Writerscreed Discovery Of June 2018
Writerscreed Discovery of June 2018
Writerscreed has been digging through the Tumblr Writing Community to find more writers to feature on our blog. Here are the talented writers we have found during June who deserve more attention! Check them out and give them a follow, and as usual, Keep writing everyone! We cannot wait to see who will make the list in July.
@armchairpoet28
@oscarsins
@thepyschoticgirlsworld
@theinscrutableescapee
@rehnwriter
@my-dragoneyes
@insteadofthis
@annytyx
@beerkatt
@shoolster
@domesticatedwanderer
@dreamingonclouds
@poemsmostly
@driftwards
@aviatowl
@bhumikasingh
@dreamingonclouds
@cocoagoddess331
@poetrybybee
@writingioana2003
@shebleedsblueink
@misanthrofray
@ughizi
@agenderturtle
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More Posts from Theinscrutableescapee
the drinks are on me
Past midnight, at a rusty bar, a young man conversing the outcome of a wrestling match. Quite charming, really: three shirt buttons undone, smooth grin of “the drinks are on me”. I heard the conversation make some turns, some more abrupt than others. The more drinks hit the counter, the more his words left tire tracks. He was soon boasting his fine palate for Japanese whiskey and saying “I saw scenery of the sort in Kyoto back in 2004”, “Hey Jim, here’s a quarter, go play me a song on the jukebox will ya”.
He was in the booth in front of me, but I couldn’t see his face; I only caught a glimpse of his slicked-back brown hair. Maybe I had one or two, two or three drinks myself. Maybe it was a little too dark. I didn’t usually go to bars back then.
“Wait, play that again, I’ve heard the tune before, just don’t quite remember from where”.
A waitress, still bearing the traits of adolescence but old enough to look at you straight in the eye, came around.
“Most people call me Connor. But you don’t look like ‘most people’. So call me whatever you want, it’ll do.”
Connor. The way he pronounced his name, revealing his Boston accent, still rings in my ears. I still mouth it to this very day, letting my jaw slightly drop and my tongue press against the back of my lower teeth, just to make me remember that, despite the drunken haze the moment was soaked in, it was not a dream. It was something concrete in the stupor of it all.
Soon enough, they were all loudly singing, their arms enlaced around their necks, swaying back and forth, tears swelling in their eyes. I watched, amused, possibly sipping the foam of yet another beer.
And that’s when everything started to slow down. I laid my head against the wooden panel on my left side and let my heavy eyelids close.
“We’re closing”; I was awoken, dazed, from the deep trance of a dreamless sleep.
The bar was empty: only the manager, a heavily-built middle-aged man with tattoos covering his neck was standing right in front of me, slightly frowning.
I rose from my seat, silent from the grogginess. As I was about to make my way out of the booth, I noticed a piece of paper, on the table, in the corner of my eye. Unsure if it was mine or not, I grabbed it and shoved it in my back pocket.
I took the bus home but got off one stop too early. I stumbled my way through the streets, occasionally letting out a chuckle for no particular reason. The streets were bare; the town was dead. Ten minutes later, after fumbling with the keys and crawling in the stairs, I fell, fully clothed, onto my bed and fell back asleep.
It was 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I was sitting down, my hand laying on the countertop, watching the coffee slowly drip, every drop tolling in my head. The piece of paper that I had taken the night before was in my right hand; it was a phone number.
7911-75246 written in slanted black ink.
I grabbed my phone, turning it in my right hand indecisively. A few minutes later, the number was dialled; here we go again.
© Margaux Emmanuel
punch-drunk
There were indistinct screams and catcalls coming from every angle of the dark abyss. They echoed up to her ears, but all she could hear was the thudding of her own thundering heart. The lights around her were bright, blinding. She felt the impression of an arm on her shoulder, water gushing down her throat, drops falling onto her bare stomach, mixed with the sweat.
“Come on, you gotta go the distance...”
“Tyler, she’s punch-drunk.”
Punch-drunk. “Punch-drunk”, she said, the words hazily forming on her lips.
“That upper-cut busted her ribs, the girl can’t even walk straight, let alone land one. She’s either gonna get knocked out or the judge’s gonna call it a technical.”
Knocked out clean.
A warm breeze blowing onto her face. Apartment buildings were towering around them, the sun red in the glass windows.
“So you see, he was all like punch-drunk and then he like threw a jab and then this uppercut that perfectly landed on his jaw. Like this look. And then BOOM he got knocked-out clean, it was the most beautiful thing I ever seen I tell ya.”, he said as he jumped down from the table he was standing on top of.
“One day, I’ll teach ya how to box ya know.”
“Me? A boxer? Don’t be silly.”
She suddenly felt a sharp, twisting pain in her ribs.
A bell rings.
“Round six!”
“Come on, you gotta get back in there. Remember, she’s a swarmer so try to block her right…”
Her mother’s crying.
“He should have never practiced that sport. Your father always said that it’d end badly”.
Her face met the blood-covered floor.
“One! Two! Three! …”
“It’s over Tyler. For fuck’s sake!”
“Four! Five!”
“Sawyer...”, she said, tears lining her eyes.
“Six! Sev-“
She got up and rose both of her gloves.
© Margaux Emmanuel
17
they were all desperate
to light your cigarette
only seventeen years old
but lips leafed in gold
I stopped believing in god
the moment I saw you,
you sepia-toned haunted ghost
you keyed the words
of your own stolen bible
on the edge of my tongue
your eyes were a pool of dusk
where I saw shadow puppets
dancing on candlelight
rose-pricked skin
and I had only ever seen
the rosy dawn
that never dared to kiss me
at the end of the night
you’d be gone in the morning,
and I’d still feel you
against my skin
as if you had been
my very own
living nightmare
as if you had said the things
you had never thought
never said
but that I had always longed
to hear.
haiku
eyes of dented ink;
summer liquor store color
crawl into this bed
© Margaux Emmanuel
He stares at the ceiling, a scratched melody bleeding through the thin wall. To his right, the wall was unadorned, in an almost naked, dehumanized manner. A lonely flower was limply standing in a vase, giving him big gloomy eyes, sitting on a small table. The porridge sticks to the spoon that he brings to his mouth. “Mr. Rodler, I will come back to give you your medication in half an hour” The white sheets are stiff against his goosebumped legs, he runs his hand on them, trying to decrease them, pressing his palms against his thighs’ skin. Weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind weekend in a whirlwind “Weekend in a whirlwind!” “Mr. Rodler, I beg your pardon?” He bites his lip as the woman takes a last glance at him as she leaves the room. He rubs the back of his left hand against his lips, smudging the porridge bordering his lips onto his hand. He takes, or rather he grips, the spoon and circles it around the ridge of the empty bowl, letting the utensil schizophrenically scratch and screech against the bowl’s metal. He finally takes the bowl, rises it with both hands to his eyes’ level, and looks at his reflection. “Weekend in a whirlwind”. The nurse enters the room once again with a glass of water in her hand and a small tray in the other. “Can he play something else? I don’t enjoy ragtime.” “Mr. Rodler, what are you talking about? No music is playing.” He nervously turns to the left wall as puts his hands onto his ears. The white nurse stares at him with a composed incomprehension. “Why don’t you play some chess? Mr. Saito would, I bet, love to play against you.” “I don’t want him to know what I’m thinking.” “But, Mr. Rodler, it’s just a game.” He vigorously shakes his head as he nervously tugs on the sheets that were tightly held back by the sides of the mattress. “Don’t look at me that way, I beg you.” “Mr. Rodler, do I need to bring you to the upstairs ward?” He stays silent because he knows very well what goes on in “the upstairs ward”. He looks at the nurse and hisses: “Weekend in a whirlwind”.
weekend in a whirlwind | © Margaux Emmanuel