haileyelliott
The leaves lifted their edges, showed me green regrets. Cased in pollen I was listening.
haileyelliott
Follow
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Simon & Schuster

The Stranger in Our Land

I turn its rough edges in my hand.

The stone, chipped sharp, shines black in the slanted light.

This is an arrowhead, and I didn’t find it. I have never found an arrowhead, but have always wanted too, always. It takes a special kind of looking, and not only with the eyes. It takes the right kind of desire.

My friend, Mara, she found this. She has the right kind of desire, coming from her heart, and for the right reasons, for the delight of making contact.

It feels like that, like contact. As though this carefully chipped piece of stone is one end of a story that can be read backwards, through time. As though the hands that shaped it so artfully have somehow rubbed off here, left smudges of their purpose, their intent. Holding onto the sharp little point, their thumb was here. Contact. Through the connective tissue of time, unbroken, our hands touch their hands.

Following this arrowhead’s story, the flight it made through the air, which gathered memory, carried it towards the future. The moments when it was leased, and flew, and struck flesh, premeditated, are etched into its glassy reflective surface. Jagged edges made for puncture.

It raises questions down the back of my neck. Questions I can’t brush off, or hold, which form misshapen syllables, which linger in my mouth. Questions too specific to answer.

Who made this?

Not which people.

Which person.

What did he wear while he chipped, stone against stone. Who mended his shirt, quietly in the firelight, was she humming. What was the arc of his back, and which foot was never quite covered, at night, in his bed. What was his bed, a mat of shaved cedar bark? Did he lay in it warm, with his lover’s calm body, and whisper of nothing, and laugh hushed laughter, about mice and water. Did he have a secret spot, between her ribs, where he would wiggle a finger, and make her gasp. Did he call her something funny, something about the scent of drying fish, bathed in smoke between lath of cedar. Did he call her name, teasing, when she was stooped in the stream, cleaning again his clothing, stained in blood. Did she scowl and then, without meaning to, smile up at him.

Or did they argue there, in jagged whispers, about the tide, and the fish, and the deer’s sticky blood.

What was the weight of his heaviest word, the weight of his bowstring pulled tight? What was the weight of his daughter, held at chest height, when, growing strong, she fell in the tidepools, scraped her skin on barnacles, and cried.

What was the shape of the sound, when, from a high peak he heard the voice of his brother, calling his name, was it bitter, or sweet?

Was he a man? A boy? In what way did he vanish from this earth, leaving behind his body to rejoin all things. Who carried him, then. What was the weight?

I think of them all, laid out on the sand at small pox bay. The pebbled gravel where they had spent their lives, cooking, bathing, talking, now pressing into their skin forever.

The water is cold here, too cold. It cooled their fevers until hypothermia brought them still, and they spread on the beach, all of them, until a white settler found them all, like a tribe of brown seals sunning themselves, dead.

We know this, but we know nothing. The strangers who lived here for thousands of years are layered into the ground, where our eyes can’t find them. Their intricate cultures have traveled away, and the remnants erode onto the beaches, broken fragments in the white shell middens, strata of overlaid heaps, from centuries of eating shellfish by the beach, and throwing the shells to the ground.

This place is my home, it is my homeland. In a way it is my entire country. This small island, within the chain of islands, in the waterway that is now called Puget Sound. Technically, it is a part of Washington state, a part of the United States, though barely, it is so close to Canada, in fact, it almost was Canada. I have spent most of my life on this little chunk of land, its rocky shores ringed in water, unbroken by bridge. The sea that bounds it, contains my entire life.

But through the scope of time, my time here, my community's time here, with its own history, its own rich culture which develops year by year, is nothing. It is a film on the surface, a bright jarring clash of glass and plastic scattered above the deep middens, littering over history’s shifting archive, which wears away tide by tide, onto the beach.

I want to know something, their names, which have fallen as sound to the earth, and become layered in strata upon strata in the ground, stains of vibration. Blooming grasses release them again and again, in silent explosions. And again and again I know nothing.

The strangers who lived in our land are printed here, impressions between the hills and the dunes of sand, lasting and empty.

I flip over the arrowhead. It is artfully made, it is still sharp. I run my thumb along it, the cutting edge a connective link. Someone touched this, made it, someone with knowing hands, practiced and sure. They used it, discarded it. Through the connective tissue, of time, unbroken, our hands touch their hands.

6
1
1
Juice
35 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Simon & Schuster
The Stranger in Our Land
I turn its rough edges in my hand.
The stone, chipped sharp, shines black in the slanted light.

This is an arrowhead, and I didn’t find it. I have never found an arrowhead, but have always wanted too, always. It takes a special kind of looking, and not only with the eyes. It takes the right kind of desire.

My friend, Mara, she found this. She has the right kind of desire, coming from her heart, and for the right reasons, for the delight of making contact.

It feels like that, like contact. As though this carefully chipped piece of stone is one end of a story that can be read backwards, through time. As though the hands that shaped it so artfully have somehow rubbed off here, left smudges of their purpose, their intent. Holding onto the sharp little point, their thumb was here. Contact. Through the connective tissue of time, unbroken, our hands touch their hands.

Following this arrowhead’s story, the flight it made through the air, which gathered memory, carried it towards the future. The moments when it was leased, and flew, and struck flesh, premeditated, are etched into its glassy reflective surface. Jagged edges made for puncture.

It raises questions down the back of my neck. Questions I can’t brush off, or hold, which form misshapen syllables, which linger in my mouth. Questions too specific to answer.

Who made this?

Not which people.
Which person.

What did he wear while he chipped, stone against stone. Who mended his shirt, quietly in the firelight, was she humming. What was the arc of his back, and which foot was never quite covered, at night, in his bed. What was his bed, a mat of shaved cedar bark? Did he lay in it warm, with his lover’s calm body, and whisper of nothing, and laugh hushed laughter, about mice and water. Did he have a secret spot, between her ribs, where he would wiggle a finger, and make her gasp. Did he call her something funny, something about the scent of drying fish, bathed in smoke between lath of cedar. Did he call her name, teasing, when she was stooped in the stream, cleaning again his clothing, stained in blood. Did she scowl and then, without meaning to, smile up at him.

Or did they argue there, in jagged whispers, about the tide, and the fish, and the deer’s sticky blood.

What was the weight of his heaviest word, the weight of his bowstring pulled tight? What was the weight of his daughter, held at chest height, when, growing strong, she fell in the tidepools, scraped her skin on barnacles, and cried.

What was the shape of the sound, when, from a high peak he heard the voice of his brother, calling his name, was it bitter, or sweet?

Was he a man? A boy? In what way did he vanish from this earth, leaving behind his body to rejoin all things. Who carried him, then. What was the weight?

I think of them all, laid out on the sand at small pox bay. The pebbled gravel where they had spent their lives, cooking, bathing, talking, now pressing into their skin forever.

The water is cold here, too cold. It cooled their fevers until hypothermia brought them still, and they spread on the beach, all of them, until a white settler found them all, like a tribe of brown seals sunning themselves, dead.

We know this, but we know nothing. The strangers who lived here for thousands of years are layered into the ground, where our eyes can’t find them. Their intricate cultures have traveled away, and the remnants erode onto the beaches, broken fragments in the white shell middens, strata of overlaid heaps, from centuries of eating shellfish by the beach, and throwing the shells to the ground.

This place is my home, it is my homeland. In a way it is my entire country. This small island, within the chain of islands, in the waterway that is now called Puget Sound. Technically, it is a part of Washington state, a part of the United States, though barely, it is so close to Canada, in fact, it almost was Canada. I have spent most of my life on this little chunk of land, its rocky shores ringed in water, unbroken by bridge. The sea that bounds it, contains my entire life.

But through the scope of time, my time here, my community's time here, with its own history, its own rich culture which develops year by year, is nothing. It is a film on the surface, a bright jarring clash of glass and plastic scattered above the deep middens, littering over history’s shifting archive, which wears away tide by tide, onto the beach.

I want to know something, their names, which have fallen as sound to the earth, and become layered in strata upon strata in the ground, stains of vibration. Blooming grasses release them again and again, in silent explosions. And again and again I know nothing.

The strangers who lived in our land are printed here, impressions between the hills and the dunes of sand, lasting and empty.

I flip over the arrowhead. It is artfully made, it is still sharp. I run my thumb along it, the cutting edge a connective link. Someone touched this, made it, someone with knowing hands, practiced and sure. They used it, discarded it. Through the connective tissue, of time, unbroken, our hands touch their hands.
6
1
1
Juice
35 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Fiction

Sophie wakes on the Golden Duck

In the center of a boat, in a thin little berth, Sophie woke to find her glasses missing and one foot sockless. Her toes stretched and arched as she used them to pan back and forth across the floorboards, gently searching the vicinity. She found the sock first, balled up and rolling back and forth across the narrow floor as the boat swayed from side to side. She lifted it onto the bed and kept searching until finally, her left foot felt the thin wire frames which had become wedged under a piece of trim, and she stooped down to retrieve them and place them back onto her face. 

The room came into focus. A small little pointed room, all made of wood, narrowing sharply at one end, and swooping gently upward in that direction. There were three windows on each side, small round little panes of glass, hardly big enough for a face to peer through, rimmed in bronze. Two of them hung open now, letting in the noise from outside, where the gulls were mewling all around the ship, as lucifer the crow cackled mercilessly at them from somewhere above - the top of the mast, Sophie bet, knowing lucifer. 

The light looked to be midmorning already, and Henry was already up, probably doing something interesting without her. Sophie quickly pulled her dress on over her head, fumbled to get her arms in the right holes, and then climbed the ladder to the deck. 

1
0
0
Juice
23 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Fiction
Sophie wakes on the Golden Duck
In the center of a boat, in a thin little berth, Sophie woke to find her glasses missing and one foot sockless. Her toes stretched and arched as she used them to pan back and forth across the floorboards, gently searching the vicinity. She found the sock first, balled up and rolling back and forth across the narrow floor as the boat swayed from side to side. She lifted it onto the bed and kept searching until finally, her left foot felt the thin wire frames which had become wedged under a piece of trim, and she stooped down to retrieve them and place them back onto her face. 
The room came into focus. A small little pointed room, all made of wood, narrowing sharply at one end, and swooping gently upward in that direction. There were three windows on each side, small round little panes of glass, hardly big enough for a face to peer through, rimmed in bronze. Two of them hung open now, letting in the noise from outside, where the gulls were mewling all around the ship, as lucifer the crow cackled mercilessly at them from somewhere above - the top of the mast, Sophie bet, knowing lucifer. 

The light looked to be midmorning already, and Henry was already up, probably doing something interesting without her. Sophie quickly pulled her dress on over her head, fumbled to get her arms in the right holes, and then climbed the ladder to the deck. 


1
0
0
Juice
23 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
The concept of death has captivated our imaginations since the beginning of human society. It has formed cultures, defined religions, shaped the course of history. Write about death. It can be lighthearted, humorous, hopeful, respectful, dreading, mournful, optimistic--you can paint it in any light you would like. Any style and format- poetry, prose, story, fiction, nonfiction, etc.
Written by haileyelliott

Salt

When I was seventeen, his mouth tasted of sea water. I lay with him, on a futon mattress at ground level, covered in the freckled light of evening, and I remember thinking that he had brought the ocean with him, that it was inside of him.

I wanted to kiss him again, but I was startled, unsettled, to have found the sea in his mouth. It seemed like a strange metaphor, too perfect of one, explaining something I couldn’t see. Or maybe that’s how it seems now, looking back. Is it possible not to tint our memories with the future, once it is known? I remember at the time feeling the metaphor inside of that taste, brimming with a luminous surface tension, waiting to spill over.

He reached his arm over me, and it was comforting. I lay with my face very close, looking towards his eyes, green flecked with brown, vividly aware, and slightly slanted. He always had a weight to his body, even though he was slender. He was solid and heavy, especially in his legs and hips. Even as a kid, you can see that heaviness in pictures of him. The weight of his body. I think back on this now, with the strangeness of knowing.

He liked to tell me of the first time we met. I was very young at the time, and I’ve never remembered it, but for him it was particularly vivid, because It was his first day on the island after arriving from Egegik. He was nine years old, a few years older than me. They came to our house first - he told me that many times - they came right from the ferry, and we all went to see the Lion King in the movie theater.

He never told me about what it was like, what it felt like, arriving from Alaska with his big sister and his dad, into an all white town with houses built of wood, if he was scared or sad. He just talked about how kind we were to him. He was always like that, grateful for things that I took so wholly for granted.

Years later, my mom told me about how his dad went up to Egegik to get them, about how he had to steal them back. I never saw a picture of his mom. She drowned in the river, or the sea, there in Egegik after he left, like so many of his uncles - six of them, I think.

I remember thinking that it was like some kind curse, like a weird alaskan fairy tale, that brought his family, one by one, drunk, to the water’s edge. I worried about him when he was up there, like that water was calling to him, calling the salt of his mouth back to it, wanting it to wash the sea back out. I envisioned Egegik, the fish and alcohol, the concrete buildings and snowmobiles, and the big family who had given him his caramel brown skin, and slightly slanted eyes. His salty mouth. They were Native, he said. He never gave a tribe name. Just Native, not Aleut.

Looking back, I see how endless time was for me then. I always felt that we would be together someday. There was a certain feeling between us, indescribable, somehow sourced, for him, I think, from that first day, when we greeted him from Egegik. Funny how time shrinks as it goes on, constricting around us as we age, and grow.

When I was 20, his mouth still tasted of seawater. The same flavor, not just the salt, but the brine, seaweed, drying rocks, mud.

He lay in the little wooden house I had built, in the morning, and opened a beer. I didn’t really get it, what that meant. It seemed like an act of rebellion. There was something wild and cool about him, layered in with that gentleness. By the time I understood it, he was already back in Egegik.

I talked with him on the phone a lot after that. I knew in my stomach that he could change back, become sober again. That if I offered myself in his life, he would revive for me, come back effervescent and strong. There was some link, running back through to that heavy footed nine year old, arriving at our house, and it gave me a special power. Such a young thought, but one I still believe. I had moved to a city, and was walking down the alley behind my house. A cat was stuck at the top of a telephone pole, and was up there yowling, and yowling. I held my little flip phone to my cheek, it was getting hot there, and I told him that I wasn’t going to be his girlfriend.

The next time I saw him, years had changed. His body looked broken down, decaying from the inside. From the heart out, from the mouth down. His skin held tides of a different kind, and I didn’t see him in there. The boy with vibrant green eyes was buried in there somewhere, already drowned, one liquid for another.

Time shrank again, smaller still, until all of its possibilities became pricks of light, too small and fragmented to count.

I saw him on the street and I stopped. His heaviness had grown, taken over him. I love you he said, you are family. He was unsteady and full. The feeling of him was so thick, he was blurred, internally, caught in memories that distorted him. I saw him as a memory, then, too, and it sank through me. We never thought it could follow him. That the salt of his mouth could be called from anywhere. From our bay. Right off the dock, in the night. The heaviness of his body pulled him down, down. He held his breath there, I imagine, in the cold green black water, before the ocean came in, at last, to wash itself out.

18
4
4
Juice
66 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
The concept of death has captivated our imaginations since the beginning of human society. It has formed cultures, defined religions, shaped the course of history. Write about death. It can be lighthearted, humorous, hopeful, respectful, dreading, mournful, optimistic--you can paint it in any light you would like. Any style and format- poetry, prose, story, fiction, nonfiction, etc.
Written by haileyelliott
Salt
When I was seventeen, his mouth tasted of sea water. I lay with him, on a futon mattress at ground level, covered in the freckled light of evening, and I remember thinking that he had brought the ocean with him, that it was inside of him.

I wanted to kiss him again, but I was startled, unsettled, to have found the sea in his mouth. It seemed like a strange metaphor, too perfect of one, explaining something I couldn’t see. Or maybe that’s how it seems now, looking back. Is it possible not to tint our memories with the future, once it is known? I remember at the time feeling the metaphor inside of that taste, brimming with a luminous surface tension, waiting to spill over.

He reached his arm over me, and it was comforting. I lay with my face very close, looking towards his eyes, green flecked with brown, vividly aware, and slightly slanted. He always had a weight to his body, even though he was slender. He was solid and heavy, especially in his legs and hips. Even as a kid, you can see that heaviness in pictures of him. The weight of his body. I think back on this now, with the strangeness of knowing.

He liked to tell me of the first time we met. I was very young at the time, and I’ve never remembered it, but for him it was particularly vivid, because It was his first day on the island after arriving from Egegik. He was nine years old, a few years older than me. They came to our house first - he told me that many times - they came right from the ferry, and we all went to see the Lion King in the movie theater.

He never told me about what it was like, what it felt like, arriving from Alaska with his big sister and his dad, into an all white town with houses built of wood, if he was scared or sad. He just talked about how kind we were to him. He was always like that, grateful for things that I took so wholly for granted.

Years later, my mom told me about how his dad went up to Egegik to get them, about how he had to steal them back. I never saw a picture of his mom. She drowned in the river, or the sea, there in Egegik after he left, like so many of his uncles - six of them, I think.
I remember thinking that it was like some kind curse, like a weird alaskan fairy tale, that brought his family, one by one, drunk, to the water’s edge. I worried about him when he was up there, like that water was calling to him, calling the salt of his mouth back to it, wanting it to wash the sea back out. I envisioned Egegik, the fish and alcohol, the concrete buildings and snowmobiles, and the big family who had given him his caramel brown skin, and slightly slanted eyes. His salty mouth. They were Native, he said. He never gave a tribe name. Just Native, not Aleut.

Looking back, I see how endless time was for me then. I always felt that we would be together someday. There was a certain feeling between us, indescribable, somehow sourced, for him, I think, from that first day, when we greeted him from Egegik. Funny how time shrinks as it goes on, constricting around us as we age, and grow.

When I was 20, his mouth still tasted of seawater. The same flavor, not just the salt, but the brine, seaweed, drying rocks, mud.
He lay in the little wooden house I had built, in the morning, and opened a beer. I didn’t really get it, what that meant. It seemed like an act of rebellion. There was something wild and cool about him, layered in with that gentleness. By the time I understood it, he was already back in Egegik.

I talked with him on the phone a lot after that. I knew in my stomach that he could change back, become sober again. That if I offered myself in his life, he would revive for me, come back effervescent and strong. There was some link, running back through to that heavy footed nine year old, arriving at our house, and it gave me a special power. Such a young thought, but one I still believe. I had moved to a city, and was walking down the alley behind my house. A cat was stuck at the top of a telephone pole, and was up there yowling, and yowling. I held my little flip phone to my cheek, it was getting hot there, and I told him that I wasn’t going to be his girlfriend.

The next time I saw him, years had changed. His body looked broken down, decaying from the inside. From the heart out, from the mouth down. His skin held tides of a different kind, and I didn’t see him in there. The boy with vibrant green eyes was buried in there somewhere, already drowned, one liquid for another.

Time shrank again, smaller still, until all of its possibilities became pricks of light, too small and fragmented to count.

I saw him on the street and I stopped. His heaviness had grown, taken over him. I love you he said, you are family. He was unsteady and full. The feeling of him was so thick, he was blurred, internally, caught in memories that distorted him. I saw him as a memory, then, too, and it sank through me. We never thought it could follow him. That the salt of his mouth could be called from anywhere. From our bay. Right off the dock, in the night. The heaviness of his body pulled him down, down. He held his breath there, I imagine, in the cold green black water, before the ocean came in, at last, to wash itself out.
18
4
4
Juice
66 reads
Load 4 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Pilgrimage

Three little days passed by

they each cradled something in their arms

flagging, trailing dusty winds, their heels thick 

from walking

all this way 

just to reach us

and keep on going

3
0
0
Juice
29 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Pilgrimage
Three little days passed by
they each cradled something in their arms
flagging, trailing dusty winds, their heels thick 
from walking
all this way 
just to reach us
and keep on going
#time 
3
0
0
Juice
29 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Sigh

Sigh but don't sigh hard

your breath will blow the trees 

open

their faces will catch 

in the light,

open

amazed

they will struggle

their branches 

against the breeze

to become again 

closed.

6
0
0
Juice
24 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Sigh
Sigh but don't sigh hard
your breath will blow the trees 
open
their faces will catch 
in the light,
open
amazed
they will struggle
their branches 
against the breeze
to become again 
closed.


6
0
0
Juice
24 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

To the lonely

You are lonely. The trees tangle in your hair. They offer no words to coil in your ears. They cannot lean in against your back, wrap you from behind with leafy bluster, tickle your neck with a pink tongue.

You are lonely. I see you. Don't worry. Things will change. This is the nature of everything we know. You can open, and let in the light. The trees can call your name, in a thousand voices, high and warbling. The soil can feel you through twining white mycelium. 

You must let them. You must let me. You must let your sister, your brother, your mother, your friend. You must trust your mouth with love. You must trust your eyes with their eyes. You must feel the breath on your neck, as your lover sleeps, they are what they are, you are what you are, this is the key. 

18
3
1
Juice
50 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
To the lonely
You are lonely. The trees tangle in your hair. They offer no words to coil in your ears. They cannot lean in against your back, wrap you from behind with leafy bluster, tickle your neck with a pink tongue.

You are lonely. I see you. Don't worry. Things will change. This is the nature of everything we know. You can open, and let in the light. The trees can call your name, in a thousand voices, high and warbling. The soil can feel you through twining white mycelium. 

You must let them. You must let me. You must let your sister, your brother, your mother, your friend. You must trust your mouth with love. You must trust your eyes with their eyes. You must feel the breath on your neck, as your lover sleeps, they are what they are, you are what you are, this is the key. 
18
3
1
Juice
50 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Write a pair of haikus, one describing how each lover feels for the other.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Haiku

Two lover's voices - Haiku

I walk through the day 

Following the leaves you left

riding your tailwinds

Something is broken 

The owl cries through the night's chill

you should have tried more

10
1
1
Juice
41 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Write a pair of haikus, one describing how each lover feels for the other.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Haiku
Two lover's voices - Haiku

I walk through the day 
Following the leaves you left
riding your tailwinds


Something is broken 
The owl cries through the night's chill
you should have tried more
10
1
1
Juice
41 reads
Load 1 Comment
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott

2.

The two yellow feet

that cross each other

in our enamel sink

no longer white but 

filled with distinct pieces of 

a tiny rooster's body - they are special. 

11
3
0
Juice
41 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott
2.
The two yellow feet
that cross each other
in our enamel sink
no longer white but 
filled with distinct pieces of 
a tiny rooster's body - they are special. 

11
3
0
Juice
41 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Write a poem about something you have no control over and how that lack of control makes you feel.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse

acceleration

The trap door of

morning falls open

I hang, suspended 

on the threads 

of sleep

21
4
13
Juice
84 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Write a poem about something you have no control over and how that lack of control makes you feel.
Written by haileyelliott in portal Poetry & Free Verse
acceleration
The trap door of
morning falls open

I hang, suspended 
on the threads 
of sleep
21
4
13
Juice
84 reads
Load 13 Comments
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness

Seeds for You

I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 

I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 

perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,

is only a concept,

and concepts,

only have power if we give them power

and creativity

is not a concept

creativity is a force

of nature. 

15
3
0
Juice
127 reads
Donate coins to haileyelliott.
Juice
Cancel
Written by haileyelliott in portal Stream of Consciousness
Seeds for You
I see you, staring down into the pool of your light filled machine, gazing, your own reflection obscured by words, these words, which you are reading, entering your mind, via the cortex, visual, being patterns, recognized, being categories, categorized, placed, as on parchment, as though to be dried, as though for collection, collecting, you trickle through, aware, of these words, falling, falling down if I say falling, tripping, your tongue is involved, but it is a, backseat, driver, its only job, a minor flexing, for inward pronunciation, inside, above it, sounds which it will never, itself, form into complex and uniform vibrations which would be put into the world to be caught, exclusively, that is, for only the ears, specifically your ears, specifically, my ears, which will not catch anything, except the tipping sound, keys going, which I can hear, but which will, by the time you are seeing this, be over, expired, this will be no longer a process, it will, cease to be, in motion, it will be a record, of the event, of my thinking, the cortex, again, I think, but not only, it is, a whole body, it is, a whole mind, it is visual, black and white, symbols, it is, thought, it is, distilled, a distillation, I am reaching you, am I reaching you? 
I am trying, typing, to get through some membranous barrier that exists, inherently, between us. This inter cyber web that has the both of us snared, me, on my end, putting in, you, on your end, gathering out, getting something, somewhere, or, are we? Maybe not. I have a feeling though, it is not from here, the cortex, which here is merely the translator - translating for us, from me, to you, this feeling, so that you might come to see it, read it, understand, and through some strange human from of transmutation, come to feel it, too. The feeling is of seeds, gathering, and ripely, and about to spill, from the grassy fist, of their mother, and about to burst, and what will come of them, the progeny, the bursting forth, the new life, as solitary, they become, another, this is how my thoughts are, now, and if they land on your soil, then perhaps they will bloom, and so, I say them again, and again, silently, and you pick them up, if you like, and gather them, save them, put them by, for future use, in your garden, which, in this case, is your cerebellum, and I say that I want you to have these seeds, and I say that they are seeds of something good, and that is because, what I want you to know, is that perfection, it is impossible, and creation, it must be made free from the tyranny of 
perfection's grasping groping choking distorting disorienting fist, because perfection,
is only a concept,
and concepts,
only have power if we give them power
and creativity
is not a concept
creativity is a force
of nature. 






15
3
0
Juice
127 reads
Login to post comments.
Advertisement  (turn off)