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Literature
The Last Book
The last book you read
I imagine a little like your last breath
when you don't know that you're dying
just yet - maybe the last book you'll read
will be one you know well, and read a good many times,
breathing life into words by reading them,
making letters, names, stories come alive -
or maybe, the last book that you will read
will be one you have not had the time to learn
how to love; maybe it is difficult to love,
with winding, confusing phrases and a tendency
for the overly mysterious, or dramatic,
and maybe it made you cry -
the last book you read,
will it be a special one? maybe
a beloved's diary, or your own diary entries
about that o
Literature
Automatic
i.
"So where are you from?" The boy leans toward me, questions swimming in his eyes. I smile.
"Oh, I'm from Boston."
"No, I mean, where are you from?" My smile falters as I realize where this is going. It's an all-too familiar conversation, one I've been having since I was old enough to reply.
"Do you mean where was I born?"
"Yeah."
"I was born in China."
"Do you speak Chinese?"
"No."
"Does your family speak Chinese?"
"No."
He looks befuddled. I sigh.
"I'm adopted."
"Oh!" I see the light bulb over his head go off in a shower of sparks. "Do you know who your real parents are? Like, your real parents?" My temper flares. I stifle th
Literature
Fire and Water
It was raining in Lancaster on September 3rd 1555, and Jane Ask loved the earthy smell that it coaxed out of the soil.
She wiped away the sheen of rainwater from her forehead with the back of her hand and set her small basket of nettles down by the front door. Later she would dry out the leaves and reduce them to a powder; the substance worked wonders on small wounds which refused to stop bleeding.
Jane had always been something of an herbalist. Growing up with only a father, and two older brothers from his first marriage, she had spent the majority of her childhood outdoors. Now practically a spinster at the age of twenty-two, she knew the
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An aphorism I came up with during a conversation with *SadisticIceCream, about whether one could (and should) start writing a novel without first practicing with shorter stories and poetry.
The consensus, btw, appears to be that aspiring novelists would benefit from any kind of writing practice, but that the technique does require its own skill set and mindset.
On a related note, is a six-word piece such as this more like poetry or prose? Discuss.
The consensus, btw, appears to be that aspiring novelists would benefit from any kind of writing practice, but that the technique does require its own skill set and mindset.
On a related note, is a six-word piece such as this more like poetry or prose? Discuss.
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Prose. The short length is prohibitive to flow and cadence; it might have it, but six words is too short to really establish a pattern. I actually do enjoy free verse, but I also don't buy the new status quo where everything is considered poetry.
It could always be called prosetry though.
I really enjoy these incredibly short offerings of yours; you cram a lot of idea into a very tiny place ("Phenomenal cosmic power!...itty-bitty living space"). This one is particularly memorable.
It could always be called prosetry though.
I really enjoy these incredibly short offerings of yours; you cram a lot of idea into a very tiny place ("Phenomenal cosmic power!...itty-bitty living space"). This one is particularly memorable.