ParisianTwist's blog

“All right?”
I looked up. “What?”
“Are you all right, mate?”
I stared back at the bar. “Fine,” I muttered, “just fine.”
She sat next to me, inching up on to tiptoe to sit on the barstool.
“Can ya’ spare a girl a drink, then?” she leaned closer, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. In the dimly lit bar, I could just make out her facial features. She was thin, perhaps even pretty.
I placed a bill on the counter. “-tender? A pint for the lady.”
The girl looked at me, smirking.
“Right. What would you like?”
“I’d like a shot of whiskey, and I’m most certainly not a lady.” Read more »

Rainbow connection.mp3

(Admittedly, the formatting is not how I would like it, but I don't have the time at the moment to add in all my indents. Also, all the lyrics are in italics. This was for my first assignment in creative writing, write about a song and place it into a story. it's a good prompt... I'm not sure how well it worked for me though. I felt a podcast would be the best output for of this.) Read more »

I heard what you said,
on the telephone.

She didn't look at me,
I ignored the slight
twitch
she had in her voice.

"You're father wants to speak to you"

and so he did,
in mimics and whispers about his dying
sister's husband who had once
(for fifteen years)
only been a lover that no-one
in the family had liked.

it's a waiting game,
with one hand on the door-knob and
one ear by the phone
waiting for the ringing sound to
expire from the plastic hunk sitting on the
ledge.
The bags are packed and we're
waiting to head out the
door to the car to the highway Read more »

Upon arrival:
Hair, drawn back with a tiny bow bends
over my eyes and Plink plink
Raindrops drip from eyelashes,
painted by mascara already running, running
down my cheeks and onto salty lips,
stained with traces of ripened cherries
blackberries bruised and violet.

breathe is a verb I no longer possess.

Stepping closer:
Tree-trunk legs bend and sway with each joust against
river-flowing crowds pouring pouring
out into the street towards the cobblestone walkways,
cabs and shining umbrellas, waiting waiting to rush
each child/mother/brother/sister/lover away to warm houses
for a cup of tea and a biscuit.

Reaching out:
I touch your hand- cold and damp on a dreary-silent day
skin dappled with tiny droplets-puddles plink plink
falling gently from the tip of your nose
making streams along your neck running, running
down only to be sopped up by my hair against your chest-
down my cheeks and onto salty lips- Read more »

A few characterizations of the same woman. Not sure where this is going. It may end here.

If your name was Giselle, you would laugh like a butterfly, shake your wild, red mane like a lioness protecting her children from the poachers, fierce, proud, magnificent. You would stomp around in stiletto heels and scream like a bat when I returned with your coffee either too cold, too hot, or perhaps with not enough milk, though you've always ordered it black. You would covet your designer clothes bought by parents who spent their youth working to make you your precious trust fund that you've been spending on upscale liquors, trying to drink away the emptiness you feel. If your name was Giselle. Read more »

i.
They said Lot's wife
turned into a pillar of salt
-just for staring back for one
split second
less than a grain of sand smashed into smitherines
for all the world to see.

ii.
Your mother has a way of speaking so the words
crackle like fire off the tip of her tongue-
burning everything they touch with blisters
swelling and oozing over your cracked lips
sweating with tears for years
over and over and over again.

iii.
I watched you watch the watch I watched them
tattoo
into my foot that summer day-
poisoned ink gathering at the surface and gush-shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
bleeding on the surface like a well of death-
out of my veins and into your eyes
out of my veins and onto the ground
out of my veins and through and through
I guess we're through
we're done.

iv.
I wished you'd tie me up with something you once called
ro- mance
two perfect syllables I never quite understood until I
faced the floor faced the door Read more »

This is not a poem.

One day when you grow old:
I will call you on the telephone
And ask about the time we
Went to the park or
Played parlor games or
Drank lemonade
And you will remember them because
You will have written them down in a story
And I will have forgotten
Because the glint of the sun
In your clear blue eyes
And the touch of your hand
Against my own
Or the thick taste of lemons
Ticking my tongue
Were so much more
Important
Than the politics we spoke of
The games we were playing
Or the restaurant we sat in
Because I can’t build a life out of words
Syllables and punctuation:
But I can see the light in your eyes
And feel your fingers intertwined with mine
While tasting bittersweet lemons
Forever.

In our senior year, we're asked to write a memoir- a piece describing our four years. I thought I should post mine- perhaps an incentive for others to post short stories. It does have a few difficult subjects, as well as a couple of reposts- but overall, I think it's a decent piece. any suggestions would be welcomed as well.

:BEGINNING:
[No character ever wins- no matter what life they lead.]
He told me:
“You’re working from something that you can’t have experienced. Try something easier.”
She asked me to:
“Either choose a topic that you can understand and explain, or I’ll be forced to choose for you.
They told me:
“You’ve got amazing word choice- now just make me believe this isn’t just some dumb character that I’m supposed to care about.
I told them: “I’ll make her real.”

:FRESHMAN YEAR: Read more »

I can't fathom the reason, one foot out the door, the other snared too tightly by the carpet kept in the foyer for the last
six months.
It seems as though every time I turn around there's something new to worry about, anotherlieanothertruthanothertear-
I'm so fucking tired.
When did everything stop-
Rewind-
d-n-i-w-e-r

and start back over, tripping every last one of us with the promise of something more in the springtime, something better in the summer when the days last
forever
and the sun stretches from pink to blue, to white, and back again as it sinks behind the smoky mountains,
like teeth,
gobbling up the life, the light the joy the beauty-
of all that we pretend to understand.

I want to take pictures of girls being boys and boys loving flowers and flowers dancing and being
mowed down by everyone that deems them weeds-
because That's conformity at work, my friends.
That's photojournalism at it's best.

Natural selection by human propaganda. Read more »

i.
i knew you were
(shut up)
inside yourself the moment
i let the words drip so
soundlessly from my fingertips,
trapping you in your dark, warm
corner where you slept for
decades without peace.

it pained me, watching every
shimmer from so far away,
every note you spoke,
every sound your wrote
speckled with
(treason)
lingering on your lips
hours after the first kiss
fell.

ii.
She, staring into blue screened
madness allows my fancies
to whisper to her in her
dreams, and sifts through my
letters to find simple
images and phrases and
people
I've tried to hide so
carefully.

But mother knows all.

iii.
i was home for three
seconds-
until your angry words filled
with black ink
swooped in and
made me blind again.

i.
First poem in six months-
time spent falling in love,
writing letters,
weaving hats for children of musical
notes and whispered stories.

There comes a time
when even the water,
dripping from the eves
begins to sound like
words- and it's time to write again.

ii.
That girl- Blue dress, blue eyes,
blue smile,
stands wilted in the rain,
veins running tiny blue rivers
through her arms,
blossoming into broken branches
where her wrist meets her palm.
I've seen her standing there for days,
and for once,
I take her tiny fingers,
and press them between mine.

iii.
Ridges swell where fingernails have
bitten into her own skin,
violet, crescent moons fading
slowly as the tendrils unfurl,
each sinewy strand reaching
for something more.

She scans my arms, rugged trunks
in comparison with her
willow frame,
latching her gaze onto the ridges
I have known,
gently riding up my limbs like
pale blue ocean waves across
a pebbled beach.

iv. Read more »

Blue-
The colour of your sweater
blends beneath the skulking clouds,
through the cold window panes above your pillows.
It presses against me,
Cold- unlike the skin it covers,
Pin-pricking my own until every hair stands on end,
every inch has a million tiny mountains-

I can't stay.

Red-
Stripes gather at the base of your neck,
covering you with glamour,
a tattooed mark hidden just below the collar.
The band about your wrist
slides effortlessly to the side,
revealing stripes of another colour, a blind white-
left from every time we've said good-bye before.

I can't lie.

Black-
Thick as the night air- the cold of January
sweeps through each fiber, piercing us,
temptingly- pulling you further away from warmth.
Gingerly, you rub the charcoal
off my chin, hair coloured with paint,
frozen now with the icy winter winds of the north.
You slide into the shadows, watching as I drive-

I can't-- Breathe.

Vi.
We lay in bed, the pinks and greens
shattering any winter drafts
pulled in by the covered windows.
I couldn't help but believe--
This is a lie
this is not happening.
A single stalk sprang from the drift,
blue and white against the framed pane I
uncovered as you left for a moment.
It was then I knew I was still alone--
even as you brushed my hair out of my
blue eyes.

V.
Walking away I glimpsed him again,
the corner of my eye lighting on simple
colours within the stark room.
Not another black or brown, as I would have expected
from someone so--
invisible.

iv.
Bright shined from the tips of curling
flax balanced on the top of your forehead,
a pair of thin rims beneath
frame simple lenses into your innermost
voices- ones I heard over the summer
sparkling in the night like fireflies
with sharp-crisp words on the cobblestones.
You held them so tight, those words,
never trembling, missing, stepping out of line-- Read more »

I'm trying something different here. I don't know where it's going, where it went, if anywhere at all. Suggestions would be appreciated. Thanks, Paris.

As far as things go, I guess this hasn’t gone especially well.
I never meant for things to go this far, for everything to spin out of control all so fast. It really wasn’t my idea, any of it.
It wasn’t as if I woke up one morning and decided that I had to pull every emotion I’d ever felt out of my memory, out of my heart, and pretend as though nothing had ever happened, to pretend I was a stone—
But I did.

I don’t really remember what happened, whether it was a thought that came to me, whether there was another car on the road, whether my eyes were closing gently, whether I didn’t care anymore or maybe—maybe I forgot I was supposed to care—and I let my hand slip off the wheel, just a little longer than it should have. Read more »

Winter rattles teeth, still clenched in sockets,
tucked behind frozen breath and blue
lips, pulling the frozen air in-
out of lungs where its been kept
safe- warm- alive.

Hair flies crisply to and fro behind your head,
whispering cold, glass, messages from blue
eyes, reflecting the ice, shattered
on the ground, trampled
alone- sharp- dead.

Hands grip tightly, flesh ropes filled with
tiny bone branches, blossoming blue
fingertips where the skin brushes the frigid wind,
each digit a secret when kept in yours
safe- warm- alive.

I haven't posted for almost a month.
I haven't even thought about the site, I've tried to stay away.
Why?
Because what's left is not what I loved, what I helped to create, what I pined for and checked obsessively for hours on end last year.
I like to fancy myself as one of the few originals who stayed, through the infiltration of the many newcomers, through the times of hardship that we were promised would pass.
They're not passing. Its happening over and over again.
I do love this site. I love the first people I met here, I love the friendships I made, the amount of drama and heartache that has happened because of these people and the amazing things I've accomplished.
I feel like it might be time to say good bye though.
I feel like I've done as much as I can to keep it the same site...
I guess I'm nostalgic. Sites morph and evolve over time, just like people, they change with the come and go of traffic. Read more »

Amanda Song.mp3

Since there was no school today and my internet has been down... A new podcast. Adapted from the poem "Skeleton Key." (Sorry the key is a bit off... My voice is cracking. I'm getting a cold. Will redo the vocals later when not sick.)

I will not be your secret,
Hiding between closed doorways and drawers,
I will not ask forgiveness,
I’ve done nothing wrong (but I dress like a whore)
And I will not be your mother,
Keeping you safe when the monsters come close
And I will make your legs quiver
Like Genevieve’s, Oh, Oh ,Oh, Oh Read more »

If I could tell you just one more secret, in the form of paper cranes and whispers, I'd tell you I've forgotten what love is: or that maybe I never knew in the first place.

I will not be your secret,
kept in dark corners,
where no prying eyes can see,
trapped between doorways and drawers,
always falling into your grasp:
If only just to be turned again and again.

I will not be your Skeleton key,
unlocking the world right before your lips,
whispering the secrets of antique dolls
and wardrobe walls into your skin.

I will not collect dust,
stowed away in pockets,
kept only to you until your pocket-watch
clicks one too many times,
and tick-tock
time runs out.

The longer I'm trapped here,
the faster this unravels.
With only my mind and hands for survival,
I've nothing to do but to
pick this apart til there's
nothing

left.

The question really is, have I used it up? Have I used up all the time that is physically possible to become, to change, to morph into something different? Have I used enough words, enough letters, enough paint and oxygen to sustain a completely separate person? I don't know. I never will.
The thing is now, I've got to live through it, with the things that have changed, now I've got to be the conquering queen rather than the defender, protecting and keeping secrets, quiet as the stars, seeing all but eventually just fading, fading out into nothing, thousands of years after they have already passed.
But no, people don't change, they say, they say places and times, things change and become antiquated, but people don't change. Its hard to believe, staring down the same eyes year after year and feeling the disconnect, the distance growing. If people don't change, why is that there? Read more »

She's downstairs now, wandering around in a $500 silk bathrobe that she bought in a manic phase. She wants to know where her son is. He's right in front of her, looking at her.

She seems so lost, but I dont want to think about it, I dont want to see this, this woman that I've known all my life as a second mother, reduced to this. This isnt a person.

She's talking to her husband, telling him to stop with the damn hallmark cards, to stop with the words, because she's a quiet person.

I can hear the tears in her voice. She doesnt know what she's saying.

"Ow, OWWW, ow ow. I came to you because you know how it hurts, you always know how to fix it. That's why I married you, Phil, because you're more like me than any other person."

They talk not-so-quietly under the stairs, away from everyone.

They dont hear me typing up in the attic, where they can't see me.

It feels wrong, spying on them like this. Read more »

Sitting in the corner, the little boy plays quietly with the figurines. It's not his first choice, he'd rather be playing with the computer games his parents have bought him, rather be away from the world, rather delve further away from reality, further off from me, from his family, from everything he can see here in front of him.

He's seven.

its funny, watching him in his house, watching him with the people around him. He's so different, he's so... over their heads. Over my head. While the rest of us are thinking about how to deal with the bowls for thanksgiving, how to move the cars so that everyone can get out in the right order, how to put the kids on the train, he's off in his own world.

I guess I understand. Read more »

The whims are garbled by the bracken,
glarning jibely through the nonce,
lively sloning verly sun-breath,
fornisation likely haunts.

Lively sloning verly sun-breath,
whirlsing clovely through the morn,
dashing glibly ronshatrastic
covr'ed outh the dirtsy sorn.

Glarning jibely through the nonce,
a blatter furled unfracks the throne,
dashing glibly ronshatrastic
tens and threes pourmate unsewn.

Covr'ed outh the dirtsy grable
burble lanth the frithy sorn,
the whims are garbled by the bracken
whirlsing clovely through the morn.

i studied your fingers
dripping soundlessly from one leg
to the other, like velvet ribbons or
silken worms, crawling
softly through the heavy air,
as though afraid to disturb the
surface
they were about to touch upon.
Stifled laughter slipped from your
lips and echoed in the empty room,
the bright screen illuminating your
careful eyes, avoiding mine in the
blue-grey light
dancing with inner joy that I couldn't see,
but felt with my hands against your shoulders.
You're just as much a
changeling
as i, a voice with a painted shell,
only made more delicate
by strings that have never been pulled.

i.
I almost believed
him
with the tears in his eyes
and apologies dripping from his
lips.
I wanted to touch him–

ii.
He's changed,
not like the seasons,
from cold to growth,
blossoming to warmth,
but straight to death and cold again–
a better actor than you'll
ever be.

iii.
No.
this look of plain
disgust
is not a physical synonym for
respect

iv.
I may not have known
what love was
that day,
but asked again,
I could tell you in a heartbeat.

v.
It wasn't that I
caught you.
It was out in the open.

1.
The clock buzzes in the background,
snap, snap, hum, clink,
the flies whirr around in droning circles,
repetitive.
never ending.
I can hear their tiny wings screaming in the dark behind my head,
filling the space between my ears with pictures of carnage
of fear,
filling my nostrils with the smell of blood.

2.
My bones itch.
Not just my wrists from the inside out,
my bones, from my ankles, my toes,
the joints of my fingers ache to be pulled apart,
disassembled, the marrow drained and transplanted
to some other cause.
My nails splinter gently at the bases,
pulling from the skin in my mind,
leaving bloody welts where they belong.

3.
Lying on my back, fingers clenched in fists
wrapped tight into my hair,
pulling slowly as if to pull it all out,
my eyes open, snapping quickly to darkness.

4.
I can hear you.
I can hear your voice, without ever having seen your lips move,
I can hear you breathing, stealing the air that belongs to me, Read more »

Baby wasn’t born with a spoon in her mouth
But she told everyone she was lucky
Her fingers torn, she couln’t fend for herself
But at least she had a family.

She was just one girl
She had just one name
She could save the world
At the end-game.

Baby couldn’t live without a library card
But she couldn’t ever make the time to read,
She liked to sunbathe naked in her yard
And all the boys had her apartment key.

She read lots of books
Bout the Holocaust
She got lots of looks
When her legs uncrossed.

Baby couldn’t die, without a voice in her head
Telling her to take the pills again
She couldn’t lie, leaving words unsaid,
So she stood up at the end.

She was so depressed
She ate Valium.
She is such a mess
When the nurses come.

And when she falls asleep she can’t tell time
The doctors tell her she’s just doing fine.
She wants to tell them to please pull the line
Or wake her up when the end game comes. Read more »

WEll.
I put it on.
we put it on.
And soon I should have a video.
In the meantime: Here's a link to a bunch of photos! http://s186.photobucket.com/albums/x215/NoTbodyforsae/EURIDICE/?albumvie...
Orpheus=Girl in red dress
Stones=awesome outfits
Euridice=strapless dress girl
Hades=boy

Characters:
Eurydice
Orpheus
Hades
Stones
Father/mother

Stone 1: This
Stone 2: Is
Stone 3: Eurydice.
(stage lights come up. Eurydice and Orpheus center.)
Stone 2: Do you know the story of Eurydice?
Stone 1: The story of Orpheus?
Stone 3: It is a sad tale indeed.
All stones: We are the stones.
Stone 3: I am the Tall stone
Stone 2: I am the small stone
Stone 1: I am the LOUD stone.
All stones: We will tell you the story.
Stone 2: One day, while walking through the forest, the great musician Orpheus met a young girl.
Stone 1: Her name was Eurydice. Read more »

1. So this is what it feels like when the pages turn white forever.

2. By not saying anything, you've made your decision clear.

3. Where your eyes were once blue, only stainless steel remains.

4. When you said you didn't want to see it die, I thought that meant that you'd be staying to see it bloom.

5. I itch from the inside out.

You left each time,
falling further and further away from me,
your fingers constantly slipping
through my grasp,
your eyes darker than the night air
surrounding us,
wrapping us in her warm cloak.

You left each time,
gathering your wings about you and plunging
deeper into space,
away from where you'd come,
gone into the dark sky,
shielded my your invisible cloak of frustration
loathing.

I can tell I've done wrong,
longing just to touch your lips
with the ever-splitting ends of my hair,
dusting your shoulders with a breath that is no longer
my own.

I can tell I've done wrong,
watching you launch wire filaments
into your skin,
ever so carefully,
as if a precision crafter of diamonds:
only yielding the most beautiful stone
once the heart has been cut out.

It was much simpler when we were
two.
Being one is so
empty.
I've never felt more
alone.

It seems you enjoy
hanging glass ornaments from my lashes.
Christmas has never sounded Read more »