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If she moved one step closer to the edge, the wind would buffet her face and the ocean spray would snap at her eyes. The sun had almost finished setting, and it wore a frilled collar of venomously purple clouds that sucked the energy from the eyes and made the soul weary. This would be the last thing she would ever see, this moment of austere beauty when the sky looked like a viper curled and waiting with a glassy stare. The grip on her wrists was painful. Was the man pinching her bones? She couldn't tell. He'd wedged her arms in an upside-down V behind her, and she could swear they would pop out of their sockets before he was done. It was effective in keeping her from struggling. There was another man reading a paper, and her brother stood some ways off, behind and to the right. A clump of grass was directly in front of his knees. It was a pathetic hiding place. She looked at him from underneath her wet hair, and he looked back, startled and pale. He had dark hair, lank, but dry. In fact, everyone was dry but her, and she was the only one not shivering.
The man with the paper nodded, and she was yanked so that she cried out and turned towards the sea. Her toes were at the edge of the cliff. She could feel it sagging. The clouds made the ocean look black, and she could feel the oppression of electricity on the air.
"Go ahead," the man with the paper said, and for a moment, she was falling. Just a moment.
The man with the paper nodded, and she was yanked so that she cried out and turned towards the sea. Her toes were at the edge of the cliff. She could feel it sagging. The clouds made the ocean look black, and she could feel the oppression of electricity on the air.
"Go ahead," the man with the paper said, and for a moment, she was falling. Just a moment.
Literature
Existential Crises
There was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a lon
Literature
The Great Wall
When papers ask me where I'm from, I write "Seattle," because they don't want to know the real answer. When people ask me where I'm from, I say "downtown," and they take a good look at me and take that to mean "Chinatown."
My parents run one of the zillion dim sum restaurants here. They're what the white kids at school call "fresh off the boat." Most of the people here are. They don't speak English at home, and they try not to at work. They don't watch anything on American TV; they read the local Chinese paper and watch the one Asian channel, pausing to turn off the TV in disgust whenever one of the five daily Korean soap operas comes on. On
Literature
ugly consumption
monday my little girl asked, "what would happen if someone ate
the sun and
how many calories does it have?"
and i wish i could see myself objectively, wish
my skin wasn't worn from
fitful starvation.
have you ever seen your
hands as i do, strange bloated things
in search of bones?
and i wish i could remember when beauty
was a mouth red as pomegranate seeds eyes
like sickle moons. back when it was
more than numbers. ninety-five, eighty-eight.
get down to eighty-five and you will be
beautiful. be
thin and sexless as wet march.
tuesday pa told me: "acceptance ain't something you
can buy at a convenience store."
and i am all ma
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We were told to write whatever came into our heads while listening to the overture to Don Giovanni. This is what I wrote, listening to 0:00 - 0:45 of the overture.
Don Giovanni is by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
The first paragraph is long (probably also long-winded) and full of description, and by comparison, the last two paragraphs are short and almost abrupt. Do you find this fitting? If not, what would you change?
Don Giovanni is by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
The first paragraph is long (probably also long-winded) and full of description, and by comparison, the last two paragraphs are short and almost abrupt. Do you find this fitting? If not, what would you change?
© 2010 - 2024 by-loosh
Comments7
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I like the abruptness of the last paragraph. It's a neat little punch of finality to the piece. There are only two things I'm wondering about.
The part about the brother confused me. I'm assuming he isn't in custody of those men, but what exactly is he doing? He's only mentioned that one time, and he doesn't seem relevant. I mean, he serves no real purpose other than that one mentioning. Everything else you wrote had some connection to everything else: the cliff, the girl, the man with the paper, the man holding her.
Second, and this is more curiosity: what does the oppression of electricity feel like? Could you describe that some other way for me?
Aside from that, I like how the ending isn't all happy and nice. It seems more realistic when things turn out badly, a lot of the time.