collect cute boys, keep them in jars, feed them sunshine and smooches
baby’s growing up
i had to submit one of my essays to two magazines for my advanced prose final and now begins the agonizing process of waiting for them to get back to me
he looks like he wishes he was in modest mouse
“
| — | Lizzie, regarding the lead singer of hawthorn heights (via agirldrinkdrunk) |
i wrote a thing while i was on the bus and then when i got home and then right now so yeah i kind of like it quite a bit im trying to work on developing characters and giving them dialogue and junk
You Should Be Kinder To The Flowers
It’s not the small boy picking the flowers that makes Marge uncomfortable. It’s the way he’s picking them; breaking the entire head off, leaving the stem barren and lonely in the ground, before crushing the heads of the flowers, the smaller petals disintegrating between his meaty digits, their fellows strewn around his tiny sneakers like so many fallen soldiers.
“It’s none of your business, Marge,” she tries to remind herself, “It doesn’t concern you. That is not your child or grandchild, and those are not your flowers.”
Still, she watches and cringes as he totters over to a row of yellow tulips, sunning themselves by the path, and before she knows it, she’s kneeling beside him, holding out a hand for him in good faith.
“You should be kinder to the flowers.”
He looks up at her, mouth agape, great brown eyes ogling her wrinkled face, grey hair, and paint splattered smock. She reaches for a tulip, plucks it properly, twirls it in her fingers for him.
“See how the petals catch the sun? And they’re soft, like velvet,” she tells him in a quiet voice, looking not at the boy, but at the perfect yellow tulip in her fingers. It reminds her of fourteen, of leading cattle home through fields of fireflies the same color as the tulips tickling her ankles.
Taking his tiny, pudgy hand gently in her own large, wrinkled one, she places it against the petals. He touches them and pulls his hand away, peering quizzically at the strange yellow toy, before trying to snatch the head off again. But Marge is quick for her age, and pulls the tulip out of harm’s way just in time.
“Gently, gently!” she warns him kindly. He puts his hands to his mouth in a huff, which is screwing up into a sour pinch, and Marge knows he’s about to wail.
“Smell,” she mutters quickly, thrusting the flower under his nose. He breathes in, bursting into giggles when the petals tickle him, and smiles up at her again, the imminent scream forgotten.
Hoping against hope he won’t stomp on it or put it in his mouth, she hands him the tulip. He takes it quickly and burrows his face into it, his head popping up in a giggle immediately, looking at Marge excitedly, like he’s amazed it worked on his own. She grins at him with all of her false teeth.
“You be good to the flowers, and they’ll be good to you,” Marge tells him, ruffling his dark blonde hair with a paint-stained hand.
“Edgar! Edgar!”
A woman in a business suit walks frightening fast towards them. Marge is certain she’ll turn her ankle, nearly running in pumps through the grass. She reaches the pair in no time, taking a moment to straighten her jacket and pat down her still-perfect hair before extending a manicured hand to Marge, which she promptly ignores until the woman finally puts it down again.
“I’m so sorry he bothered you, he’s so precocious, always wandering, I was right in the middle of a phone meeting- HI SWEETIE!”
She scoops up her son, who had wandered over and tugged on her pant leg while she was rambling at Marge.
“Well, sorry again. We’d better be getting home, huh buddy?”
Before Marge can register what’s happening, the boy’s mother swings him onto her hip and starts walking back across the park. He squirms around expertly in her arms to wave at Marge. She sighs before smiling and waving back at him. She notices he has the yellow tulip still gripped in his small fist.
sooo i decided to actually record the flash piece i wrote because its fun??? so if you’ve ever wanted to hear me narrate, there you go ok
I often catch myself daydreaming about curling up inside your ribcage, fantasies of bathing in the fluid in your lungs, warm, safe, nestling deep in your arteries, leisurely swimming through your stomach acid, skin bubbling pleasantly, digesting into you, holding your heart in my clumsy hands; bloody, vulnerable, powerful, alive, ba-dump, ba-dump, conversing with your kidneys, asking them what you think of me, if you want our bones to clink together as badly as I do, pulling out your hair follicles, like petals, “he loves me, he loves me not,” hoping to someday know what it’s like to lay between the folds in your skin, but I suppose, for now, this will do; legs entangled, my head on your chest, smelling of sweat, the taste of your mouth settled in mine, hands running through your curly hair, the sigh and shiver you can’t help when they brush your neck, feeling your vocal chords vibrate my whole body as we sing, voices melded together in almost perfect pitch: “Let me hold it close and keep it here with me.”
i wrote a short short piece as an exercise in fiction today
its called “To Men, With Love”
Hello, my name is Lizzie.
No, not “babe”
Not “girl”
Definitely not “bitch”I didn’t fall from anywhere.
No, my heart hasn’t been broken.
No, you don’t have to save me.
But I’m not on my period.
I’m sure you are a “nice guy”
I’m sure you love your mother.
Yeah, yeah, but I wouldn’t treat you right.
Just, trust me.
No, why, are you on yours?
Yeah, right, gender equality.
Uh huh, 70 cents on the dollar.
Yeah, it is fucked up.
No, I don’t want to go back to your place.
What does “slutty”even mean?
Her skirt is cute.
So she’s a slut, and you sleep with her, and you’re a player?
I’m not on my fucking period.
