I apologize for the lack of prompts--bugger deadlines and all their progeny. Let's get back on track:
Write a poem or short (less than 500 words) fiction piece which uses imagery or a setting/character derived from the history of the Catholic Church--saints, transubstantiation, relics, whatever you like. If you aren't familiar with Catholicism, particularly, this is a good resource:
This isn't a religious prompt, just a challenge to use the imagery of a specific tradition. Have fun!
A part time job, Scheduled in for odd hours with minimum wage dedication. From Wednesdays, three thirty to five fifteen. Tuesdays from ten to one thirty. Something slid in between lunch and other activities.
He used her up the way people do punch cards, one coffee drink at a time, or a meal embarked upon without relish or hunger: left soggy by the wayside on the sidelines of a plate. When he departed, the god left the temple of her adoration and she was left, gathering up her underwear and scraping it off into the laundry bin, all her tasty bits consumed.
She wished she were daintier, like a pastry or a minute, something consumed in one sitting or given away just once. Her body in the mirror was the sort to be mounted on a ship and admired or turned around and around all night in his arms as if he were fashioning her waist by wearing her out with touches. There was no sugar to her breasts, no sugar to her thighs and waist, her sex smelled musky and her breasts had the perfume of warm, baked summer smell wafting off her skin.
She envied the young virgin, auto-sodomized by her own chastity. Better left dry and violated than to be as she was: a woman only partially penetrated, the love act just short of orgasm, a love affair truncated by the limits of a bus schedule, forgotten never but only partially accounted for. She was saturated like cakes in honey with the bitterness of indifference.
I'm so pleased you have all participated so fully--let's try to comment a little more, though I understand that there was quite a deluge of posts. I was overwhelmed myself.
Time for Prompt #2! We''ll keep this to a week, I think. I'm feeling a little funky, so...
Write a poem or prose piece which includes somehow the following line (which happens to be the title of a famous painting):
Young Virgin Auto-Sodomized by Her Own Chastity
I didn't put up this piece because I thought most of you would have seen it on darkest_peru , but it's my suicide response, so I'll put it under the cut in case you have. I tried to write something entirely else about my one suicide attempt in the voice of my fifteen year old self, but I got bored, because fifteen is kind of a crappy mental age to be. So there is this, which is short, but I think there might be a nascent poem in there somewhere.
( Collapse )
Heathen Temptress! Dancing naked on the periphery, promising him silver and gold and warm breasts. Your circean lips beckon him, to a land of green, green grass and a soft downy pillow, monogrammed hanker chiefs and a place to belong. Such an elite group, every one’s dying to get in.
I would hold him here if not for your charisma. You charm and disarm and how can I argue with your gold gilded words so carefully chosen, weighted just so. You beckon him with smouldering eyes and a peek of your exposed slender neck, revealing nothing but his own dark desires. You beguile him with jewels from your open thighs, freshly bled rubies and garnets of dried blood.
I cannot compete.
I have nothing to offer, only a worn and damaged heart and a tattered ragged soul. No garnets or rubies fall from my cunt. Honey does not drip from my lips. I cannot promise him oblivion.
You steal him from me in the twitching of a hangman’s noose and I am left with a full bottle of pills and my blurred reflection in a tear streaked blade. Your name sticks sharp in my throat, shredding it’s walls as I scream your name.
"Infidelic bitch how dare you take him from me! "
And if I were not a coward,
If I were braver,
I would join your conga line and dance to your tune
I would follow him, if I could; but I could not, would not die for you.
Yes, yes, Montparnasse is the center of the world, my love and here I am, no longer in the sidelines, but living. Living in a way that would make the most seasoned existentialists salivate. I refuse to sit and stare at the splendor without living it. No, no, to write we must live. And I live, I do not exist, I live all the while letting my eyes feast like the best of voyeurs. I am like a newborn in this world, lifeted from the confines of a reality that was previously not my own. Paris, my love, I am inspired!
It is no wonder people like us are so attracted to this madness of a city. Paris is indeed a feast, indeed a stage where all the best actors congregate. Paris is the cradle where we rear all the drama, all the stories we need in order to be prolific when we sit in the semi-darkness at the mercy of our typewriters, typing long into the night. Paris, Paris. I love Paris in the springtime--Paris!
Place of dreams, let me spin in circles and circles. I am June, but I have stolen Henry's tongue and this is his madness spilling out of me. I will tell you how I did it, too, but it is our rose-guarded secret, Paris of my dreams, between you and I and our cigarette smoke, Paris as the sky turns pink with rich texture loneliness.
I took Henry inside me, still smelling of his whores and all their stories told and untold, and his hunger. His hunger of titans crawling inside me deeper and deeper until I could not breathe, the weight of the world was so heavy on my ribcage. He filled me with his essence, exploded in burning pulsating thrusts into my risen Venus heart so I was full again, full of him and New York was a wide sea behind me.
Now I possess his words and madness entirely, and he is empty. I spill forth his words and stories and insanity the way my body spilled his seed from my belly and down my tights in its sticky whiteness that dried and splintered until nothing remained but his scent and his voice.
Still, we are one, Paris, and nothing will come between us.