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Lovely Lit Feature #4 and #5

Journal Entry: Tue Aug 26, 2014, 12:18 PM
Hello! Sorry for missing last weeks Lovely Lit Feature, as I was preparing for college and working to help pay for future expenses! As an apology, I am compiling both the prose specific Lovely Lit Feature missed last week (6 pieces of prose) and the Lovely Lit Feature scheduled this week (3 prose and poetry) into one big Tuesday Lovely Lit Feature. 

PROSE

Reasons Never to WriteYou’ll want someone exotic, and marry a Romanian. He’ll tell you to dye your hair and you’ll do it, then make chewing on its multicolored strands a habit. You’ll kiss him once and say he tastes like wine. Wine, no? he’ll say with a grin. Only gentlemen drink wine. You'll leave him because you won’t like cliches.
You’ll find a shadow behind a counter (because that’s the only way to describe him). You’ll watch him clashing silverware around in drawers like cold piles of bones, and he’ll give you a free slice of key-lime pie and say it’s the best in the state. You’ll lick up its tanginess on the prongs of your fork and decide that it’s not, but you won't pull away from his eyes that will remind you of your favorite crayon. Then he’ll look you up and down and say, another? You’ll decide to love him because anyone worth loving is worth a free slice of key-lime pie. You’ll make him kiss you even w


The PainterThe waves were still crashing, washing away the remnants of sand castles, long after the town was asleep and dreaming. Even the usual late night strollers were safely in their homes by this hour. The only movement came from the cool, salty breeze, the endless waves and a man. Just one man.
From a distance one might have assumed him to be nothing more than an unfortunate visitor's belonging left behind. He seemed but a shadow, a shapeless nothing. Upon a slightly closer inspection, one would find two things of importance: firstly, there was a rather large canvas placed immediately in front of him which was, as of yet, completely blank. Second, for a man who seemed to only be getting started with unpacking art supplies, he was covered in quite a lot of red paint.
As the wind picked up, the man continued his unpacking and then sat down, quite still. Slowly he turned his head and, it seemed, took in every detail of the silent beach. His gaze seemed to catch the waves and he stared a long w


4 Dead ChordsI’m here, with the darkness embracing me, trying to sleep. My eyes, full of tears, want to sleep, listening to those things that makes me feel bad in the middle of the night, listening to my thoughts written by other mind, but are mine. I know the reason of the sad midnight, when the sky has closed the window and no one can see the spirits, walking lonely roads.
Maybe I took another wrong way, or the wrong way took me, with a beautiful smile and deep black eyes, asking me if I was truly happy all this time without Starlight; I wasn’t, those days were wasted moments in my life. There’s nothing to see inside a womb, where you are isolated and peaceful with yourself, thinking about the day you had.
I’m drowning in memories, and cry, the droplets that my lung has.
(29/7/14)


eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages.  They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple.  Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp.  She had wondered if he thought of her this way.  
She wondered the same now.  
Her hands were not her own.  A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads.  Her mother reminded her of this when the


everything is temporaryi have never been one to yell, it hurts my throat, or maybe i just lack the passion to get that mad at something. you always did bring out things that i never knew were inside though. we had matching bloodshot eyes, and the same fuck the world attitude running through our veins as if the world owed us something. it didn't then. but it does now. my blood is thick and burning and i want to try and flood it into yours to get the colour back into your cheeks that i just watched drain. i kicked the wall, and opened the window and screamed at the sky-scrappers and i don't know how the world can just keep fucking turning without so much a skipped rotation or a fucking stutter.
you turned small, minor things into giant fucking events that made my chest even tighter. a tickle in my throat, a spreading wildfire on the nape of my neck, a distinct lack of words or feelings to anything more than a lingering heaviness. i lost count of how many times i contemplated stepping in front of that car, bus,





The Airplane CrashedYou are still alive. The most terrifying moment of your entire life just passed and you survived it. Your heart shakes in your chest. You let out a long breath to slow it down.
Your seat creaks as you shift your weight. You test your left arm. It feels sore and overworked but not tight like it was. No heart attack then. Something pinches together in your gut and your insides slosh around. You grit your teeth against the pain and test the rest of your body. Right arm works. Your neck is sore but you can turn your head. Legs don't seem to be functioning. In fact you can't feel them at all.
Somewhere behind you, amid the groaning and crying, a fire burns. You can feel the heat on the back of your skull. You lift your hand and touch your hair, which falls away in a powder. You remember the fireball that ripped up the aisle. You ducked down before it rolled over you.  
The fat man who sat beside you wakes up and immediately begins to scream bloody terror. You try to tell him that


Garden of MemoriesI remember when we used to fold paper flowers from the songs we wrote; humming along to the tunes, and tapping our feet to the beat of our hearts.  The dots always meant more than words.  
We thought we would never fall out of tune; that life's dissonance could never overpower our harmonies.  Perhaps we were always too hopeful.
You took the flowers with you when you left, but the ghosts of the songs we made never faded.  Now I tend to a garden of sound and memories, singing heartfelt melodies to myself.  I only hope the roses never wither.


Zen HumorEat the strawberries.
Like some kind of Buddhist punchline, the stinger to the ultimate cosmic joke, that line keeps ricocheting around the inside of my head: a stray karmic bullet that's expending eons of built up energy by bouncing around my skull and turning my brain to salsa.
For the past three months, I've been coming to this coffee shop or that bar like I'm working two jobs, jobs where I imbibe mood-altering chemicals and make trite observations about the world for spiritual and monetary gain.  In that time, I have smiled thrice: once when I closed my old bank account and shoved what little cash I had left into my pockets, once when my cat wagged his tail at me last week, and once when two drunk frat boys got into a fist fight over some blonde who didn't give a damn about either of them and left the bar before first blood was spilled.  Eat the strawberries.  Zen Buddhists have got a sick sense of humor, which was lost on the frat boys.  It'


POETRY

compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someone else for a day.
you make me a nametag with my
real name on it, and i just laugh.
(later i slip it beneath my mattress
and spend the night staring at the ceiling.
see, i've tried myself on one too many
times, and the fit is never right.)
-
you call me your little compulsive
liar, and i guess that is supposed
to be somewhat affectionate.
or something.
-
i spin before the mir


biopsyput me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)
d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot


The Uniform Commute of a Man Seeking Work and God Corrosion set in. my tie gangly
 against the mint vintage attire
   that my children wore to school.
   momma' admitted she washed them 
 with her soaps like role models
 that bore resemblance amongst a
 plethora of troubled detergents
  set to cleanse our hamper/bin(s)
in and out -- spanning a rioter
   a race a king a hip protagonist. 
their incandescent, brash bulbs
scattering philosophical school
houses into mass requiem diners
brooding a titanium feast, cold
with tenure. Bones dropping IQs
in simultaneous expressions for
urban reliquaries now dwindling
now cursing in unison against a
system. I drove a day in search
for god (doubtful) and existent
somewhere between the imaginary
mobile ocean of South L.A, C.A-
the whole of the promised land-
cut off by the pelting pool off
erings which encouraged cowards
to commit coexistent compliance
with other convenient wheelers.
this godless soap vibrating in.
from the foun



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my eyes have the heart
of my mother.
dark circles highlight
grayish blue irises
which spasm and
blur the world.
i have been thinking
far too much
and far too  l o n g.
this is really short for 'i need reading glasses'
Thought I'd start uploading more poetry and writing. I have more, but I'm trying to space them out some. 

Went to the eye doctor the other day. Turns out reading hours on end does do harm. 

questions:

Are the line breaks alright?
Is this too short?
Any thoughts to improve this piece?
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The world warming crisis
has been called all-natural,
but the skyline is covered
with haze. Exhaust from one
billion cars cause Chinese fashion
to include medical masks outside,
yet arrogant Americans still claim
“there is no consequence to mistakes
such as pollution.”
my 'political' concern for the planet
After attending several lectures by researchers in Boston, taking several courses on Environmental Science and Biology, reading tons of books such as Eaarth , and being outside, I'm failing to see how some people think global climate change is coincidence. :shrug:

Comments, opinions, critiques are always appreciated.

questions for twr:

Are the line breaks well done?
Is the middle section (Particularly "Exhuast....outside" awkward to read?
Any advice?

critique: thewrittenrevolution.deviantar…
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Some updates and promises

Journal Entry: Sat Aug 16, 2014, 4:06 PM
Life updates:

Lately I have been exploring with poetry. While I have always loved the way poems twist truths into lovely life snapshots and stories with few words, I have never been a genius making their beauty. I've been experimenting, testing, and learning how to put my thoughts on paper which doesn't involve blocks of text. You should see them up shortly.

Deviant Community Updates:

DailyBreadCafe is thinking about selling her account due largely to the passing of the co-owner of the page. Although it's sad to see her go (along with all the lovely deviations that she and Toby made over the years), I promised her I'd help her move on by sharing this journal: ohineedtea.deviantart.com/jour…

I got tagged!

While I don't usually do things such as this, I figured I'd stop being a stick in the mud and actually participate in a tag questionnaire for once.

10 Facts about me:

1. I'm an ambivert who likes to talk but is bad with talking to people. 
2. I have a deep love for Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 .
3. I find enjoyment in deep topics, movie/book/tv show analysis, political discussion, and passionate debates about things that 90% won't even matter a year from now.
4. Despite writing before I could read, I'm still horribly insecure at my ability to write.
5. I hold writing utensils shamelessly with all five fingers clutching close to the pointy part of the pen/pencil/etc.
6. I actually miss not having to do community service.
7. I only have to show up to work for three hours a week, and can be any day(s) I want.
8. "Saevus/saeva/saevum" is my favorite Latin word, and the only reason my username uses the masculine form is because when I younger I didn't realize there was a feminine form.
9. I want to become a Wildlife Ecologist as well as a novelist.
10. I still have the roses my first ex-boyfriend gave me in a vase. Not because I love him--I just love dried out roses.

1. Favourite summer album this year?

I'm that boring person who doesn't really buy albums on time or pay attention to their release. I'd say my "personal summer album" would be "Divers and Submarines" by Passenger. He's got excellent traveling music, and I've been traveling quite a lot this summer, in mind and body. It's fitting, I suppose.

2. Do you like me?

AyeAye12, I like you as much as I love your ridiculous username and your quirky writing (which is a lot). 

3. Favourite place of meditation? (Understanding meditation doesn't have to be the stereotypical sense)

That's a good question. I love exploring past the "no trespassing" signs of my neighborhood and into the conservation lands, becoming half in awed by the trees, and the other half at peace with nature. Honestly though, my most common place of comfort is probably my bed. Don't judge--it's comfortable and the place I relax while writing or listening to music.

4. Meaning of life for you?

Sometimes I wonder if there is meaning.

I think, life is meant to prove how far people will go to love themselves. Lose all the dreams, the money, the family, and you realize you are most comfortable with stability. But life is constantly moving, challenges are increasingly more present, and it's your job as a person to overcome all that, and all those dreams and goals--those are meant to prove to yourself that you can become someone. The last stage of life is acceptance, after all. 

I wish life was about helping others though. I really wish life was about kindness. But even though I'm young, I'm not naive enough to believe people aren't selfish.

5. What is your opinion of tags?

They're pretty silly, and I'm pretty serious. We usually never mix. (I'm making an effort to make it work though! See? I'm doing them.)

6. Ben Whishaw? 

I have never seen any of the movies IMDb says he's known for.
 
7. If you answered "no" to the last question, are you ready to apolgise?

I'm sorry I had to Google search "Ben Whishaw."

8. What is your opinion of Question 8?

I feel like a question about a question is being told the meaning of life is 42.

9. "" of Question 9?

I think I have a feeling of deja vu  coming on.

10. What is the most recent word to come out of your mouth?

I can't remember. Something about how Elsa didn't know the kingdom was frozen when she had a clear view of Arendelle from her ice castle. Also why her first instinct was to shove her dying sister out of said ice castle by Marshmellow (giant ice monster) even though she knew where the stone trolls were to help her. 

I'm fun at parties I swear.

My Questions:

1. What are your thoughts on cultural appropriation and clothing? Is it ever okay, or is even a tribal print tee shirt inspired off of another culture crossing the line?

2. What was the first thing you ever wrote, drew, or took a picture of (depending on your main art media)?

3. Do you still have your childhood security blanket? If so, what does it look like in comparison to when you first received it? 

4. If you had to describe the color purple to a totally colorblind person without using any color cues, what would you say? 

5. Who was the most famous person you've ever met?

6. Do you remember the first website you frequented often? If so, what was it?

7. What do you feel started the New Age Disney Renaissance: The Princess and the Frog or Tangled? 

8. What is your opinion of the events happening in Ferguson involving the police and Michael Brown? 

9. What item in your room (excluding your diary/journal if you have one) would you say describes you the best?

10. What is the favorite quote you ever said to your best friend (or vice versa)? 



I tag sheep1215 and SpiralingSpontaneity!

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  • Mood: Adoration
There were times where Drew Porter’s three room apartment was something to marvel at, but today, with dishes submerged in murky sink-water and clothes crumpled into the corner of her bedroom, was a day to be ashamed. The morning news spoke to her from the television as she slipped out of bed. Today: breezy with a chance of scattered showers. Tomorrow: thunderstorms.  The next day: Drew didn’t even care to know. There was nothing to look forward to anymore. Forty-eight hours was long enough.

Drew slid out of bed, letting the soles of her feet land on the cold wooden floor. As she slipped off her cotton nightgown, she grabbed the uniform hanging from the desk chair that her cat was also resting on.

“You know Fergus,” she said. “When I said I wanted to be a police officer, I didn’t mean a mall cop. I wanted to save people. Be a hero, you know?”

Fergus yawned.

“Yeah I know, same old rant.” Drew put on the uniform, looking in the mirror. She sighed, “Let’s just hope I don’t ruin this job for myself either.”

Fergus meowed.

“Yeah, that’s right. No job means no Fancy Feast for you.” Drew pat his head.

Fergus leapt off the chair. He traveled to the kitchen, sat down on the mat, and meowed.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Drew said, forcing her feet into her shoes. She went to the kitchen, opened a can of food for the cat, and then searched the cabinet for breakfast. Three slices of bread, mustard, honey, and half eaten bag of beef jerky. Drew decided on the toast.

“Bon appetite,” she said, eating the breakfast as she left the apartment complex.

The Grundy Mall was thirty minutes away by car, and while Drew didn’t mind, her used1998 Honda Accord certainly did. As it sputtered down the highway, Drew listened to the radio talk about the youth of America going to the sewage.

“It’s all them video games, all them spoiled rich parents,” the radio said. “Every child thinks they’ll be famous.”

“Let them think that then. They’ll all get thrown into the real world one way or the other,” Drew said, hands both on the steering wheel. She flagged her turn signal, and drove through Exit 27.

A couple of smokers were gathered by the mall entrance, but inside, the building was nearly vacant stores were just beginning to open.

The buzzing came from Drew’s back pocket. She glimpsed around, knowing using her phone was not appropriate on duty. She answered.

“Hello?” she asked.

“May I speak to Mr. Porter?” the gruff, deep voice asked.

“There is no Mister Porter. If it’s Drew you want, you’re speaking with her,” she spoke with a subtle firmness that suggested this was not the first time this mistake had been made.

“Oh, well. You aren’t at work,” the man on the other line added.

“Sir, I am too. I just got in maybe five minutes ago. My shift starts at 10:15,” Drew said,
taking her ear off the phone for a moment to check the time. It was five minutes until the start of her shift. She put her phone back to her ear.

“—Be there, and not a second late,” the voice said, agitated. “Or you’re fired.”

With the beep of the phone, the call ended.

Drew scrolled to the phone’s call history, and put her thumb on call. As she waited, she saw another mall cop in the food court. She cancelled the call, and instead went up the escalator, and walked up to him.

The man was sitting by himself at a table, gorging on a chocolate milkshake and double cheeseburger. His hands were pudgy and round, and his mouth was as wide as the brim of the cup he held. Fat rolls from his stomach hid the front part of his belt. He had not noticed someone was beside him.

“Hey, I’m new. I was wondering if you could tell me where to meet for my first shift,” Drew said, raising her voice slightly.

The man took another bite of his burger before responding.

“You report to the map at the center of the mall,” He said, mouth stuffed with greasy burger.

“Thank you,” she said, as she made her way to the sign.

Drew noticed a man dressed in a collared shirt and dress paints, lingering by the sign. His arms were crossed, his foot tapping, and his eyes locked on her.

“You’re late,” her boss snapped.

“Sir, with all due respect, this is my first day. How was I supposed to know where you’d be?” Drew spoke as if her tongue had been coated with poison.

“If you don’t know your way around the mall, maybe I was wrong about hiring you. Go home, where you can focus on things you were better suited for,” he spoke, glancing at her body, and then, back at her eyes.

Drew clenched her teeth together as her hands balled themselves into fists. Whirling around, she felt her cheeks redden. She took one step forward. She paused. She turned back to face him.

“People like you disgust me, you freaking misogynist—” she retorted.

“You’re fired,” her boss said. “Give me the badge.”

Drew yanked it off and dropped it in his open palm. She strutted out the mall, into the parking lot, and cried the moment she locked herself in the car.

“Damn it,” she mumbled, hitting the steering wheel. “I really needed that job.”

She turned the ignition on, and the car rumbled. The radio popped on.

“You know Jim, I’ve found that there’s so many poor people who aren’t even working, just begging. There’s plenty of jobs. Even if they aren’t the job you want. They should stopped taking other people’s money—”

Drew turned the radio off.

By the time Drew made it home, it was well into the afternoon. Fergus was sitting by the front doorstep, and the moment the door was opened, a symphony of meows followed suit. She smiled.

“I know, you’re mad I didn’t say goodbye,” she said, bending over to pet him. Fergus stretched, purring as she stroked his back. He sauntered over to her, and rubbed against her knees. Where he was sitting before, was an eviction notice.

Drew’s eyes grew wide as she grabbed the letter and read it. She had three days until she had to leave. With no job, there was no way to buy more time. Three days was barely enough time to pack. She looked up at the ceiling with misty eyes as she covered her mouth with clasped hands. Her body shook, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s over, Fergus. I can’t do anything else. I blew it—”

It was then when Fergus arched his body, and hissed, and ran to the leftmost wall. He stared at it, and cried. As Drew walked to see where her cat went, she heard a shattering sound, and several angry bellows from the apartment next to hers.

“Fergus, I’ll be right back,” Drew said, wiping away the water off her face. She left her apartment and knocked on the apartment to her left. Muffled screams could be heard from the door. Drew pounded on the door again.

“Open up!” she shouted. She tried sounding as intimidating as possible.

It grew silent.

A man cracked open the door, “My girlfriend dropped her vase. Everything’s okay.”

“Let me speak with her,” Drew demanded.

“Alright officer,” The man said, hesitating. “Give us a moment.”

As the door closed, Drew realized that she was still wearing her mall cop outfit. Drew shrugged, mumbling, “It must’ve been enough to convince him.”

The women left her apartment wearing a great deal of makeup and a sheepish expression.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I thought for sure you’d be at work, or out, or…”

“Darby,” Drew said, hushed so only she could hear. “Who is he?”

“He’s my boyfriend, but he….he…” she stammered, but staying quiet.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We are going to go to my apartment, and call the real police,” Drew said, eyes gentle but expression firm. “Alright?”

Darby shook her head, eyes wide. “No, he’s…I love him. I can’t do that.”

Drew looked at her. “But Darby, does he love you?”

There was a long pause. The wind was blowing, turning tree leaves backwards as dark clouds rolled on, hiding the once bright sky.

“I’m sure he does…I mean…he just gets angry,” Darby said, looking over at the road, away from the situation she was in.

“Darby. People who love others don’t act controlling, don’t hurt their other halves,” Drew stated.

It had begun to rain.

“Come on, let’s get out of the rain. We can figure out what to do in my apartment,” Drew said. After another pause, Darby agreed.

Drew ushered her neighbor inside the room, pushing all the junk she could into the closet.

“Sorry about the mess. Here, wait on the couch,” Drew said, pointing to the living room.

Darby nodded. Fergus followed Darby, curling up beside her.

Drew went to the door as she turned the lever. The lock clicked in place. She went into the living room, sat next to Darby, and then took out her phone.

“We have to call, Darby,” Drew said. “He’s just going to keep hurting you. Is this what you want?”

“And what if he figures out I did?” Darby looked at her, eyes watering. She shook her head. “He’ll take even more away from me.”

“No he won’t,” Drew assured her. “Because he’ll be in jail.”

The raindrops pelted the outside of the apartment, the wind screamed around them. Darby jumped. Fergus meowed and leaned against her.

“You call. I…I can’t.” Darby said, gazing at the floor.

Drew dialed the number.

“Hello. 9-1-1. This is Drew Porter, living in the Davis Apartment Complex, Room 145. I suspect my neighbor, Darby Winter, who lives in Room 146, was being beaten by a man, about 6’2, dark hair, blue eyes. Yes, she’s with me,” she said, glancing at Darby.

Darby took the phone from Drew, hands shaking. She glanced at Drew.

“Just breathe. Tell the truth,” Drew mouthed. Darby took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and spoke.

“Yes, this is Darby Winter. Yes. Samuel Reeves. Yes….he was hitting me. He threw a vase at my side. Yes. Please come quickly.”

There was banging on Drew’s apartment door. Darby jolted. A clash of thunder roared. The rain pelted the apartment so fiercely, it sounded like a warzone.

“Samuel,” she said, gripping the phone tight to her chest.

Drew pat her back. “Help’s coming. Don’t worry.”

“Darby, I know you’re in here. Come on baby, let’s just talk!” Samuel yelled.

Drew turned on the television, and turned up the volume. It still couldn’t compete with
the storm outside.

“Darby! If you’re with that cop lying again—” Samuel shouted, distraught.

Drew took the phone from Darby. “He’s outside my door. He’s getting angry. He’s
pounding on it.”

Lighting lit up the apartment room, casting a shadow of the man staring through the window by the door. Thunder bellowed once more. Rain beat down as hard as Samuel hit the door.

“Darby! If you tell them, I’ll make you never talk again!” He shouted. There was a large thud against the door, and then another. Drew crept closer to the apartment door, and looked through the peep hole. Samuel’s eyebrows were furrowed, eyes gleaming with rage. He ran up against the door, forcing his body against the door. The whole doorframe shook as the hinges squealed against the pressure. Drew jumped backwards.

“That’s it,” Samuel yelled. There was a click from out the door.

Fergus hissed from the other room.

Drew’s eyes widened she rushed into the living room. “Darby, take cover. I think he has a gun.”

“A what?” Darby squeaked and placed herself behind the soft sofa.

“Shh, it’ll be okay,” Drew said, as she plopped next to her.

There were three shots fired, a splintering sound emerged as one bullet lodged itself in the door. Another shot fired, shattering the small square window. Shards of glass scattered across the entrance way.

“I’m going to kill you!” Samuel howled just as the police sirens blared in the background.

“Police! Put your hands up,” the police officer called out.

Samuel punched the apartment door. “That woman impersonated a police officer and stole my girl from me!”

“Put your hands up.”

“She’s holding my girl captive! You don’t even care. You biased swines,” Samuel bellowed.

“Thank you for putting the gun down. You have the right to remain silent—” he said, but once a thud was heard, Samuel roared in pain. “Get off me! Get off me!” he howled.

Drew peeked one more time through the door’s peep hole. Samuel was on the pavement. He threw punches and kicked as if he was a three year old crying over losing their Halloween candy.

“Pathetic,” she spat out. “Darby, the police are fighting with him. The police almost have him under control. It’s alright.”

“Really?” Darby asked and peeked in the hole as well. “Oh my god, they’re forcing him into the police car.”

Drew glanced again. Samuel, with blood trailing down his leg and a flushed face, was shoved into the cop car. One police officer slammed the door, while the other walked closer to her apartment door.

          “Drew and Darby, he’s arrested. It’s clear; you can come out,” the police officer stated.

Drew picked up Fergus, and opened the door.

“Thank you officer,” Drew said. “You got here just in time.”

“No problem. You ladies alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, we are,” Darby said.

“Would you mind answering some questions for us?” the policeman asked.
Drew nodded.

“Of course not,” Darby said. “Where do we begin?”

The police took their statements and testimony, and eventually left, taking Samuel to the station.

The rain subsided, as the pattering on the rooftop eased into silence. The light came in through the window shades, and the clouds were forced away by the wind. Drew looked back at Darby, to find she was holding a letter in her hand.

“Drew, if you need a place to stay, there’s room in my apartment,” she offered.

Drew snatched the letter. “I-I’m fine.”

“Drew, come on. Your cat can come too. At least until you find a job,” Darby insisted. “You’re a hero to me. It’s the least I could do.”

Drew paused, glanced at the letter, then back at Darby. “Only until I get a job.”

“Alright,” Darby said, guiding her back to her apartment. Drew helped Darby scoop up the glass shards from the floor, but the room was otherwise spotless.

“Nice house,” Drew said.

“Thanks,” Darby replied, and with a pause, mentioned. “You know, I think things will get better pretty soon, after all the mess is finally past us.”

Darby flipped on the television. Today: a chance of scattered showers. The next day: Thunderstorms. The next days after that: Sunny, with a subtle breeze.

Drew smiled, “I think you’re right.”
Reporting
I have been in the worst writer's block for a very long time, and after spending a couple days pushing through it in a serious matter, I finally came up with something to show. It's 2,521 words though, so I'd say it's good progress. Lately I've been noticing a lot of modern political and social issues of our time, and thought I could take some opinions and put them into a story. It was a good way to vent, if nothing else.

Questions for discussion: 

What is your opinion on mall cops? Silly, funny, mean and discouraged about not being an actual police officer?

What is your opinion on gender discrimination? Have you ever seen anything like that at work or elsewhere? 

Why do you think people struggle to ask for help and recieve help, even when they need it most?

Cats are cute creatures, aren't they?

Questions for twr:

Is the pacing rushed?
Is the imagery inconsistent or poorly executed?
Are there any obvious errors that stood out?
Least/Most favorite part?

critique: 
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Lovely Lit Feature #4 and #5

Journal Entry: Tue Aug 26, 2014, 12:18 PM
Hello! Sorry for missing last weeks Lovely Lit Feature, as I was preparing for college and working to help pay for future expenses! As an apology, I am compiling both the prose specific Lovely Lit Feature missed last week (6 pieces of prose) and the Lovely Lit Feature scheduled this week (3 prose and poetry) into one big Tuesday Lovely Lit Feature. 

PROSE

Reasons Never to WriteYou’ll want someone exotic, and marry a Romanian. He’ll tell you to dye your hair and you’ll do it, then make chewing on its multicolored strands a habit. You’ll kiss him once and say he tastes like wine. Wine, no? he’ll say with a grin. Only gentlemen drink wine. You'll leave him because you won’t like cliches.
You’ll find a shadow behind a counter (because that’s the only way to describe him). You’ll watch him clashing silverware around in drawers like cold piles of bones, and he’ll give you a free slice of key-lime pie and say it’s the best in the state. You’ll lick up its tanginess on the prongs of your fork and decide that it’s not, but you won't pull away from his eyes that will remind you of your favorite crayon. Then he’ll look you up and down and say, another? You’ll decide to love him because anyone worth loving is worth a free slice of key-lime pie. You’ll make him kiss you even w


The PainterThe waves were still crashing, washing away the remnants of sand castles, long after the town was asleep and dreaming. Even the usual late night strollers were safely in their homes by this hour. The only movement came from the cool, salty breeze, the endless waves and a man. Just one man.
From a distance one might have assumed him to be nothing more than an unfortunate visitor's belonging left behind. He seemed but a shadow, a shapeless nothing. Upon a slightly closer inspection, one would find two things of importance: firstly, there was a rather large canvas placed immediately in front of him which was, as of yet, completely blank. Second, for a man who seemed to only be getting started with unpacking art supplies, he was covered in quite a lot of red paint.
As the wind picked up, the man continued his unpacking and then sat down, quite still. Slowly he turned his head and, it seemed, took in every detail of the silent beach. His gaze seemed to catch the waves and he stared a long w


4 Dead ChordsI’m here, with the darkness embracing me, trying to sleep. My eyes, full of tears, want to sleep, listening to those things that makes me feel bad in the middle of the night, listening to my thoughts written by other mind, but are mine. I know the reason of the sad midnight, when the sky has closed the window and no one can see the spirits, walking lonely roads.
Maybe I took another wrong way, or the wrong way took me, with a beautiful smile and deep black eyes, asking me if I was truly happy all this time without Starlight; I wasn’t, those days were wasted moments in my life. There’s nothing to see inside a womb, where you are isolated and peaceful with yourself, thinking about the day you had.
I’m drowning in memories, and cry, the droplets that my lung has.
(29/7/14)


eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages.  They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.
Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple.  Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp.  She had wondered if he thought of her this way.  
She wondered the same now.  
Her hands were not her own.  A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads.  Her mother reminded her of this when the


everything is temporaryi have never been one to yell, it hurts my throat, or maybe i just lack the passion to get that mad at something. you always did bring out things that i never knew were inside though. we had matching bloodshot eyes, and the same fuck the world attitude running through our veins as if the world owed us something. it didn't then. but it does now. my blood is thick and burning and i want to try and flood it into yours to get the colour back into your cheeks that i just watched drain. i kicked the wall, and opened the window and screamed at the sky-scrappers and i don't know how the world can just keep fucking turning without so much a skipped rotation or a fucking stutter.
you turned small, minor things into giant fucking events that made my chest even tighter. a tickle in my throat, a spreading wildfire on the nape of my neck, a distinct lack of words or feelings to anything more than a lingering heaviness. i lost count of how many times i contemplated stepping in front of that car, bus,





The Airplane CrashedYou are still alive. The most terrifying moment of your entire life just passed and you survived it. Your heart shakes in your chest. You let out a long breath to slow it down.
Your seat creaks as you shift your weight. You test your left arm. It feels sore and overworked but not tight like it was. No heart attack then. Something pinches together in your gut and your insides slosh around. You grit your teeth against the pain and test the rest of your body. Right arm works. Your neck is sore but you can turn your head. Legs don't seem to be functioning. In fact you can't feel them at all.
Somewhere behind you, amid the groaning and crying, a fire burns. You can feel the heat on the back of your skull. You lift your hand and touch your hair, which falls away in a powder. You remember the fireball that ripped up the aisle. You ducked down before it rolled over you.  
The fat man who sat beside you wakes up and immediately begins to scream bloody terror. You try to tell him that


Garden of MemoriesI remember when we used to fold paper flowers from the songs we wrote; humming along to the tunes, and tapping our feet to the beat of our hearts.  The dots always meant more than words.  
We thought we would never fall out of tune; that life's dissonance could never overpower our harmonies.  Perhaps we were always too hopeful.
You took the flowers with you when you left, but the ghosts of the songs we made never faded.  Now I tend to a garden of sound and memories, singing heartfelt melodies to myself.  I only hope the roses never wither.


Zen HumorEat the strawberries.
Like some kind of Buddhist punchline, the stinger to the ultimate cosmic joke, that line keeps ricocheting around the inside of my head: a stray karmic bullet that's expending eons of built up energy by bouncing around my skull and turning my brain to salsa.
For the past three months, I've been coming to this coffee shop or that bar like I'm working two jobs, jobs where I imbibe mood-altering chemicals and make trite observations about the world for spiritual and monetary gain.  In that time, I have smiled thrice: once when I closed my old bank account and shoved what little cash I had left into my pockets, once when my cat wagged his tail at me last week, and once when two drunk frat boys got into a fist fight over some blonde who didn't give a damn about either of them and left the bar before first blood was spilled.  Eat the strawberries.  Zen Buddhists have got a sick sense of humor, which was lost on the frat boys.  It'


POETRY

compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someone else for a day.
you make me a nametag with my
real name on it, and i just laugh.
(later i slip it beneath my mattress
and spend the night staring at the ceiling.
see, i've tried myself on one too many
times, and the fit is never right.)
-
you call me your little compulsive
liar, and i guess that is supposed
to be somewhat affectionate.
or something.
-
i spin before the mir


biopsyput me under, cover my face, stuff my lungs with your chemical lies.
if they were to take me apart,
slice open my chest,
peel back the skin keeping me whole,
they would find:
a. one heart, slowly ticking.
(they would not find anything,
but they would have to say they did.
after all, girls can't live without a heart.
they forget that i'm not the first:
a score of girls walking even though
they should have faded long ago.)
b. each rib curved so perfectly,
a shield around my lungs.
(a cage, keeping my breath from bursting
out of my skin. know that this is just me,
held together by nature,
unable to lose control of myself.)
c. two sacs of cells, nestled beside each other.
(no first-hand smoke here, no sir.
only second-hand dust, only
things i could not get rid of,
only bits of places i've been,
caught in my body.
postcards of memories i can't see.)
d. a skeleton, still and alive.
(sleeping, with blood cells being produced
in the hollows of my curves.
the rattling of my bones cannot


The Uniform Commute of a Man Seeking Work and God Corrosion set in. my tie gangly
 against the mint vintage attire
   that my children wore to school.
   momma' admitted she washed them 
 with her soaps like role models
 that bore resemblance amongst a
 plethora of troubled detergents
  set to cleanse our hamper/bin(s)
in and out -- spanning a rioter
   a race a king a hip protagonist. 
their incandescent, brash bulbs
scattering philosophical school
houses into mass requiem diners
brooding a titanium feast, cold
with tenure. Bones dropping IQs
in simultaneous expressions for
urban reliquaries now dwindling
now cursing in unison against a
system. I drove a day in search
for god (doubtful) and existent
somewhere between the imaginary
mobile ocean of South L.A, C.A-
the whole of the promised land-
cut off by the pelting pool off
erings which encouraged cowards
to commit coexistent compliance
with other convenient wheelers.
this godless soap vibrating in.
from the foun



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BlackBowfin Featured By Owner Aug 19, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Hello there.  Thank you kindly for faving Poor Wooden Puppy.  It's much appreciated.  Have a good one!  :)
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juhku Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2014  Professional Photographer
Thanks for the :+fav: :)
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Hello! :wave:

On behalf of ProjectComment, I would like to welcome you to our group! Some of the things we have that you may not know are:
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Delta-13 Featured By Owner Aug 16, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for taking the time to, not only read my work, but to comment on so many of my pieces. They were very lovely and very helpful. They really made my day and helped encourage me after a crappy week. So thank you. ^_^
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No problem! I love helping out fellow writers. I try to comment on as much stuff as I can, because I know how much people appreciate them. I'm really happy I made your day. :heart:
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:hug: You are so awesome.
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:blush: Thank you so much. It means so much coming from you. :heart:
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:hug: Awww, you're welcome. I mean it. <3
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Thank you very much for the +fav on my portrait of Robin Williams. I'm glad you liked the piece. :)
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