Wallace fidgeted with the buttons of the—the blazer or jacket or whatever he’s wearing at the moment. Humans were weird. Why was it so necessary to have so many different pieces of fabric with different names, to cover themselves? Confusing stuff. Either way, he appreciated Charmaine’s detail at getting (stealing) this suit for him. Even if stealing was a bad thing to do, Wallace had given up on telling her what not to do; it’s stressful and pointless and Wallace was sure he’d already gotten grey hair from it. The cat didn’t have any sense of morals—or legality, unfortunately.
As he waited, he rethought his appearance. He had done his best to shave most of his beard and his suit was clean—if not a bit tight. Things he had to work with.
Kyle | 18 ✗ N/A ✗ N/A ✗ Kitten Hybrid | FC: Michael Fjordbak
NICKNAME(S) Kit / DATE OF BIRTH September 2 / RELIGION What / SEXUALITY Pansexual Panromantic / JUNG ISFJ / ENNEAGRAM Type 2w1 SX/SO / MORAL ALIGNMENT Neutral Good / ELEMENT Water / ANIMAL Cardinal / SIN Greed / VIRTUE Kindness / TITLE The Eager
Wallace | 25 ✗ ? ✗ Cashier ✗ Wolf Hybrid | FC: Juan Betancourt
NICKNAME(S) Wally / DATE OF BIRTH April 20 / RELIGION What / SEXUALITY Demisexual / JUNG ESTJ / ENNEAGRAM Type 1w2 SP/SX / MORAL ALIGNMENT Lawful Good and Lawful Neutral / ELEMENT Fire / ANIMAL Grey Wolf / SIN Wrath / VIRTUE Diligence / TITLE The Animal
Fire’s crawling up the windows,
slowly caging finger-tipped lust.
Then, your pulse beats against my lips. Then
I get lost in the small dips of your back,
or in the smoke clouds trying to swallow us whole.
(And it’s okay, really.
Except we’ll consume each other first.)
"Just an afterthought that came to mind: why
Once the school day’s given its last breath,
No children go play at the park?
"A word on the asphalt whispered
That there’s been a bad man, and
Hell set him loose. His breath is
A parasite reeking of scotch.
(His hands are dirty and mean,
His eyes evil and green). So
Now kids are afraid to leave home.”
Day 1- Write a poem where each line starts with a letter from your first name (an acrostic). It can be about anything, but it should not be about you or your name.
Day 2- Who was the last person you texted? Write a five line poem to that person.
Day 3- Find the nearest book (of any kind). Turn to page 8. Use the first ten full words on the page in a poem. You may use them in any order, anywhere in the poem.
Day 4- Write a haiku. They’re often about nature, but yours can be about anything.
Day 5- Write a three line poem about lemons without using the following words: lemon, yellow, round, fruit, citrus, tart, juicy, peel, and sour.
Day 6- Write a poem of any length incorporating every word from your latest Facebook status.
Day 7- Take a walk until you find a tree you identify with, then write a poem using the tree as a metaphor for yourself or your life.
Day 8- Write a cinquain on a topic of your choice.
Day 9- Quickly jot down four verbs, four adjectives, and four nouns. Write a poem using all 12 words.
Day 10- Pick a one line song lyric to serve as an epigraph to your poem. Then, write the poem to accompany it.
Day 11- Write a list poem.
Day 12- Tell your life story in 6 words.
Day 13- Write a short poem that a child would like.
Day 14- Write a bad poem, make it as lousy as you can, do everything wrong, let yourself be awful.
Day 15- Post a poem (written by someone else) that you love (for any reason).
Day 16- Respond to the poem you posted yesterday with a poem of your own.
Day 17- Write a poem that employs a rhyme scheme.
Day 18- Write a poem without any end rhyme, only internal rhyme.
Day 19- Imagine yourself doing any household task/chore, then write a poem using what you’ve imagined as an extended metaphor for writing.
Day 20- Write a narrative poem detailing a specific childhood memory.
Day 21- Choose one of the poems you’ve already written and posted as part of this challenge and re-order it in some way. You could rearrange the lines or stanzas or even words in a line. Think of it as a puzzle!
Day 22- What is the first car you bought/drove/remember? Write a poem about it.
Day 23- Write a seven line poem that begins with “it’s true that fresh air is good for the body” (from Frank O’Hara’s poem “Ave Maria”) and ends with “this is our body” (from Gary Snyder’s “The Bath”).
Day 24- Write a poem that’s different in some way from anything you’ve ever written. Take a chance! Be wild!
Day 25- Write a poem that includes all of the following words: pistachio, ink, pebble, weather, varnish.
Day 26- Gather some magazines/catalogs you don’t mind cutting up and spend ten minutes flipping through them looking for words/sentences that spark your interest. Cut out the words as you go, and (at the end of the ten minutes) arrange the words to form a cut-out poem.
Day 27- Begin with the title “The Poem I’d Never Write.” Then, write that poem.
Day 28- Visit a virtual art gallery and look around until you find a piece that intrigues you. Write a poem inspired by the artwork.
Day 29- Briefly research a poetic form of your choice and write a poem according to the rules of that particular form.
Day 30- Write a poem employing extended metaphor to illustrate the experience of the last thirty days.
In the heart (Americana) (1/?)
The sky was a battlefield between the colors it had always been and the ones it longed to become. Clouds settled as simple spectators, melding with the rest of the space; the bastards were picking sides, putting bets on the to-be-chosen winner. On the ground there were the flowers, the red-blue-white flags, and the truck stop accompanied by the (quite lovely) trailer park, the small red office, the diner with the big-white-lettered sign. They were all in harmony with the endless road, a straight once-black-as-the-night line of asphalt that got lost right along where Lauren’s vision started slacking.
So the sky was a battlefield and Lauren could only wait and see how the remains turned out, whilst alone—not alone, not really. She had the flowers, the ever-present sound of a coming truck or car, and right then, the company of a lady whose shift at the diner had reached a small break.
Meg, as her name-tag announced, had offered her bacon and eggs, perhaps because of the sight of a lonely woman exploring the stop, sitting at the bar and asking for a glass of water, as that was the only thing she could afford. Lauren refused at first, in turn Meg insisted, and as a reward she got Lauren to eat, a grateful smile twitching her lips upwards when she was finished.
'Breakfast's on the house'; it was the nicest thing she’d gotten in quite a long time.
Meg was sitting next to Lauren by the diner’s entrance, not talking but looking, at the battlefield, the road, the gum-wrappers losing their bright colors thanks to the merciless time. Comments were shared after a while, a question emerged—a question Lauren was used to the way she was used to breathing.
"Aren’t you afraid?" Meg’s green eyes were open with bubbly, loud curiosity. She looked genuinely concerned, which Lauren appreciated, really—but, she had the answer already prepared. Perks of having been asked more times than what she could count with her fingers.
"I’m not." Shrugging, Lauren gave her half a smile. "I’ve been doing it for a while. I think it’s a family thing not to be afraid of doing reckless stuff."
Charles, Peter, Jacob, Margaret, Carrie, Elizabeth; more names came to mind, names than went around the family’s history. There were probably more. People too far away, women that had changed their last names and were lost track of. It was a running joke that there was Derane people everywhere. That Derane members were like gum-wrappers, dragged away by everything, or rabbits, because they liked to fuck a lot.
It’s a funny metaphor, and Lauren considered explaining it to Meg, but she was gone. Lauren checked her practically-empty backpack once more; a couple bucks, coins, a bottle of water, a toothbrush, a jackknife, spare clean underwear—something was missing. Lauren frowned and checked again. Her extra shirt and jeans were gone. That’s all she had to get by until the next truck stop. She was at the interstate’s dubious mercy, had to leave soon, and had been robbed.
Luck and life were funny too; they gave you something you needed then took away what you already had.
"Are you sure it’s a family thing and not a you thing?” Meg’s voice made Lauren straighten up quickly, glancing at the woman that approached her with a few nameless things on her hands. More charity? Lauren raised an eyebrow. When it came to the question, though, she couldn’t answer. Yeah, of course she had things to bring to the table. For once, she wasn’t a hermit, like Charles, or an enthusiast, like Peter. What was Meg hinting at? Lauren didn’t know so no answer was provided, and Meg ended up leaving something in her hands.
The clean, nice-smelling fabric was a surprise. It was her shirt and her jeans, but different—the ones she had in her backpack were slightly dirt-covered. She looked up at Megan, both eyebrows raised, mouth speechless.
"I just wanted to help out a little." Meg said, mimicking Lauren’s languid shrug and smile from earlier. "Sorry I took them without permission. You had fallen asleep by the stop, anyone could have robbed you and—"
"Thank you." Lauren surprised Meg, and herself, when she threw her arms at the woman she knew nothing of and hugged her. A stranger, but a stranger that had been kind enough to help her in such a selfless way. Very few people offered that, much less Derane’s. She wasn’t used to what solidarity was like.
"C’mon, go. It’s eight o’ clock. The truck-drivers must have finished smoking by now."
There’s a small flicker of the lights every few minutes or so; it’s the first thing Peter notices, sitting across the table, observing how Leighton cooks and mostly ignores him—which is fine, for Peter is used to being ignored, specially in a city like this, where people is partly actually not people, partly sometimes just lonely. Leighton fits into the latter criteria better (until proven otherwise). The man also glances at Peter constantly. Perhaps Leighton thinks Peter will flicker too, or destroy something. Casually so, it matches with the times the lights briefly fail.
Peter is used to being ignored, but he’s also used to ignoring the fact. He amuses himself fumbling with his jacket, thinking of all the things his mind normally thinks—outside the morning light gleams and the translucent (translucent; the dirt took away its transparent quality) window on Leighton’s kitchenette hints it. The main color is a strong gray, around the room, on Leigh’s clothes—that doesn’t tell him anything. Maybe Leighton enjoys the color gray, which is, obviously, an incredibly subjective preference—or a lack thereof. Peter’s wardrobe, while not colorful, still stands out. “Do you drink coffee? You seem like you do.”
The question dies unanswered, but Leighton serves the pancakes for both of them in silence, and the kettle in his right hand is enough for him to know. That’s about all confirmation he needs. Leighton’s wary eyes are still on him, and Peter smiles at it, as if to soothe the man’s concerns, some would say. But Peter just feels like smiling, and the pancakes are actually thoughtful.
"Oh." Oh. Peter fumbles to search into his backpack, pulling out a small white cup. “For you.” The coffee mug, white save for the chemical estructure of caffeine, and its nomenclature, gets a stare from Leighton. He doubtfully takes it in his hands and Peter flashes a grin, stuffing pancakes into his mouth.