Writers_Slam (original) (raw)

| | I left for school because I felt like my home had somehow betrayed me. They were hypocrites and could not love like I could; so I left them. _“You think you are special, but you are nothing other than selfish.”_After a lonely year of school I had to turn my back on music. Music is so personal and fragile; I felt that at any moment I could break just like a reed that has been played on for too long. You are never good enough in the world of music and there is always someone listening and checking that you are always in tune. I was out of tune and my fingers began to hurt and I could not catch my breath. So I left._“If you don’t have the passion then you should just leave.”_I had no direction for some time. I talked to friends and teachers and mentors and acquaintances and everyone and anyone that would listen and have an opinion. But they were no help. Someone was always better and was going down a path that I couldn’t see myself on so I had to leave them. I could not commit to anyone or anything for the fear of losing the little I had left. _“I will never let anyone ever break my heart the way you did again.”_So I turned to what I had left. I turned inside out and started writing. The worn leather bound pages my mother had given me for Christmas filled quickly. I must have appreciated the anonymity and the characterization of it all. The mask I wore in writing was quick witted and interesting and while I could not write my name down on the byline, the thought of me became famous. The chief would call for more and more, but suddenly the ink flow slowed until it completely became dry. _“I don’t care about anything else you write, I need more Pioneer Man.”_There was nothing left to say, nothing to talk about. The music had stop being played, the people’s opinions were long gone down their respected paths, and home was still to raw a memory to think of. I sat down at my computer, alone, and began to write alone in the dark. The tip-tap and click-clack of the keyboard is the only music I hear now and the only love I get is from the characters that I bring to life._“He never moves…he just sits and listens.”_Location:Denton, TXMood:calm I'm new to this community but I'm really excited about the compulsory participation because I think giving and receiving critique is essential to the writing process. I've been tossing this piece around for a while and it's getting better but is still a bit flat. The party was over. My mom of course was driving. I just stared out of the window trying to make myself scarce. We had tried to leave Alexia's house millions of times, but my dad always gave the excuse that he had just poured another drink. I think whiskey and water was his choice tonight, but it might've been scotch. Whatever. He turned up the radio and every song seemed appropriate for the occasion. 'What's Love Got to Do With It?" came on. I wondered what my mom was thinking. Did she see the symbolism in the songs that kept on playing? Both my parents are good people and they are lucky in many ways. I don't mean to sound conceited or arrogant, but they hit the jackpot with my sisters and me. We are some of the best kids anyone could ever wish for. We're smart, independent, and all that good shit. My dad does very literal, practical, things that are very good for all of us. He pays for things when he himself is broke. He fixes stuff and does dad things. My mom does all of the dumb, necessary stuff. The emotional stuff. The talking and worrying and wronging and righting stuff. It isn't really necessary but it's a great big help. We all know my dad has a drinking problem though. An argument broke out in the car. They were fighting over going to college during the winter break. My father didn't believe it was possible, but my mom insisted by saying that my sister was tutoring at the college and so some people must be going. It was probably one of the most stupidest things you could ever fight over...ever. My mom could never just shut up and drive. It always had to be something or the other. You would think with a drunk husband in the passenger seat she would, but nope. Even I know not to argue with a drunk person. In the saddest way, she brings it upon herself. When we get home I realize that this christmas night was the exact same as last year. Same christmas party, same drunk father, and same sad mother. I will never forget what my mom told me that night... "I'm sorry your father embarrassed you." And she walked off silently crying to her room. It was about the saddest thing I have ever heard in my life. And SHE is the one sorry. 'Tis the season.Location:Laredo, TXMood:calm So I'm a noob here, but my other writing community was getting pretty lame so I was hoping this one was...better? Whatever. I have to warn you I am a HUGE teen novel nerd so whatever. This is called Ten Percent, but it's not done. ( Read more...Collapse ) I really dislike this, but i need a few more opinions. Control is the only thing that matters now. She’s lost her emotions to bi-polar but she still has her weight. Lilith felt so good to hurt. Walking down the street the sun is shining and she looks into a window for a moment and smiles. The girl in the window is beautiful; she is tall and frail her hair is thin and her body looks as if it will snap. Lilith vaguely recognizes this girl, though she rarely see’s her. The wind catches her skirt and she twist for a moment, when her eyes return to her reflection and she frowns.This time she completely recognizes the girl in the window. Her eyelids are heavy—they probably account for the weight she can’t seam to lose—and her fingers are massive. Lilith does not know which girl she is. Her stomach growls and it starts to rain, she shakes uncontrollably as she climbs onto the bus. Her day pass is almost over and its time to go home. As she walks through the automatic doors she smells the antiseptic. Lilith prepares herself then walks through the corridor one more time. Hello there, I'm new. Enjoy. :) Criticisms welcome.Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand.I sat in the middle of it, on the sand, furiously drawing stick figures with my fingers; the friction burning my fingertips so much they hurt.I thought about Anna, about how much I wanted her, needed her, thinking so hard that it brought tears to my eyes; tears that squeezed out from the corner of my eyes like two hard drops, staining my cheeks and halting right there in the middle of them.The stick figures on the sand grew more incomprehensible as I drew on. With each stroke, male turned into female, decapitated and then alive, threatening to jump out of the sandy tableau and consume, main, destroy.Like how the thought of Anna was eating me whole.I stood up and surveyed my surroundings, involuntarily looking down and examining my work of art. I grimaced - the stick figures looked like a whole mess of - of what? - from above, making no sense and then simultaneously forming into the image of Anna, lovely Anna.I rubbed my eyes and looked again, and then Anna was gone.Like how she never really existed in the first place.All right, the game is over, I thought, as the desperate need for water penetrated my thoughts, my parched lips feeling like dried cement with each passing second.I kicked the stick figure images on the sand, rubbing my soles against the sand, over and over, over and over, until the last remnants of whatever was to be seen in that sandy tableau became a whole mess of nothing.And then, there again, was the image of Anna, lovely Anna.Everywhere I looked, there was sand. For miles and miles around me, there was sand. hmm.. don't know how to cut and what not so here it is......Mother is five miles away, slowing down to bump my car like earrings bump pale necks. I’m wearing a leotard over holiday chunk, ballet slippers tied around weak ankles with pink ribbons stolen from her sewing kit. Speeding up, she smiles as ribbons drop, dissolve into the carpet like lemon drops on tongues.Four miles away. I drink cola, recovering from last month’s carb-watching, sugar-control, protein-plus fasting. She exhales as I pull Chicago Park District over my shoulders, run with ambition generically enhanced.Three miles away. I’m down to bones and a heartbeat. She stands in the blueberry cotton candy colored dressing room, listening to my negative sizes snap like boys snap girl’s bra straps in plastic safety playgrounds.Two miles away from where she needs to be, where she needs me to be, but I’m closer by waist bust hip measurements, and she loves me because she can count my bumps, my deflated curves like evenly distributed trophies.Three miles away and I’m blasting off every bowl coated in green crunch cereal, coated in C12, H30, O23, coated in 3500 extra calories per mile. She’s gaining ground, gaining momentum as skin stretches over old territory.Four miles away. I jump on the expressway but get lost in growing numbers. Pants held tightly to my ship wrecked body. Shirts can’t hide extra chip, extra spoonful, extra everything.One mile away. The air over radio play is like childhood, like holiday, like every episode I’ve missed because she’s been miles gone. I count footsteps, count heart rate, count five pound arm curls, forty-five pound bench presses. She can see my hip bones, my veins, and can see where she needs to be, where she needs me to be. I’ll save the transfat, the carbohydrates, until tomorrow, until the next day, until our miles match up like headlights staring at the 1997 Ford a mile away. 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