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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by reshmameister in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I spend a lot of time examining the things that hang on my walls. The pieces of art, the old play programs, and movie posters keep me company most days. 

I go to college with thousands of other students but leave without a friend beyond the classroom. I enjoy my classmates. We get along great and I value our conversations, but I can never bring myself to push beyond that peer-to-peer relationship. Instead, I retreat to my bedroom to be away from the buzz . My Fight Club poster doesn't ask any personal questions and my coat rack never fakes a smile. 

 Though, the safety of my room can be suffocating at times. My flannel sheets are a little too warm, and the creaking of my wooden floor boards cannot replace conversation. 

There are days when I want to deface these surroundings. Tear them apart. The peace and solitude become crippling. The buzz of my heater is excruciating and I am left alone by my own accord.  

Although I enjoy being alone, there are days when it is not what I need. What I need is an awkward bathroom conversation or for someone to ask me an inappropriate question about my personal life. I need a nosy stranger to question what my ethnicity is so I can remember my family and why I look the way I do. I need someone to bump into me on the staircase at school and then apologetically touch my shoulder before rushing to class. I need a transaction at 7-Eleven. I need the cashier to tell me how fucked up gas prices are and how the Packers are doing. I need those people. Without them, my life is reduced to objects and small talk with my calendar.

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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by reshmameister in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I spend a lot of time examining the things that hang on my walls. The pieces of art, the old play programs, and movie posters keep me company most days. 

I go to college with thousands of other students but leave without a friend beyond the classroom. I enjoy my classmates. We get along great and I value our conversations, but I can never bring myself to push beyond that peer-to-peer relationship. Instead, I retreat to my bedroom to be away from the buzz . My Fight Club poster doesn't ask any personal questions and my coat rack never fakes a smile. 

 Though, the safety of my room can be suffocating at times. My flannel sheets are a little too warm, and the creaking of my wooden floor boards cannot replace conversation. 
There are days when I want to deface these surroundings. Tear them apart. The peace and solitude become crippling. The buzz of my heater is excruciating and I am left alone by my own accord.  

Although I enjoy being alone, there are days when it is not what I need. What I need is an awkward bathroom conversation or for someone to ask me an inappropriate question about my personal life. I need a nosy stranger to question what my ethnicity is so I can remember my family and why I look the way I do. I need someone to bump into me on the staircase at school and then apologetically touch my shoulder before rushing to class. I need a transaction at 7-Eleven. I need the cashier to tell me how fucked up gas prices are and how the Packers are doing. I need those people. Without them, my life is reduced to objects and small talk with my calendar.

2
0
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Juice
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Define what these words mean to you: "to be fucked" Prose only. 300 coins to the most candid write.
Written by reshmameister

"To be fucked" takes me to the bedroom rather than on the side of the freeway with a flat tire. I am not frustrated or being shorted, I'm being loved so hard. "To be fucked" involves me on bottom and him on top. I don't care if my curiosity takes my gaze down south, causing my second chin to morph into existence. It's mesmerizing. My head rolls back and my mind is not worried about decision- making or trying to come up with a meaning for my life. "To be fucked" is to be present. "To be fucked" is to let someone else take the lead. "To be fucked" is to let go. 

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Define what these words mean to you: "to be fucked" Prose only. 300 coins to the most candid write.
Written by reshmameister
"To be fucked" takes me to the bedroom rather than on the side of the freeway with a flat tire. I am not frustrated or being shorted, I'm being loved so hard. "To be fucked" involves me on bottom and him on top. I don't care if my curiosity takes my gaze down south, causing my second chin to morph into existence. It's mesmerizing. My head rolls back and my mind is not worried about decision- making or trying to come up with a meaning for my life. "To be fucked" is to be present. "To be fucked" is to let someone else take the lead. "To be fucked" is to let go. 
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by reshmameister in portal Publishing

Muscle Memory

I am six years old, in blue underwear, running through the sprinklers at my grandma’s house. My sister is crying because the water is frigid and the weather outside is not quite warm enough for her standards. My brother and I frolic across a huge stretch of grass, unsure if the game is to avoid the spray of water or chase it. I am fast, and strong and free and most of all, I feel an undeniable sense of oneness with my unblemished, chubby body.

What if we carried memories in different parts of our body? What if our toes remembered the sand from the beach we visited as a toddler, or our shoulders remembered the hands of a lover? Hair may be cut and skin cells may die and be shed, but perhaps it’s about location--our body’s relationship with past environments and people. Although the twinge is felt by my brain, the scar on my left elbow seems to carry a story within the very fibers of its dark tissue. The flat spot on the back of my head carries with it, the memory of impact. Touching these landmines triggers a tiny explosion of emotion and nostalgia. I am taken back in time to a point where I still have all my baby teeth, and acne scarring is a term I can’t even begin to comprehend.

I am receiving a flu shot from my mom in the comfort of her bedroom. My mind goes black as I fall and hit my head on the floor. Suddenly I am waiting at the bus stop at school. It is the end of the day and I’m ready to go home. My friend Cynthia and I discuss our math homework. Our conversation is interrupted by my mother. She kneels over me as I regain consciousness. I thought I was at school, worrying about Calculus. The indention on my once round head tells another story. My mind apparently went on a journey without inviting my body.

My scalp remembers the sharp pain of my mother pulling my hair into thick, tight braids. “Don’t worry, they’ll loosen throughout the day,” she says. She lightly smacks my forehead, “Hold still! It’ll be your fault if they’re crooked!” When the holidays come around, my sister and I negotiate who will get their hair done first. I decide to take the plunge. The heat of the curling iron twirls too closely to my skin causing me to flinch and burn myself anyway. My mother’s small hands can achieve quite a vice grip.

My time as a varsity tennis player in high school granted me dark skin, thick quads, and sore joints. I am tall and clumsy and slow. I'm getting mad at my legs for not moving fast enough to return a drop-shot. Every time I lose a point, I smack my legs with my racket and question why I even bother to play this stupid game. Every time I serve the ball, my long, thick braid gets caught in my armpit. I cut it off at the end of the season.

I’m 17 and I'm getting drunk with my tennis coaches. I have never had a drink before but doing so with older guys makes me feel mature and rebellious. The stuff tastes awful but I sip it down, because from what I’ve heard, it’s supposed to make you feel good. I can tell it’s kicking in when I go to grab my jacket and fall on my butt instead. This loss of control is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It is relieving and warm and it makes me laugh. By the end of the night I am throwing up in the bathroom. I cannot stop shivering and worrying about my approaching curfew. My coach holds back my long brown hair and tells me everything is going to be alright. I wish they were my mother’s hands instead.

I’m 19 and I’m throwing up in a McDonald’s bathroom but this time no one is holding my hair and I am not drunk. I wiggle my fingers along the back of my throat until burgers and fries and drinks come pouring out of my mouth. It’s a lot like tickling your nose until you sneeze. You do something voluntary until your body has an involuntary reaction. Eating begins to lose its luster, but the empty hollow feeling gets better and better each time. It’s not very nice to play games with your body like this, but I do it because it makes me feel like the number 0 . . . only less round. I enjoy the feeling of expulsion and the sense of control.The prepubescent body is just a bonus. A nosy little girl peeks her head under the stall to see what all the noise is. She asks me why I'm throwing up. I tell her I'm sick.

I’m 21 and I am sitting on the wet grass. There are cops and an ambulance nearby. My car is steaming and rain is falling, making it look as though my car were crying. They ask me if I’ve had anything to drink, and it is then, that I remember who I am and what I’ve just done. I remember buying a bottle of rum and walking around downtown by myself. I remember blurred faces asking if I was alright and then, a deflated airbag in my lap.

The memories of drunken nights throughout the past years come flooding back as I am being eased into the ambulance. I remember striving to numb my body, drown out the memories in every bump and crevice of my soft body. I remember falling. A lot. Discovering new bruises after every night of intoxicated adventures. I can remember my frail body unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in. I remember filling my stomach with booze instead of food. I remember taking autonomy for granted; yearning to lose control of my mind and limbs. I remember the moment I started to forget. I remember my mother’s hands.

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Juice
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We are a literary agency seeking fresh talent. In 200 words or more, demonstrate your writing talent. We will be in touch with any and all promising participants throughout the rest of this quarter.
Written by reshmameister in portal Publishing
Muscle Memory
I am six years old, in blue underwear, running through the sprinklers at my grandma’s house. My sister is crying because the water is frigid and the weather outside is not quite warm enough for her standards. My brother and I frolic across a huge stretch of grass, unsure if the game is to avoid the spray of water or chase it. I am fast, and strong and free and most of all, I feel an undeniable sense of oneness with my unblemished, chubby body.

What if we carried memories in different parts of our body? What if our toes remembered the sand from the beach we visited as a toddler, or our shoulders remembered the hands of a lover? Hair may be cut and skin cells may die and be shed, but perhaps it’s about location--our body’s relationship with past environments and people. Although the twinge is felt by my brain, the scar on my left elbow seems to carry a story within the very fibers of its dark tissue. The flat spot on the back of my head carries with it, the memory of impact. Touching these landmines triggers a tiny explosion of emotion and nostalgia. I am taken back in time to a point where I still have all my baby teeth, and acne scarring is a term I can’t even begin to comprehend.

I am receiving a flu shot from my mom in the comfort of her bedroom. My mind goes black as I fall and hit my head on the floor. Suddenly I am waiting at the bus stop at school. It is the end of the day and I’m ready to go home. My friend Cynthia and I discuss our math homework. Our conversation is interrupted by my mother. She kneels over me as I regain consciousness. I thought I was at school, worrying about Calculus. The indention on my once round head tells another story. My mind apparently went on a journey without inviting my body.

My scalp remembers the sharp pain of my mother pulling my hair into thick, tight braids. “Don’t worry, they’ll loosen throughout the day,” she says. She lightly smacks my forehead, “Hold still! It’ll be your fault if they’re crooked!” When the holidays come around, my sister and I negotiate who will get their hair done first. I decide to take the plunge. The heat of the curling iron twirls too closely to my skin causing me to flinch and burn myself anyway. My mother’s small hands can achieve quite a vice grip.

My time as a varsity tennis player in high school granted me dark skin, thick quads, and sore joints. I am tall and clumsy and slow. I'm getting mad at my legs for not moving fast enough to return a drop-shot. Every time I lose a point, I smack my legs with my racket and question why I even bother to play this stupid game. Every time I serve the ball, my long, thick braid gets caught in my armpit. I cut it off at the end of the season.

I’m 17 and I'm getting drunk with my tennis coaches. I have never had a drink before but doing so with older guys makes me feel mature and rebellious. The stuff tastes awful but I sip it down, because from what I’ve heard, it’s supposed to make you feel good. I can tell it’s kicking in when I go to grab my jacket and fall on my butt instead. This loss of control is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. It is relieving and warm and it makes me laugh. By the end of the night I am throwing up in the bathroom. I cannot stop shivering and worrying about my approaching curfew. My coach holds back my long brown hair and tells me everything is going to be alright. I wish they were my mother’s hands instead.

I’m 19 and I’m throwing up in a McDonald’s bathroom but this time no one is holding my hair and I am not drunk. I wiggle my fingers along the back of my throat until burgers and fries and drinks come pouring out of my mouth. It’s a lot like tickling your nose until you sneeze. You do something voluntary until your body has an involuntary reaction. Eating begins to lose its luster, but the empty hollow feeling gets better and better each time. It’s not very nice to play games with your body like this, but I do it because it makes me feel like the number 0 . . . only less round. I enjoy the feeling of expulsion and the sense of control.The prepubescent body is just a bonus. A nosy little girl peeks her head under the stall to see what all the noise is. She asks me why I'm throwing up. I tell her I'm sick.

I’m 21 and I am sitting on the wet grass. There are cops and an ambulance nearby. My car is steaming and rain is falling, making it look as though my car were crying. They ask me if I’ve had anything to drink, and it is then, that I remember who I am and what I’ve just done. I remember buying a bottle of rum and walking around downtown by myself. I remember blurred faces asking if I was alright and then, a deflated airbag in my lap.
The memories of drunken nights throughout the past years come flooding back as I am being eased into the ambulance. I remember striving to numb my body, drown out the memories in every bump and crevice of my soft body. I remember falling. A lot. Discovering new bruises after every night of intoxicated adventures. I can remember my frail body unable to find a comfortable position to sleep in. I remember filling my stomach with booze instead of food. I remember taking autonomy for granted; yearning to lose control of my mind and limbs. I remember the moment I started to forget. I remember my mother’s hands.

2
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Juice
10 reads
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Written by reshmameister

I want to pitch a hammock in between your two front teeth;

becoming an accessory to your smile.

I want to lay there and listen to you mumble lyrics to songs I've never heard;

Taste the Parliaments that funnel smoke into your paper lantern lungs.

I want to pluck the splinters from your grimy hands only to envy their closeness to you,

Kayak through the valleys of your tender palms,

Drink wine from your wrinkled wrists,

Run marathons along the ridge of your spine, and

Climb to the top of your widow's peak; pausing only to admire the view.

And as I tire. . .

I want to fall beneath the sheets of your bed and become friends with the dust bunnies;

Tell them about the beauty they could witness if only they made their way to the surface.

And in the small of your back I will lay my head and dream of your crooked smile.

I'll hold you close and breath in your silence,

Fog your glasses with my Bacardi breath, shielding you from the shit of this world.

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Juice
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Written by reshmameister
I want to pitch a hammock in between your two front teeth;
becoming an accessory to your smile.
I want to lay there and listen to you mumble lyrics to songs I've never heard;
Taste the Parliaments that funnel smoke into your paper lantern lungs.

I want to pluck the splinters from your grimy hands only to envy their closeness to you,
Kayak through the valleys of your tender palms,
Drink wine from your wrinkled wrists,
Run marathons along the ridge of your spine, and
Climb to the top of your widow's peak; pausing only to admire the view.

And as I tire. . .

I want to fall beneath the sheets of your bed and become friends with the dust bunnies;
Tell them about the beauty they could witness if only they made their way to the surface.
And in the small of your back I will lay my head and dream of your crooked smile.
I'll hold you close and breath in your silence,
Fog your glasses with my Bacardi breath, shielding you from the shit of this world.

0
0
0
Juice
18 reads
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