Fifteen.

Fifteen.
[click image to visit artist's website.]

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

suckers (rewritten).

oh your beauty.
it shimmers amongst
the crystal waves.
sparkling like silver
upon the moistened sand.

You call me in and
use my permanent
obsession for plunder,
to bring me ashore.
into your treasured arms.

I felt the discrepancy
in value. Unreal was the
smile i found mapped upon
your face.

Fools Gold.

But yet,
I still felt wealthy.

Cause at that moment,
I traded my soul with
him beneath.
I exchanged my breath
for laughter.

the flowing blood boils
as I soak in your warmth.

it's comforting...

those who sailed the seas
before I, warned me
of your voice.

but I accept the turmoil
to listen to your song,

the melody of the siren.

memory

i sit here


alone


on the edge of the bed (i shared with you)


eyes closed


my own fingers


sliding
down
my own flesh


the back of my neck


the soft places where you used to touch


reminding me


of your now unfamiliar touch











my fingers stop


and it's like you are here again


your scent fills my lungs


i swear


i can feel your breath


raising bumps on the backs of my arms


but then


just as you appeared


you are gone


and it's like the first time i said goodbye


all over again











i don't even remember what you look like

Fourteen

I am honestly, a little disappointed with all of my authors right now. It's hard to have an active community when there is only one [maybe two] posts per photo. I switched to a two week at the request of your guys, and that obviously didn't change anything, as I am the only one consistently writing, and the absolutely only one critiquing anything. What can I do to make you guys interested in writing? Please give me suggestions.

Now, back to your usual programming::

Fourteen.

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

how will you know?

you are made of snowflakes, and i am two-thousand,
three hundred and forty seven degrees farenheit.
as if you'd live long enough to read the thermometer.

i can see the city below me, it's four hundred
thread count shimmering in the light of the
dawn's arrival.
no way will i let you win, no way will you stand to lose.

i am swimming through space, i am swimming through
space to reach your open hands.

when i wake up, love will still be there.

attn://

if you haven't noticed, i haven't changed the photo. it will be up for one more week, as it has not yet been written on. if it is still not written on by that friday, it will be business as usual and the photo will change.


-atticus, your ever so friendly blog-master.

Thirteen

Thirteen.
Click the thumbnail to see a larger version!
[more photos on the Behance Network.]

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Ebracing my Humanity.

“I’m going to be a fox” she said
“did you know they mate for life?”
I told her I knew. And she asked
“what animal do you want to be?”

I don’t want to be a fox.
I don’t want to be a lion.
I don’t even want to be a bird.
So I told her “human”

I want to be human,
with the choice
To be faithful,
To be strong,
And live free.

I want to be the best human I can be.

hunting.

slender necks, i think.

your fingers, black with soot, writhe at your sides. i know you are anticipating my next move, sizing me up.
you are no bigger than a breadbox!

but somehow i know better than to underestimate your razorwire wit, the poison in your tone. your teeth and claws are the least of my worry.

no fangs can lay into me the way that your words have.

oh, to love a monster. to love that which knows only destruction, which knows only the destruction that love brings. your best intentions have left me more scarred than your worst, i'll admit.
it's hard to love you, to endure this constant struggle, this teeth-bared-eyes-gleaming-muscles-twitching sort of affair.

but it's harder not to.

oh lumberjack, save me now.

Oh world,
What soft legs you have.

“The better to draw you in with
My dear”

Oh life,
What beautiful eyes you have.

“The better to trance you with
My dear”

Oh love,
What gorgeous smile you have.

“The better to gobble you up and
show you the true darkness with
My dear”

Twelve

Twelve.

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

equinox.

sunshine, oh sunshine!
you flutter amongst these pages
and kiss me to the sound of laughter
on the green, green grass.

i cling to this parchment,
feel it's fibrous wrinkles against
my fingertips.
"i know you are in there,
oh sunshine!

i shall come in after you,"
i shout, as i watch this
burst of blueredorangeyellow sound
swirl around me.

i've been searching for months for
you and your
unapologetic rays, oh sunshine.

i shall journey into this
manuscript, careful not to
get ink on my hands
or scuff my knees on
the serifs you hide behind.

i shall hold your birds
until you return,
to cast shadows in the
forest and dance among
the cobblestone streets.

oh sunshine,
cast your light upon my face,
and i will wash my hands of avian blood.

puzzled.

Where does the brilliance come from?

Those who came before us
took their talents and made
something beautiful.

Yet,
I cant even produce the
very thought of something
worth noting.

No matter the sensation,
the motivation,
the stimulation,
the picture perfect
compilation just flutters
together in one big mess.

like fragments of
shattered glass,
taunting my mind
with their reflection.

Striking in their
own tragically flawed
way; Yet incomplete
and lost.

If only I could take
the jigsaw and
put something
together.

If only I could
mold the ideas,
and form something
collectively stunning.

Eleven

Eleven.

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive posts without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

life is the preparation for answers.

complications.
thats all this world is.
war, death,
crime, punishment.
we fear that what we
can not explain.

this life is our grave.
its only when we have
completed our
death sentence
that we learn to live.

they gaze back at us
below. somewhere
naked to the eye  they
rejoice. somewhere
sprawled among the
grass we lay.

unanswered questions
will keep baking in the sun
until the day we pass from
one life to another.

until the day we pass
from death to life...

Week Ten

Week Ten, July 24th.
[click here for a larger version of the image, and here to see more of the artist's work.]

You have two weeks from today to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After the new photo is posted, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write for every prompt. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

open sesame

[this piece falls under the week 9 prompt]

mother always told me never to trust strangers.
like I ever listened to her about anything.
nothing like a little exploration.

I just think she never learned to open up.
she never realized that meeting others
required opening doors without
expecting something inparticular
on the other side.

some fearless mother bear she was.
always bitching about the differences
between her and the people I brought
home for her to meet.

no matter who came walking through
our house door, she could sense the
details about humanity she would
dislike.

I'm sick of making excuses for her &
that damn conservative background.

she is just affraid.

affraid to meet someone different,
who has a personality of gold.

affraid to open the door,
and find some place beautiful.

going to try bi weekly. the last photo post is still open for writing until further notice.

Are any of you interested in continuing the project? the last three or four weeks have not been written on at all. i know we've been busy, i just want to know if we're all too busy or think i should scrap the idea altogether.

Week Nine

Week Nine, May 29th.

You have until next Friday, June 5th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.


[ps, late again. i know. my apologies-- for the last two weeks i have been house-sitting without internet.]

Week Eight

Week Eight, May 22nd.

You have until next Friday, May 29th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

[ps. i am well aware, and very sorry, that this was actually posted on sunday, may 24th.]

Week Seven

Week Seven, May 15th.
[Image from FFFFOUND, original creator not known.]

Also, to see the fullsize image, right click and select 'view image.'

You have until next Friday, May 22nd, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Choppy porch thoughts for a Friday morning.

It’s always seemed so ambitious
to me, the planting of flowers.
Not until do little nothings
grow into somethings, they grow
into beautiful somethings.

(You bury them, dare them
to make a grave
into a crib,
to grow with no affection,
as no human could…
and they do!
Limbless, somehow
they shove the soil away
and enter the world-
bashful at first,
but comely and strong.)

Maybe if I plant newspapers
in my garden, they will grow
into beauty instead of war.

After all, have you ever seen an ugly flower?

News

Here lies nostalgia
rusty and forgotten.
Reading is a sin,
learning is forbidden.
Hidden outsiders,
they find no retribution
in faded pages
of black and white



Memories.

Week Six

Week Six, May 8th.
To read this full story, click here.

You have until next Friday, May 15th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Nightmarers.

I watched an invisible monster twist and contort your body this morning- some form of torture for a crime I’ve no doubt you committed. I thought maybe I should wake you up, but I was afraid the monster moving your bones around could use them to rearrange my own skeleton, so I left you to your punishment. When you finally woke up, the monster disguised itself as tears to escape your body. I was terrified.

“I dreamt you started smoking,” you said.

I could imagine smoke nooses dangling from my fingers…but I couldn’t imagine why your black heart would care about my black lungs.

“You started smoking; you blew smoke in my face when I told you to stop. You said you didn’t want me anymore, you didn’t care about anything. None of it, the beauty you’re always seeing, trying to share. You walked away, and I couldn’t follow you. The path you took consisted of smoke, and it blew away behind you. There wasn’t ground anymore,” you continued.

I just stared at you. I wanted to tell you about the crescent moons blooming grey beneath your bottom eyelashes; how your dreams kept falling out and getting stuck in them because you didn’t sleep enough. I wanted to tell you that while you weren’t sleeping I was having dreams about frantically trying to lock doors you were waiting behind with cougars. “He’s friendly, I promise! Please open the door, darling; I want you to meet him, you’d get along so well!” you’d shout while the mountain cat splintered the barrier between us.

But I didn’t. I just made coffee so we’d never have to sleep again.

mo[u]rning.

it's four fifty three in the afternoon, and i'm having my morning coffee alone. i'm not sure what startled me awake, but here i am.

you're long gone, i know. i can feel your absence more than i could ever feel your presence.


i've been holding this cigarette so long it's gone out in my hand, burned all the way to the filter. i go to take a long drag and stop as i notice.
"fuck," i say out loud. it seems to resonate in this empty apartment.

i didn't think you'd ever really go through with leaving, though you've threatened it for years.
it started innocently enough. sitting at breakfast, you adjusting your tie, looking sadly at me.
"there's got to be more than this, eliza," you'd say.
"maybe there isn't. maybe shredded wheats and yesterday's coffee is all the world really has to offer," i'd respond, smiling a little.

i should have known you'd go and find out.
it's been one year, six months, and three days since you left. except, i'm not counting. i'd tell you how many hours if i didn't know it would give me away.

every morning, as soon as i wake up, i have my coffee and my cigarette, and i wait for you to come home. some days, i don't wake up at all.
money comes in unmarked envelopes, and i know it's from you. you never put a return address, and though i've learned to know better than to expect it, i still tear through the envelope in hopes of finding a letter.
sometimes i can smell your cologne on the bills, and i imagine you, in some far off place, looking a little bit older, a little bit more worldly, tucking them in and mailing them. i imagine that you plan to return someday. that maybe, you're counting down the days the same way i am counting them up. all of your new friends, wherever you are, always get to hear about "oh, when i get home to eliza..."
i wish you would. sometimes i think of getting on with my life, like you have. sometimes i dream of finding the 'more to the world' that you always talked about, or at least trying to find you. i suppose that i didn't need more as long as i knew that you were coming home and kissing my forehead as i slept, and carrying me into our room from the couch where i'd fallen asleep waiting for you. i didn't need more if i already had it all.

i finish my coffee and go back to bed, drowning the dreams swimming in my mind.

last saturday, 8:02pm

"don't fucking tell me what to do. you always think you can.
goddamnit, i'm my own person. i don't need you.
so stop it. stoppitstoppitstoppit."

"fuck.
i'm sorry.
i don't... know... what got into me."

"do you mind if i smoke?"

"jane-"

"what?
what is it? what else do you have to say?
please, humour me."

"i don't need the attitude...
i just-"

"do you have a light?"

"you always do this."

"do what? what is it that i always do?
what makes me so fucking intolerable?
i don't know why im even-"

"i love you"

"what..
what am i supposed to do with that?
goddamnit, is that supposed to make everything better?
is that supposed to be some shining fucking light that washes it all away?"

"no i just thought..."

"what did you think?
that i would drop everything, run weeping into your arms, look into your eyes and-
fucking hell, where is my lighter?
look, i'm not going to deal with this.
i have to go."

"i'll still love you"





"...bye"

Week Five

Week Five, May 1st.
To see more by this artist, please visit here.

You have until next Friday, May 8th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

hearts, menageries, and bible stories.

Daniel, you said you were Daniel. And I believed you. Can you blame me? Anyone with Cat’s Eye Apatite for eyes and grace water would envy must be favored by God. No one could touch you… Certainly a divine force was swooning over you just as I was. I didn’t for a moment consider that the distant reverence the rest of the world maintained might be because they were wise, or at least smart enough to be scared. You made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I thought it was because there was an electricity to us.

Watching (though not hearing) you pad around my kitchen, I knew you didn’t belong here. I wanted to give you the world, but from between my ribs where you couldn’t get it for yourself. No one would dare withhold anything from you, even a planet and all of its life and beauty- so I would have to keep you behind bone bars to be able to offer you anything. Oh, and how I wanted to give you everything.

But there wasn’t enough room in my ribcage for you to live, I knew this. So instead of caging you, I gave you a key. You could choose to come and go in my chest as you pleased.

I should have known.

You can’t give wild animals the key to your heart; they’ll just eat the whole thing.

Leo, you are Leo. And you would have eaten Daniel’s heart out if God hadn’t held your mouth shut. Me, on the other hand—I’m not a blessed servant of a mighty cosmic force that can hold jaws shut. I wanted you in my ribcage, and you cleared it out nicely.

Week Four

Week Four, April 24th.

You have until next Friday, May 1st, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

ALSO
do you know any other writers that would be possibly interested in becoming a part of this project? don't hesitate to tell me-- i'm open to inviting anyone who wants to write. pass the link along in the circles of writers you know, and tell them that if they want to join, just email me: graffiti.grunge at gmail dot com.

Careful, I (want to) say. Don’t you understand? No, of course not. There are eggs behind my eyes, and that’s why I’m afraid to think, to obliterate them with the thousands of simultaneously-running trains in my head. No, I can’t sleep; if my eyelash fences are erected then there will be dark and cold and the eggs will die. Forgive me for crying, it’s just that they’re pecking their way out now, and eggshells and eggteeth and eggteeth and eggshells are all I can think—oh, here they are.

You can’t see yet, no, they aren’t ready. Stop talking, those breezes from your lips—stop, they’re turning into cold winds! You’ll knock them out of my head if you keep that up, and then they’ll die! I won’t be able to touch them again!

I can’t tell you this, but they aren’t for you. I’m disguising my dreams in feathers so they can get away before you can crush them; they have such small, hollow bones after all. You’ve seen the fragments of shell come out of my tear ducts, you know something’s changed. You’re always trying to gust it out of me, but you don’t really want it. It’s just that I’ve never kept something from you, you’ve always had all of my thoughts, all of me; it’s not that you’re anticipating something beautiful from my mind.

You don’t know what it used to be like; I didn’t always think in steel and coal. These engines and miles of track lacerating the scenery in every direction used to be the shuddering of butterflies and the paws of foxes and the dashing of stars. You did this to me.

And now I’ve finally incubated something pure and fluttering again. The birds behind my eyes just need to be fully developed before they make their way out, so they can immediately take to skies beyond your grasp.

I’m not sure which sight will be more majestic, the avian visions soaring from my lips or the empty shock parting yours.

echo; i'm just an echo.

"my heart is a bird,
but my ribs are a cage..."
//


i'm leaving again, he says.
that's as much warning as he gives before he steps off his perch and begins to claw his way up my throat. i choke on his exit, knowing that it will be even harder to breath when he's gone, even though my chest will be empty, spacious. the sound of my ribs clattering together will echo once he makes his daring escape, they'll resound like thousands of drums, clickety-clacking, the sound coming out my nose and ears. it will give my words a percussion accompaniment that's unrivaled by any orchestra in the city.
"forgive [clickety clickety click click snap] me [click clack clackety click clack], love. [rattle, clickclickclick.]"

you'll hear it, and know the truth.
i don't want you to know that i'm hollow like an old log, except the rings in me don't have the history. i don't want that echo to reach your ears. i don't want to see your eyes widen with the realization that this sweet fluttering thing has furiously fled.

i face you and it's like slow motion. my heart should be beating in my chest, my throat, my ears.

click, clack, my ribs say, as if responding to my anxiousness.



cliick, claack,

cliick, claack.

clickclack.

take a dip in the cesspool

Bump, bump, bump, bump, goes the drum in my chest. Beating in time with the fear resonating throughout my body, exploding through my trembling fingertips. While the darkness swallows me whole, I can hardly wrap my mind around the pit of acidity waiting for me at the bottom of this 10-inch pipe. My wings have broken and I can no longer fly, fly away from this place. A place only in my head that no one knows, this is where evil grows, and where the monsters under your bed reside when you don’t believe anymore. This is where innocence is lost and seeing is believing. Swallowed by the greedy mouth of reality, escape is no longer plausible. Fear is floating further and further away from the slowing drum, oxygen is no longer a necessity, and freedom is finally here.

Three

Week Three, April 17th.

You have until next Friday, April 24th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

reconstruction

oh! boy, you'll thank me for this one day.

i've meticulously taken
all that flesh and bone and turned you into
someone much more
useful,
pertinent,
stable,
predictable.

i've fixed you.

i peeled off skin like a
tangerine in the summer heat
wiping my hands as i worked;
putting you in that metal shell
was the best decision we ever made.

the only thing i couldn't save was your
pumping, feebly sensitive yet explosive heart.

but trust me darling, you are better off without.

because i cannot love you forever,
i remember once,
before you were all dials and
lights, i told you,
"having a heart is like an evolutionary step

in the wrong direction."

you cried when i did,
and i'm positive i could feel
that explosive heart
wringing itself around your ribs
to try and escape,
kill me for what i was calling it.
i could feel you
wanting to, too. but
that anti-darwinistic,

four chambered,
emotional,

sissy son-of-a-bitch

just wasn't having any of it.


instead you just cried, and loved me all the same.
but i keep reminding you,

you will be
grateful,
later.

lost among the pages of you.

your smile, it's beautiful.
and I dont even mean the physical
looks of it.
just the idea, the concept,
makes me blush.

you're happy; that's what I live for.
it's not even your features that
pull me in to your magneton.

you are beautiful like a well written book.
strong and mysterious on the outside.
drawing me in.
making me long,
desire,
to know what's inside.

I just want to read the story of your life.
I need to get lost in the
fine written imagery
that makes you amazing.

when it comes down to it,
we are all the same.
our features may vary,
but we are as the water;
no matter where it is,
uniform and constant.

we live our lives like robots.
repeating this monotonous life
over and over in our minds.

to the naked eye, we are the same.
we look the same. we sound the same.
we laugh and mourn alike.

but when i look at you, i see so much more.
i just want to sit in a comfortable spot,
and read the story scribed in your personality.

I just mirror a smile back to you,
as I reread my favorite phrase,
I love you. I love you. I love you.

Two.

Week Two, April 10th.

You have until next Friday, April 17th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

ALSO
authors, please send me ten photos/pieces of your choosing, along with the artist who took/created them [if you know it] so that i can link back to them. having a large pool of images to choose from will make the experience more exciting for all of us. especially me, who's seen all twenty of the current images. you can send them to me at graffiti.grunge at gmail dot com with links to the images. if you can't find ten, that's fine, just send what you can find and you can send more later.

Oh, sweetiepie, something about octopi.

You were right,
I am different.

My heart doesn’t have strings,
it has tentacles.
They’ll wrap around you
and adorn you in suction cup kisses.

If you scare me,
I’ll build inky word walls
between us so I can get away-
I don’t want to listen to you
talk about how I have
no skeleton, unlike you
and how I can hold
onto more at once than you
and how I have
more heart(s) than you…
so I couldn’t possibly understand.

If my escape isn’t fleet enough,
please promise you won’t
sever my tentacles.
(Heartstrings can be retied,
tentacles are another matter;
not all of us are capable
of autotomy.)

I swear I wasn’t trying
to crack your wooden ribs…
It’s just that this is the only way
I know how to love you.

But I will let go,
if you ask it of me.
I will detach myself,
and I hope you will feel it,
every suction cup kiss
being ripped away
as I sink down
where tentacle-hearts
belong.

DISCLAIMER: EXPLICIT

Walking through a crowded mall on a saturday afternoon is never a good idea for me. Maybe it's the smell of all those fucking children running around begging their parents for just one tiny toy almost like a whore begging on her knees. Tilting their pretty blonde little head back. I cant grasp the idea that children are innocent. Thats what children remind me of. Going down to that nasty lake (with god knows what kind of foul things float in there) and going underwater for a brief minute, imagining you are a fish or a sea monster. I used to pretend I was being forgiven for my sins. washing them away like it was that fucking simple. why didnt i just get in the damn bathtub? then at least i could have been floating in MY OWN filth. now, all I can think of when I see a mother and child, is how many dicks she had to suck before she spit out that thing and actually felt bad for what she'd done. washing away her sins. Then I picture it. The soccer mom with cum dripping from her face. The susie homemaker with legs spread like a fucking cellar door. Drowning herself in water, trying to be forgiven.

silence.

It has been ages since the weather has changed,
ages since I have had my chance to escape.

The pointless abuse, deafening.
The enprisonment to a place called home, smuthering.

My body is shutting down.
What makes this feeling any different though?

Everytime I speak to you,
my body malfunctions.
My heart collapses.

In one ear and out the other, your words flow,
flooding the empty space around my brain.
Drowning it of all the hopes and dreams I ever had.

We used to fight over pointless things,
any bullshit reason we found to struggle about.

But now I just ignore it all.
I close my eyes.
And fight the pressure.

Running away from the problems
probably doesnt solve anything.

But sadly, Id rather hurt myself,
second after second,
and hold my breathe.

Because the silence puts me at peace.

woooosh

i can't hear you.

this is where i want to be
no,
it's where i need to be.
i want to be a part of this
like i wanted to be a part of you

i am concentrating on it
take me take me take me
i'm whispering it,
i'm screaming it,
everything inside me turns to bubbles

then, it fills me
it seeks out every space,
every crevice
it wants all of me
why didn't you?

i am happy here.

when human beings are involved

water never felt so welcome
in my lungs.

i was packing all my bags and you
stood silently, staring.
by all my bags, of course i mean just my
faded blue-and-grey diary [i sure hope it's
waterproof] and a toothbrush [i don't
want to offend anyone on the other side,
you know.] tucked into a grocery bag.

i told you about all my dreams,
about swirls of colour and floating endlessly among
them, eyes open and searching.
seas of fishes swirling about me, all of them being
fishes of seas.

you held my hand within yours, and i felt your insides
quake.
"don't go," you said. "don't go."

in my head, i repeated those words to you. don't go.

you'd kept me dry and lonely, helping me brick and mortar those walls i couldn't find the water to fill. it won't hold water anyway, i think to myself.
it was just what i wanted, until i'd met you.



i coughed less than i thought i would, and welcomed it's cool weight.


dear sweet smile and forgiving green eyes,

i wish to know how a body relates to a stone

as it sinks.

One.

Week one, April 3rd.
To see more by this photographer.

You have until next Friday, April 10th, to write a piece of any kind about the photo. The rules are that simple-- literal, abstract, short story, poem, prose, etc. All styles are welcome, just use the photo as a starting point. After Friday, you may not post writing from previous weeks' photos.
Feel free to write multiple pieces if you feel that inspired, although you aren't required to write every week. You won't be removed as an author unless you go four consecutive weeks without writing or contacting me at all, or you ask to be removed.

Hello, welcome.

This site is the brainchild of myself and Arienette, but we could not do it without the help of countless artists and poets who will contribute in some way or another to the growth of this page. So, thank you to anyone who writes, photographs, comments, or even just lurks every now and then. We appreciate that. Your comments are welcome, your constructive criticism is welcome, but your trolling and hate is not. I will delete any comments or posts that I feel are hateful.
I'll start by introducing myself, and let the other writers do that as well.


I'm Atticus. I'm 21 and live in Cincinnati. I have a degree in visual art and I build and ride bikes for fun. My writing style is usually called 'free form poetry' or 'surreal prose.' More of my work can be found here, if you would like to follow my non-Foto Friday writing.


[this space reserved for the introduction of any contributors.]


The premise of this workshop is as follows: each writer submits ten photos or pieces of art of their choosing to Atticus, who randomly chooses one every Friday and gives it to all of the writers. The workshop participants then have until the next Friday's photo to write a piece based on the photograph. It can be any type of writing, abstract or literal, poetry or prose. Constructive criticism is welcome, but keep in mind this is going to be a safe place to post, and no hate of any kind will be tolerated. Any questions? Shoot an email to graffiti.grunge at gmail dot com and I'll be happy to answer for you, or leave a comment here.