@ten-paces-fire tagged me to post seven lines of whatever writing I’m currently working on :D. Thanks Theo!
"We ate lunch together every day in the lost and found closet in eighth grade. He only came over a couple of times--mom and dad didn't like the looks of him. He wore black nail polish and torn nirvana t-shirts. He believed in Marxist theory and life on Mars. I liked him the way Meaghan likes me. We never talked about it--I didn't know the right words. I didn't want to skew the sixty-three seconds of explicit symmetry, our shoes scattered in a crop circle on the carpet. He moved to Long Island at the end of the August. I still don't know his last name." He crumbles a bit of bread between his forefinger and thumb.
My name is High Valien Jonathan Marek Alagona, and today is the eighth day of Twinmoon. Once I was a prince; now I bear the eyes of sun and moon to read the falling hourglass. The writing in the journal always began the same way- first his title, then the date, then the mantra. The ritual helped him keep track of days passing, especially since he hardly slept these days. The ritual had to continue to keep him holding onto whatever part of what was actually him remained.
My name is Valien Jonathan Marek Alagona, and my kingdom is falling into ruins at the hands of a prophecy generations in the making. The Capitol had been slowly replacing all of his parents’ advisors with their own men. They shared bodies, but how could they be the same person when they had gone from compassionate and opinionated to mechanical and dead- eyed? The prophecy ends with me, and the hour-glass shatters at my hand. His great- grandfather had sworn that there would be one last Valien after him. One last person who could bring about peace.
My name is Jonathan Marek Alagona, and my citizens despise me. It did not help that he was almost constantly tailed by his bodyguard, one of the Capitol’s genetically engineered weapon-men. The Capitol didn’t care about the citizens despite their hold on the royal family, and everyone knew it. I wish there was some way to show them that I would help them if I could. He had tried numerous times before, only to be spurned, but he really could not blame the liberation movement for not trusting him.
My name is Jonathan Alagona, and I am imprisoned. Sure, he had freedom to go where he pleased, providing he was followed by his Capitol shadow. He could go out of the palace, but only if he wanted to be met with stones and ice- cold glares everywhere he turned. I am a prisoner of my mind and of my birth. I never asked for this. It did not help that he was faced with constant reminders that the Capitol would get rid of him at whatever point he stopped being useful to them.
My name is Jonathan, and I have no idea who that is anymore. Between the insomnia that his ‘gift’ brought and avoiding food and water for fear of the Capitol drugging him, it was no small wonder that he could even write full sentences anymore. I think that I lost myself somewhere along the way. Where did I go? He had changed so much in the years since the prophecy’s spirit had taken its roots in his mind; the time before that felt like little more than a good dream slowly being forgotten.
My name is Jon, and I am alone. I am so alone and so very scared.
Out of the darkness came only silence. Merely the sound of my voice and the incessant bobbing of the blue flame over my outstretched hand. Perhaps, had I been anyone else, I might know what he was trying to say.
“Brother. It is one-three-four-oh. I cannot hear you.”
Choked laughter answered me this time, rather than the mental screams that only I failed to hear. It led me down a twisted path that I knew all too well to the center of the cell Zero called ‘home’. Extinguishing my flame, I approached the chained blond and touched his shoulder.
Previous experience with Zero’s power did nothing to lessen the unpleasant sensation. I shuddered. Despite Zero’s inability to read my memories, the common ground between us had to be in my mind. (I had learned long ago that I was not suited for mind-to-mind travel, and besides ran the risk of being trapped in Zero’s unstable mind.)
It has been so long since you came to visit Zero.
His mental voice was hoarse, but still managed to give me chills.
It was beginning to think it had been forgotten.
That was a lie, but Zero was one of the few people who I did not dare talk back to.
the fire inside of us doesn't always burn
sometimes it just sits
lightning flashes of nostalgia
for something we've never known
or maybe always have
it's heavy
as silence
sitting just the same
under the influence of poetry
and sangria-kisses
strong enough
to wipe away your trembles
while Time strains
but baby, we are ghost -
anything more, now
is just
icing on our fingertips.
I'm tuning my guitar at 12:43 am.
The world is turning,
I can feel it
It's like a gear in the machinery in the universe of night
We're smaller gears, with interconnected stories that grow and form,
even while we sleep,
things are turning, right now,
major plot twists are building bridges to find you, they are restless as a child, learning patience just the same
I sit on my bed playing a song that I will forget
The machinery in my chest is making glowing things that I will give to my children
The world is turning,
there is a bridge, leading somewhere I've never been,
materializing beneath my feet.
she told me once how she always dreams of flying,
how, sometimes, she would even wake up floating
and that her mother would fill her pockets with rocks, so that she wouldn't lose her like a balloon
nothing is as serious as it seems, she says, that's why i'm so light
though, with age comes a certain shifting heaviness
that her shoulders have become grateful for, even if she still insists on holding onto me while we take walks, just in case
but together, we're more like clouds, never worrying about the direction of the wind
offering the mercy of summer-shade to other balloon-children, playing, while the rocks shuffle in their pockets
and the sky wrestles with gravity, sending dreams of flight, like maps, in every direction.
I am battling my insecurity about the quality (or lack thereof) of my novel by inflicting it on you all
Here, an excerpt in which Elodie has a run-in with a hipster in a bookstore.
Elodie cracked open the mystery and sipped her decaf hazelnut vanilla iced mocha latte with whipped cream and carmel*. This was definitely one of the better ones.
“Hey,” someone said. “Whatcha reading?”
Elodie looked up to see a cute boy in a fedora looming over her table. She bit back a monologue about how rude it was to interrupt someone who was reading and what on earth made him think she wanted to talk to him anyway? Instead she flashed the cover at him.
“Oh cool,” he said. “I’m more into the classics myself. You know, Kafka, Tolstoy, those guys. But I’m sure that’s good too. Can I sit down?” He didn’t wait for an answer before he took the empty seat across the table.
Elodie thought about telling him to get lost, but decided she might as well have some fun with this one.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elodie.”
“Melody? That’s pretty. Are you into music?”
Just go with it, Elodie told herself. “Yeah, actually. I play a couple of instruments. Piano, cello, flute. You know, the usual.”
“Yeah, I’ve got a guitar myself.” He looked like he expected her to be impressed by this.
“Oh wow. There is nothing I’d love to hear about more than your guitar. Let me guess, it’s acoustic.”
“Well, of course. I play for art, not for groupies.”
Elodie wondered how he managed to say all of this with a straight face. She was one more ridiculous claim away from busting out laughing, which would ruin the entire thing. “Of course. I can tell you’re a very deep, intellectual person.”
“Yeah, well, I try.” He smiled. “So do you have a boyfriend?”
“Girlfriend, actually,” Elodie said. “She’s supposed to be meeting me here pretty soon. She had a modeling gig this morning. Just a little one, you know, but we’re hoping it’s going to turn into something big.”
Elodie thought the guy’s eyes were about to pop out of his head. “Well, maybe you and me and your girlfriend should hang out sometime.”
Even messing with this douchebag was getting boring. Time to go. “Yeah, that sounds—” Elodie’s eyes widened as she focused on something out the window over the boy’s shoulder. “Um, never mind, I have to go.” She stood up, grabbing the book and her drink. “Hey, if a cop comes in here asking about me, I was never here, all right?”
“Um…”
Elodie hurried out of the coffee shop, stopping briefly to reshelve her book with the rest of the mysteries. She’d come back and get it later, when she was less likely to be ambushed by sleazy guys. She waved to Rick and stepped out into the street.
*((I have no idea if this is actually a possible drink or not. Coffee confuses me. I never order anything more complicated than peppermint hot chocolate.))
