Chasing the Strawberry Girl (Part 1 of 2)There’s a name and a number on every door. I read them as I pass, trying to imagine the faces and the people behind each name. I wonder if the labels are reflections of the girls living behind the doors. Some are filled to the very edge with markered doodles and large bubble letters; some are stenciled in pen on graph paper.Chasing the Strawberry Girl (Part 1 of 2) by *GuinevereToGwen
My two suitcases thundering behind me, I sidestep down the hall, dodging the few students who are already back from the break. Their gazes avoid me as if I were contagious. New Girl syndrome; how typical. Soon enough, though, I’ll be cured; I can be a pretty outgoing person. Once I make a few friends, they won’t even remember a time when I wasn’t here. But right now, I’m concentrating on finding my room.
There. Room 23. No personalized label for me; only ugly green paint peeling off to reveal an even uglier shade of green underneath. The key is between my fingers, but it drops before I manage to shove it into the lock. Crouching
Floored PetalsHe drowned the cheap motel roomFloored Petals by *GuinevereToGwen
in smoke, back in ‘53,
when I was just a bud of seventeen
who had watched herself bloom
in the mirror in her mother’s closet.
I had seen the bloom and the bud
and had wished to be deflowered.
So I had leashed myself
onto the back of a bus
and roared into New York City
like the little dragonfly I am,
falling into deep dreams
on the laps of strange men.
A pale girl with a patched-up suitcase
off on an adventure in the city
with nothing but a few dollars
and a fear of the dark.
The hotels were musty
and the dollars digested,
but the lights lowered
as the jazz flew upward
into a shower of sparks,
and I, a flower shaking off her petals
as she swung into his arms
and into his life.
A life of roads and roaring,
and sitting half-still in the smoke
as he mused long into the night
and down the drain, saying,
“Poetry is daydreaming on paper,”
wiping his grey lips on discarded poems, and
crashing between the waves of sheets.
A life of racing
Duke of the HighwayJordan Duke had all of his fan mail forwarded to his hotel room in Chicago. Bags and bags of letters were handed to him by the hotel staff, not to mention the countless emails he received every day. He read all of it. It was a point of honour with him. He wanted to be the kind of celebrity who was aware of his fans, who didn’t dismiss them like—well, like junk mail. So far he had succeeded. After all, it was because of them that he had come this far, that he had come all the way to Chicago for the conference. Besides, most letters he received were quite flattering. He never got tired of the attention.Duke of the Highway by *GuinevereToGwen
Of course, he didn’t answer all of them. That was much too time-consuming. However, he had been known to answer quite a few especially enthusiastic fans, knowing full well how ecstatic it would make them. He liked the idea that he could make a person so happy.
After all, they had been making him happy ever since he had started his video blog, almost a year ago.
Danse d'automneTempête automnale,Danse d'automne by *GuinevereToGwen
laisse-moi suivre les traces
de ton carnage,
toi, mirage, spectre amoureux,
le souffle qui me chatouille le dos
comme un vent avaricieux,
mais je ne suis que la pluie
qui te suit,
qui peint les rues de gris.
chantonnant que lorsqu’il sait que je l’entends,
je veux chanter avec toi.
Je veux hurler dans la rue,
dans la plaine, les montagnes,
comme je le faisais avant.
parle-moi de Marx
et je te parlerai de Prévert,
un vers à la fois,
t’attirant vers moi.
Ta voix lorsque tu avales
les lettres des poètes
verse des plus hautes cascades
quand elle se soude avec la mienne.
Ferme tes yeux et laisse-la s’envoler;
il est le seul à m’avoir vue pleurer.
d’aimer et d’être aimé.
Car il l’aime;
c’est évident dans son timbre,
dans sa fréquence
que je mesure à distance.
By DesignRhys held his wife's hand as she tapped her foot nervously, staring at the door. They'd been waiting half an hour already for the doctor, and their appointment was supposed to be forty minutes ago. He appreciated the quiet of the room, but the silence made Wanda anxious.
"Everything's going to be okay, Wanda," he reassured her, squeezing her hand gently. "One of my coworkers has been through this and he says it's nothing. They're just going to ask a few questions, and take a sample of--"
"You know how much I hate needles, Rhys!" Wanda snapped, ripping her hand away. She shook her head and placed her hand on his knee. "I'm sorry. I really don't like doctors."
"I know, sweetie."
The door opened and Wanda jumped a little bit out of her seat. The doctor came into the room holding a clipboard and a pen and smiled politely at his patients.
The feigned sincerity of the smile was almost as convincing as the perfectly straight, titanium white teet
Read the journal here
Paradoxes in her bonesand she always dismisses herself
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skin
Low Tidepipers and scudders
Christmas Competition (Dec. 29)
SixWordStories Opposites Contest (Dec. 31)
Secret Santa 2013 (Dec. 31)
Art History articles (1 out of 2 finished)
"Pyromania", short story
The Strangers on Bus 37, musical (-Feb. 2014)
Sunriser, English collab novel with ~NGBookworm97 (April 2014-)
French collaborative novel (2013-14)
Outline in progress
First draft in progress
Editing in progress
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 ~NonsenseQueen 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."
“But then they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same times, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was—I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the high cracked ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds.”
“...crossing and recrossing the country every year, south in the winter and north in the summer, and only because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars, generally the Western stars.”
“I told them that I was thinking they were very amazing maniacs and that I spent the whole night listening to them like a man watching the mechanism of a watch that reached clear to the top of Berthoud Pass and yet was made with the smallest works of the most delicate watch in the world. They smiled. I pointed my finger at them and said, ‘If you keep this up you’ll both go crazy, but let me know what happens as you go along.’”
“Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgundy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.”
“I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
“It was sad to see his tall figure receding in the dark as we drove away, just like the other figures in New York and New Orleans: they stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned. Where go? what do? what for?—sleep. But this foolish gang was bending onward.”
“I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn’t remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it.”
“Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.”
“‘You and I, Sal, we’d dig the whole world with a car like this because, man, the road must eventually lead to the whole world. Ain’t nowhere else it can go—right?’”
“‘What’s your road, man?—holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.’”
“I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered, stabilized-within-the-photo lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, or actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road. All of it inside endless and beginningless emptiness. Pitiful forms of ignorance.”
| For Project DD a Day, a project that encourages deviants to suggest Daily Deviations.|
For hosting my own projects and contests, such as the Anagram Contest.
For giving to groups, projects, and deviants that I support.