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Literature Text
Her mother was a poet, a well-read woman who recited beautifully despite the fact that she could never remember the writers' names. And her daughter was a musician. She claimed not to sing, not to play, but she did both in secret. Norman had heard her. Not that he had to, because she spoke in staccato and walked in legato and her artistic affiliations were obvious.
She missed her home country. That was obvious, too. She hated her mother and her new father, she hated regime and she hated anarchy. With hazel eyes and brown hair, she looked fairly unassuming, but she had a tongue like a whip. Sheltered and condescending, with a no-nonsense attitude, she dashed through the halls and left nothing in her haste. She spoke with words like justice and freedom and vacancy, hands flying around her, jittery. Sometimes she watched the stars outside despite not being able to name them all.
Her mother was different. She smoked cigars on the balcony, white smoke cutting the sky above her before disappearing. She spoke with a hunched back and a wary voice, and she walked with a self-disapproving manner. Norman had heard her speak to herself, or perhaps to the world, about how useless she was and how there was nothing she ever achieved. But she never did anything about it, simply hunched, bird-like, in the darkened corners of the manor. And although she was very much alive, she was already hanging from the ceiling with a rope around her neck.
Norman himself knew only that about the two women. Mother and daughter, poet and musician, one was the other without her flaws. They were both warriors, or they had been, and they were both royalty, or they had been. Paradoxes humanised, they spoke of passion as though it were a dead thing. But Norman could see it in their eyes as they listened to oration after oration about this country's pillars of faith and how they were pockmarked and scabbed and war-torn. The daughter longed to tear them down, and the mother yearned for a brighter future, but they were both the same thing at the end.
She missed her home country. That was obvious, too. She hated her mother and her new father, she hated regime and she hated anarchy. With hazel eyes and brown hair, she looked fairly unassuming, but she had a tongue like a whip. Sheltered and condescending, with a no-nonsense attitude, she dashed through the halls and left nothing in her haste. She spoke with words like justice and freedom and vacancy, hands flying around her, jittery. Sometimes she watched the stars outside despite not being able to name them all.
Her mother was different. She smoked cigars on the balcony, white smoke cutting the sky above her before disappearing. She spoke with a hunched back and a wary voice, and she walked with a self-disapproving manner. Norman had heard her speak to herself, or perhaps to the world, about how useless she was and how there was nothing she ever achieved. But she never did anything about it, simply hunched, bird-like, in the darkened corners of the manor. And although she was very much alive, she was already hanging from the ceiling with a rope around her neck.
Norman himself knew only that about the two women. Mother and daughter, poet and musician, one was the other without her flaws. They were both warriors, or they had been, and they were both royalty, or they had been. Paradoxes humanised, they spoke of passion as though it were a dead thing. But Norman could see it in their eyes as they listened to oration after oration about this country's pillars of faith and how they were pockmarked and scabbed and war-torn. The daughter longed to tear them down, and the mother yearned for a brighter future, but they were both the same thing at the end.
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Literature
Nocte
Hiding from the beast,
From tree to tree,
Running in the dark,
I tell myself such things,
Slow- so it won't find you,
Breath.
These fires have scorched far and wide,
Leaving the scent of my former cinders to linger in my head,
Like some bad bender,
Warped memories encircling grey,
The ground is made of shattered glass,
Broken dreams.
No lilies remain,
To any kingdom I run,
In mirrors of liquid glass,
Surrealist battles are won,
And like fear,
The spider crawled from my mouth.
They are sedating everything,
Brush pixilated,
Focus changing,
Leaving me to run in the dark,
Caught in the eye of the storm,
Hiding in the calm.
Literature
on the cusp
it is just that when i let go of you
when i let go
it's hard to remain that perfect without you.
--
the in-between of love, buds- so full of potential
our love is written in whispers on the pages
of a book which has not yet been opened.
--
that day, the sun had erased the last lines
of an unforgiving winter from my skin, i was renewed
olive skinned and feeling as if i had just fled the eternal
garden naked as i came- free, fallen.
--
the sky was dark;
nothing but the blood red smile of the moon
cut through the transient darkness of the night.
Literature
Pennies
im that kid that you see as naive
you don't need me
you're free
but you want me to be
there for you if you want to
and what do i get
hundred reasons
and you don't even sweat
on the big things the stories
i'm raging and roaring
you're whoring yourself out again
and its boring
i'm boring a hole to the life you uphold
got a role
so i'll play it but this game i'm saying
its over
i don't need your silence
its over
one more reason i'm writing
its over
show me a feeling
or i'm right
its over
not gonna roll
its a no go
its over
i got a feeling you'll give up
its over
not gonna get with this get up
its over
show me you're reeling
you're no
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A short experimental character sketch, done at writing camp (with a focus on characterisation and visual metaphor). I don't want too much critique on this specific piece, but feel free to give me any as long as it relates to my writing in general and not the specific characters.
EDIT: Thank you so much for the DLD!
EDIT: Thank you so much for the DLD!
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Comments15
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this is very beautifully written. i fell in love with your metaphors.