innocence," says the suggester.
( Suggested by MagicalJoey and Featured by thorns. )
Daily Lit Deviations
suggested by saltwaterlungs and featured by DrippingWords
"At first, the piece might seem cliché, but it quickly disorients the reader well enough to shake away any thought of it being anything but unique."
featured by doodlerTM
"A piece that conveys the frustration of having a co-dependent friend."
On a Dark and Stormy Night
suggested by WritersInk and featured by SilverInkblot
"A very cleverly written piece using the first lines in many famous novels."
featured by doodlerTM
"A touching story about ladybugs and loss told through the point-of-view of a child."
Tobacco and PeppermintWe wait in the car outside,
my hand dangling from the window,
my fingernails kissed with fog.
Silvery curls of smoke
rise like a dragon's breath
from the thing between my fingers.
You look at me, horrified,
staring at the black and blue
stains upon my tongue,
the marks of damage
cutting deep into my skin,
deep beneath tissue,
deep enough to corrode my bones.
I'm living in someone else's death,
borrowing a pair of cheap, shriveled lungs
that rattle loosely like leaves
in my chest.
I exhale a fresh, decaying breath,
and though I try to be diplomatic,
I know in my heart I'm just mocking you.
"Those things are gonna kill you,"
you tell me, all sage wisdom and disapproval
and sudden concern for my well-being.
"It's six bucks for a pack of cancer."
I try to laugh, and cough
then laugh some more
at the fact that I can't breathe.
In a greasy ashtray, I stamp out
my last flimsy cigarette,
ash and sorrow lying dead
in the dimly lit embers.
If only I could stamp you out
as easily as I've stamped
monotony in murderI do not like newscasters
and the dull throb of their vocal chords
nesting like roosting pigeons in my brain
when they report to me the boy who was
stolen from his mother’s arms last week
was found today with his body severed
and splayed in the forest outside town,
each piece a mile away from the other
just like Osiris’ immortal parts were scattered.
She continues droning as the camera pans
to red white and blue flashes,
yellow cautions bandaging a house,
and a man in a stained wife beater
being shoved into the back of a police car.
I crave to see more than his five o’clock shadow
because I need to know if he feels anything
besides regret for the fingerprints
he left behind on the toddler’s skin.
They cut again to an interview
with the little boy’s mother—
her mouth spills words out like ashes,
and the lines in her face read like Braille.
My throat tears itself to tendrils screaming
it’s not her fault the man’s mother
never taught him to
Kate (day-dreamer)Kate paints her nails teal with black speckles because she says they remind her of egg shells left to warm themselves in the summer sun.
(I tell her I've never seen a teal egg but she tut-tut's at me and presses our lips to the pages of an old book until our tongues are tattooed over by words from a dead poet's mouth.)
Kate cuts her own hair with scissors she found rusting in an old, waterlogged box in her grand-father's attic.
(I tell her rust doesn't cut, only bruises, but she rolls her faded eyes like dice and tells me that's nice but I shouldn't believe everything I read.)
Kate uses honey and paper bark to wash her face because she says it's all made of star-stuff and she likes to touch the night sky.
(I tell her it doesn't equate to the same thing but Kate is a believer and my soft words don't change her.)
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