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@prussiawriting
Feelings I have about summer
Sandals biting blisters into my feet. Pavements burning my feet when I take them off my sandals.
Showering with sunburn. Mosquito bites.
Clothes sticking with sweat. I’ll never be cool again.
Ice cream, too cold of my teeth. An ice cube shoved down my shirt.
Lying in the sun and feeling the heat fall on me like snow, layers built up before being blown away by the breeze.
Like it’ll never end.
Warm. Happy.
Start of a novella maybe...
I'm thinking about my summer project will be something like create a full story, because though i write a lot, I've never actually done it. So here’s a start of one idea.
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The great trade meadow is so green , so vast, so unknown , that some call it the second ocean, it’s undulating grass like waves and the caravans and motorkarts the many creatures cradled in its depths, but like the sea there is only so far that we care about. Just a matter of feet below the surface the air reeks of rotting meat and everything is hot.
Claude’s hair sticks to their forehead, they’ve been working by a steam vent for hours, tools heaving their body towards the unseeable floor, and the ones in their hands seeming to move of their own accord. Stab, pull, slice, remove. The flesh which creates the walls is ancient, time has made it tough. Calude lines the tip of the knife up with the end of the last cuts end, braces both hands on their knife and swings their weight towards the wall, the knife slides in like it was pressed into the gap between two pieces of rock, Claude pulls the knife along the length of this imaginary gap, foot braced in a gap bone, they twist the knife to face down, rocks it down for the final slice, and the flesh peels aways. They remove the rectangle and place it in their basket, weighing it down to the platform below and bringing and empty basket up. They start on the next piece. Stab, pull, slice, remove.
Relic.
An open chest. Memories etched on bloody ribs.
A heart still beats. Caged. For pilgrims.
It goes on.
You’re screaming outside Something about rising water. I can’t really hear because you’re all muffled.
That can’t be true I think. Can’t be. its so warm in here, so comfortable, safe.
I’m too drained to let you in. But you stop anyway. The whole world seems to stop, and I’m in my chair, safe, happy,
Hair still damp from the rain outside, forgot about that, seemed like it would never stop when I was out there. Must have stopped by now, it’s so warm in here.
I’m half asleep when you float past my window. I lift a hand in a weak wave. Before I sigh, probably just my reflection, we look so much alike these days.
Untitled #2
She sits, waiting. More like a cloud Of butterflies Than a person.
Eyelashes flutter. Hands like folded wings. If you were nearer you swear you could hear the beat of wings.
You are just still. A rock, nothing But a perch to Her butterflies.
Your breath might scatter Her. Touch might crush her. But still hand outstretched You stand there waiting. Touch me, trust me, land.
For Theodore
I dipped my pen in the ink to write you a love letter. I tipped the bottle over and sealed it with a kiss.
Self-Portrait as a Reliquary
Saints bones break through. Skin scarred. (No) Reverence. Blood. Bones. Muscles. Space. Prayers. Something holy?
Self-Portrait as a Primary School Art Project.
Tissue paper skin, Paper Mache bones, Cardboard features, Yogurt pot breasts.
Eyes like watercolours Too wet. Clumsy patches of pink Acrylic.
A heart that burst in the kiln. A brain that crumbled. Skins breaks with a touch. A body that shakes in the breeze.
Hastily made. Handle with the care it wasn't made with. Do not touch.
A Memory.
Dark Close Hands Trust Swing Moans Warm Close Honest Dizzy Talking Stars Wine Close Hands Legs Safe Dark Smiles
Me You
nails on a blackboard
Her lips are an inch from mine, Now less. Now less.
I let my eyes flutter closed as the butterflies become erratic. She snaps away. Sharp and sudden. Just like the laugh that bubbles up. Tough as nails.
She holds my sleeve while we walk. My heart beat hammers the last nail into my coffin, ‘I could marry you, I really could.’
‘Imagine!’ She scoffs. A giggle rolling behind it like surf.
And I dig the nails into my hand and bite my tongue because I would have said
‘I have.’
terms and conditions
Love is a funny thing to a robot. It is hard to grasp as it is not a solid idea, though I understand theoretical sciences so maybe that’s not the most apt metaphor. I do not hold it at all. It simply exists.
Everyone seems to be obsessed I understand it or know it. I could act like I did. I know how to put forward the correct emotions, words, actions to suggest knowledge and understanding. But I don’t. Part of me wants to know as well. Probably the problem solving area.
I ask for explanations and get metaphors. Feeling to describe the feelings of feelings. Forgetting I do not feel like them, I learn and present what I want. My emotions are thought about, I know what to express to get others to know what I mean. Does this mean I’m feeling? Or would you say I’m in a play where you have been surprisingly cast?
Is love an emotion? Could I replicate it’s parts? Piece together the parts of a metaphor to create a feeling that’s whole?
Possibly.
Everyone else seems to manage, even my friend, who is a robot, says they love me.
Did I miss an update?
"Please be quiet, you're just my TV, just shoosh."
Okay.
Restart?
There’s something inside.
Tear it away, pull it out.
Ignore the ruins.
I’m so excited.! This is for you to interpret entirely.(: No description whatsoever, correct.?
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okay this is old and i already sent you this, but i think i’ll post it here because yeah i really like this sketch.
Art by orbusstagnum
My writing inspired by this under the cut.
Read More
Pactolus
Oh Midas woman Why do you touch? Is it to check it’s still there?
Silver and cold. Cracked. But whole.
You worry over its surface like a priest over a relic. A relic of what? Something you left behind?
Silver and cold. Cracked. But whole.
You touch to see. Make an account of reality with the pads of your fingers. Is was what you wanted?
Silver and cold. Cracked. But whole.
You see your reflection in the water. You see it too much. Fingers brush the surface and it yields, welcoming.
Silver and cold. Cracked. But whole.
Untitled #1
Something moves in me. A restless silence beneath my skin.
A hurricane sweeping up a crowd leaving nothing but space that should be filled with something something but silence.
You Always Said This Town Wasn't Big Enough For The Both Of Us
