Yellow Houses Sounds So Good 👀

I’m back, and currently drafting the final chapter of Project A.M.

PLEASE, I can’t wait to start draft two and whip this project into shape. But I always rush endings. Perhaps I should slow down and savour this first draft.

These all sound amazing and I'm in loveeee with the titles you chose :ooo

So let’s talk about poems | Poetry Update #2

Hello!! I have successfully finished (1) semester in a poetry stream and am officially calling myself a ~poet, so let’s chat about some of the poems I’ve written recently! TW: A lot of my poems deal with difficult subject matter, such as suicide, animal abuse, death, sexism, murder, and captivity, so please tread with caution if these are sensitive topics for you.

1. the birds

About: After a woman’s suicide, birds flood from her neck.

I wrote this poem for a class, where our prof gave us 20 different prompts, and each line of the poem had to follow each prompt. In that order. You can read the prompts HERE if you’re so inclined to actually do this! This poem was originally called “Blessing of the Bird”, but in revisions, got knocked down to “the birds”. I actually prefer the original for its imagery, but it overall, was a horrific poem lol, and this version is certainly much better! It is a bit quirkier than the original, but I do like it!

Publication status: Currently seeking

2. TRANSCRIPT: orca’s coffin birth kills a man (2002)

About: An orca whale posthumously testifies on a recorded transcript, defending her innocence in the accidental killing of a man after she gave a coffin birth.

I also wrote this for my poetry class, and I really went wild on the concept! This poem arose quite bizarrely, but it is probably my favourite poem I’ve written to date. It is an incredibly sad, and I would say, disturbing poem, but it was fascinating writing a speaker who can’t possibly exist, but who feels so real at the same time. This poem was difficult because of the content, but I wrote it quickly because I was on a deadline. I think this poem has some of my favourite line breaks from my collection of work.

Publication status: Currently seeking

3. the drive-up microphone at burger king

About: A group of friends orders food at an underwater Burger King drive-thru with the body of a person they’ve (sort of?) murdered in the backseat.

This poem is so weird. :) I don’t even know what this poem is, but I love it. :) I wrote this in a night for a magazine’s very fast approaching deadline. I’m so happy I had that opportunity because this poem was born, and it’s so delightfully strange. I can’t wait for everyone to be able to read it!

Publication status: This poem is forthcoming in the next issue of carte blanche (I am SO excited and grateful)! Will post on here when it drops.

4. my body in the mirror of a gas station water bottle

About: A speaker watches her body in the reflection of a gas station mirror as it is scrutinized by men.

I started this poem back in July but didn’t finish it until November or so. It’s more lyrical in style, which is interesting to compare to my other work!

Publication status: Currently seeking

5. The last time I screamed I said water

About: A woman is held captive and bonds with her captor by eating salt.

I wrote this poem in 5-minutes in a desperate break from a really… boring take-home exam lol. It’s obviously very dark in content, but focuses really on this “salt ritual”, and is actually the name of the chapbook I am working on! This chapbook contains all of the poems I’ve written recently, including ones that have been published (at Grain and Augur ! <3) which means it’s very chaotic and varied but that’s how I roll! This poem actually stemmed from the title, which I’d had lying around in a document for a few weeks, and easily materialized from there!

6. we drink.

About: Champagne, the patriarchy, some murder & cannibalism vibes

I truly don’t know what this poem is about! But I wrote it tonight in 5-minute fashion like I apparently now do with poems! :) I actually really like it and wish I could explain what it is actually about but I :) do not know :) ! It’s very short, my shortest poem yet, but I really love her! Definitely works particularly with “the last time I screamed” !

Publication status: Currently seeking

That’s it for this update! When I write more poems, I will be back!

–Rachel

Old books kind of ruined me for that. Cue me staring at my own three paragraph run on sentence while editing and not even understanding it

i love reading old books because they invent such ways to create a long ass sentence

I love this pov!! :oo Please add me to your taglist???

I N T R O D U C I N G: 996 CATHERINE CLOSE. this is a story about a house, which is to say my story, which is to say a story with walls, and doors, and people passing through them. they go and they do not stay. this seems unfair, at least to me. does it seem unfair to you?

GENRE: a ghost story minus ghosts. POV: mostly first person and some third person sections. THEMES: homes as monsters, memory, preservation and loss, good and bad families, letting go, holding on, abandonment, every house is haunted. CONTENT WARNING: abuse, mental illness, some horror elements.

All I could do was watch. 

My voice was too low. I could barely even sing to myself, the walls creaking and shuddering the tiniest bit when I tried to create voice. Jonathan had built me too well. I fit together like one of those puzzle sets, all the edges aligned perfectly, no room for air to whistle through holes and for me to rattle the walls like percussion. I could whisper. I would soften the sounds of my floorboards when Marie was bedridden with one of her headaches, her body turned away from the light streaming through the windows. I couldn’t dim that light. But I could make everything around a little quieter and a little less. She was always dearer to me than Jonathan, so I did more for her.

There were many things I couldn’t do. I couldn’t scrub my floors for her. I couldn’t remove the tiny shards of glass stuck in lines of grout that she painstakingly scoured the kitchen floor for, on her hands and knees, wincing when her palm dragged across one that she hadn’t seen. I couldn’t stitch my walls back together where Jonathan’s fist had opened holes. I couldn’t save Marie.

I’m sorry. This isn’t a tragedy like that.

I have a flair for the dramatic now, from the stories that I’ve heard throughout the years. I have always been an eavesdropper, ever since I was born. But I used to tell things better. So allow me my confusion, and I will correct it. They didn’t die here. They simply left. Only one person has died here, and if they remained as a ghost, then it is not as one that I have ever personally known. When I say that I am haunted, I mean that I am haunting myself. I asked for them to stay, and they did not, but the images do. 

I can hold onto those forever.

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We're all stuck in the perpetual hell of creating wips and then never writing them

June 3, 1938 Virginia Woolf, “A Writer’s Diary” (1918 - 1941) originally published: 1953

TO EVERYONE SAYING THEY'RE INSECURE ABOUT THEIR WRITTING:

I've been seeing a lot of people reposting their insecure about their writting and its really sad because ik for a FACT most of you write BEAUTIFULLY. So I just wanted to send some motivation because writting is hard, and writers deserve love. You guys are literally creating ENTIRE REALITIES with your imaginations . Wether it be fan ficts, short story writers, etc., You are giving us a key into experiencing the world from a different perspective. Your craft is an escape, your craft is inspiring. Its always good to want to be better, but please appreciate the work you're doing RIGHT NOW. It may not seem like much, but your stories are so much more than just words in a page. Its the adventure we never experienced, its the worlds we never got to see. Writers please, whatever you write, I want to assure you today it IS good enough. Because you bled your thoughts into the page, because you were brave enough to create. Writting doesnt have to be perfect, for perfection is nothing but a myth, writting just needs to exist. Insecurity is normal but let me tell you today, your writting is worth it, your ideas are worth it, your work is worth it.

Writers, keep your heads high, continue to poor your soul into your words and know you never have to punish yourself for creating

Much love for all of you

I wrote this short story a while ago, intending to submit it to some magazines, leaving it to decay chill until I had time off from uni to edit it. Currently busy af w *shiny* new novel, but  I wanted to share some of it on here to motivate me to work on it. Alors,,,,,,

genre: spooky lit-fic logline: Trudging through the barren Arizona desert after a night out partying, a group of friends come across a cupcake shop owned by a creepy old lady and her cannibal husband.  TW: drug use, dead rats, disturbing cupcake ingredients, murdery elderly people.

   The slope was 90 degrees and we were rock climbing, harnessed to a frayed string that tugged our shoulders. Desert on all sides, not a single car. One cactus, ten yards away, frilled with spines. When a café tiled with orange bricks sprouted above us, we first mistook it as a mirage. The sign read Cupcake Shoppe and assured us they were sustainably sourced and organic—probably made using soy milk or that green powder Julie mixed into milk with a golden spoon. I tried it once; it tasted like marbles.

So I edited another chapter of my wip that burned the heart out of me. Decided to do some sketches this morning of a cafe in Project Istanbul, some tea and mosaics. It was kinda therapeutic.

SPACEMAN SPACEMAN WHAT DO YOU PLAN ON DOING NOW?

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