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“Comment ça va aujourd’hui?”
Avi’s brow furrowed. “Comment…that’s how? How…are you…today?” She looked up at the tutor across from her, who was still watching her expectantly. “Oh, uh, bon.” “It would actually be bien. You wouldn’t say things are going good, you’d say things are going well.” “Ugh,” said Avi, throwing her head back as she slumped in her seat. “I’m never going to get this shit. French is stupid.” She caught Taya’s crooked smile. “Not as stupid as English.” “Oiseau.” “That’s fair.” She frowned at Avi. “If you still don’t remember ‘how’s it going?’ I’m kind of worried about the things you’re learning in class.” Avi fixed her with a glare. “I remembered it! Way to instill confidence in your students.” “It’s what I do best,” Taya giggled. “C’est de rien. T’as un beau visage, alors tu ne dois pas savoir français." “Why do you talk to me in french if you know that I can’t understand it?” Avi pouted as she crossed her arms. Taya grinned. “It’s fun.” “It’s really not.” “Ouais, peut-être à toi,” said the girl, still grinning as Avi tried to translate. “We should probably get started on the actual teaching part of things. What were you working on today?” “Fuck if I know.” “Let me see les devoirs.” Avi fished into her bag and pulled out the crumpled sheet of paper. She tried to ignore the slight frown on Taya’s face as she tried to flatten the worksheet against the table. “Oh okay, you’re just working on saying what you like. That’s simple enough.” She grimaced at Avi’s flat glare. “Well, uh, it should be.” “Mhm.” “So you’re using adorer and aimer. Adorer would be the equivalent of saying adore—easy enough to remember—and aimer would be like saying like or love. You’re just writing your opinion on the activities.” “Seems easy enough.” “Exactly,” Taya said. “So the first one is jouer au foot.” Avi frowned. “Football?” “Soccer,” Taya corrected. With a grin, she said, “We’re the only ones with football like we know it. En francais, we’d call that football americain.” “Hm. I played soccer as a kid.” “Did you like it?” Avi grinned. “I hated it. There was way too much running. Cheer is much better, even if the people kind of suck.” “So you’d say ‘je n’aime pas jouer au foot’ because you don’t like it.” Avi quickly scribbled down the words. “Alright, next is chocolat.” “Who doesn’t like chocolate?!” “I don’t.” Avi gasped. “No.” The tutor grimaced. “It’s too sweet.” “That’s the whole point!” “Whatever. Go ahead and write your answer if you’re so crazy about it.” “Je adore le chocolat." “Close. You’d say ‘j’adore’ because je and tu can kind of merge with verbs that start with a vowel. There’s some exceptions, of course, but it’s good to know as a general rule.” “J’adore,” Avi murmured as she wrote it down. She grinned up at Taya. “Alright, what’s next?” Taya read the next line and snorted. “Oh my god.” “What is it?” “Harry Styles.” Avi squealed. “Arry Styles.” “Is it bad that I don’t really get the appeal?” Avi’s jaw dropped. “First chocolate and now Harry Styles? You’re breaking my heart Taya.” Taya giggled. “Les hommes ne remplissent pas mes besoins.” Her head tilted. “What does that mean?” “Men don’t fulfill my needs,” said the tutor with a smirk. “Je suis une lesbian.” “Oh,” Avi said, a slight blush rising to her cheeks. “Um, how did you know? If you don’t mind me asking?” Taya shrugged. “I just kind of always knew. There was no grand moment of discovery for me. Why? Are you questioning things?” Avi shifted uncomfortably. How was she supposed to respond to that? How was she supposed to tell the girl that she’d spent more than a few nights laying awake and thinking about that she was questioning things? Questioning things that had no place in her life. She was popular, religious, and head of the cheerleading squad. Feeling like that…it would ruin her. But the feelings wouldn’t go away, no matter how much she tried to shove them down. She frowned. “Something like that.” Taya must’ve sensed the other girl’s discomfort. “Well, I’m not sure if you’re a lesbian with how you reacted to Harry Styles,” she joked. She was giving her an easy out, one that Avi took graciously. “Oui. J’aime il.” “It’s easier to use your indirect objects. Me, te, etc. For this it’d be him so you’d say ‘Je lui aime.’” “Oui. Je lui aime beaucoup.” “You used it correctly that time!” “Let’s go!” Avi pumped her fist in the air, almost screaming the words. “Shhh, you’re going to get us kicked out!” Taya giggled. “I’ve finally learned French and you expect me to be quiet?” “Tu ne sais pas francais. Pourquoi tu penses que je suis ici?” At the tilt of Avi’s head, she smirked and said, “Exactly.” “Hmph. Whatever.” She bent over her homework, almost jumping out of her skin when her alarm blared. “Fuck that startled me.” “Me too. What time is it?” Avi checked her phone. “4:30.” “Already?! How?” “I don’t know. I completely lost track of time.” She picked up her bag, shoving her homework in without much care. “I’ve got to get to cheer practice.” “Will you be alright to finish it on your own?” “I’ll figure it out. I’ve got Google Translate and all that.” “I will not be replaced by Google Translate,” huffed Taya. “Seriously. If you have any questions just text me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you more.” “It’s all good.” Avi paused as her bag was thrown over her shoulder, her brow furrowed as she tried to translate. “Je te aime? No, je t’aime. Right?” Taya glanced at the ground. “Oh, well, not exactly. Grammatically yeah it’d be je t’aime but not to me. Je t’aime…it’d be more like saying ‘I love you’.” Avi’s eyes widened. “Which is weird because we use aimer to say ‘like’ all the rest of the time. French is weird that way. Maybe it is stupid. Sorry, I’m rambling. You could say, like, ‘je t’aime bien.’ That’d be like saying ‘I love you lots’ or something. More friendly. And that’s us. Friends. You know?” Avi, who had been watching the rambling girl with mounting horror, nodded. She wanted to crawl into a hole, bury herself, and die. She wasn’t sure whether all of the color had drained from her face or whether it was bright red. “Right, right, sorry. Uh, I didn't mean to make that weird. Je t’aime. Bien.” “It’s alright. You too, heh, Je t’aime. Bien.”
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What is home? (@growyourpoetry) https://www.instagram.com/p/CdsmxpUqYL0/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link
A place to come back to A place to feel safe Where the demons can’t touch you A shield held above your head Warm arms in your bed Always so protected When I’m in your arms Until the warmth in my heart Turned to flames Burning my head Burning my heart Where did you go? What happened to us? What happened to me? What is home? I’m all alone Why do we use the word “broke”
To describe the poor? Do we like To further the illusion That if you don’t come from money You’re broken? What is happening? The rising gap Between rich and poor People left at their door But it’s their fault, isn’t it? They’re the ones who are broken They should try harder Work harder This is the land of the free Streets are paid with gold Gilded and paved For the poor to dig their graves Upon Their blood polishes, shines The path for those who walk it The wealthy The whole The unbroken That’s the whole idea Isn’t it? The stars are beautiful tonight
The twinkle in her eyes Sweet and soft As she watches the sky in awe A strand of hair falls in her face I feel my heart race As I push it away The air is cold Even as my face is warm The water laps at the shore A world of sparkling lights She’s the brightest of them all I don’t know how sailors of the past Have followed the light of the North Star To guide their ships through the night When her smile is so much brighter She asks me If the stars are beautiful And I say yes Even though I’m watching her instead of them Write a poem from the perspective of a royal. -Anonymous
Steel, gold, silver, bronze Weighing on my neck It creaks and groans And narrowly breaks I can barely hold its weight The people are watching The people are rioting The people are pleading for help I’m trying I’m trying, I promise But how am I supposed to help The thousands of people The people who need me When I can barely escape The noose around my own neck So many people dream About sparkling, shiny crowns They tend to abet They tend to forget The pressure, the weight, the pain The weight of the crown It holds me down I’m trying to fight I’m trying to stumble But the kingdom It’s starting to crumble TW: Implied emotional abuse
She was beautiful. She was perfect even as she flamed: a wildfire burning down anything she touched. Even as the fire burned, licking at their soul, scorching them, they couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she looked in the light of the flickering flames. “Fuck you. I hate you.” “I’m sorry,” they said, still unsure as to why they were apologizing for being burned. “You never listen to me.” They did, they did. How could they not listen and watch and be completely enraptured by the dancing fire? They didn’t know why the fact that they didn’t have the answer she wanted was the same thing as not listening to her. “Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. I’m talking.” She was desperate, flames reflecting in the pool of tears in her eyes. How? How had they been the one to make her cry, to make her scream, to make her burn? No, that wasn’t fair. She had always burned. Tending to her was like tending to a loosely contained fire. Any mishap, any mistake, would send the inferno to new heights. It wasn’t hard to fan the flames and set her off. The slightest misstep from them was like gasoline. They didn’t know how they kept messing up. She was an angry, fiery person. But that’s what made her so beautiful. Shouldn't they have learned how to avoid it by now? Shouldn’t they have learned how to just suck it up and make her happy? That’s what she said they should’ve done, anyways. Was there any way to appease a wildfire? They weren’t sure. A wildfire wasn’t happy being contained, held back, and cursed for its nature. It wasn’t her fault that she had to burn and consume everything around her. It was the way a fire worked, afterall. Without fuel, she’d die off. It was in her nature to destroy. But what of the forest? What of the towering, centuries-old pines who met their end at the hand of the blazing inferno? What of the bushes and the brambles who’d spent their entire lives trying to grow, only to become mere kindling for the wildfire? What of the creatures—birds and critters and hunters—who had to flee their homes, their safe places, to escape the choking heat of the flames? Why didn’t they matter? It wasn’t the fires’ fault. They knew that. She couldn’t help but burn and scorch and destroy. But why did they have to stick around to be the kindling? NOTE: This poem is a celebration for @meg.the.author ‘s birthday. He’s such an amazing friend and yall should go wish them a super happy birthday. Huge thanks to @nadineroman21 for putting this all together!
When I look at you I see yellow A summer’s day A golden ray Beautiful skies filled with light A candle’s glow on a winter’s night Oh beautiful person You make me smile With all of the yellow joy in the world Your mind unfurled Golden shine to my life And when we part ways I’ll spend my days Thinking back on you All the things we used to do Every memory Will be tinted With a hint of gold For this week, let's do something a little different: Write about two characters who are pyromaniacs. Are they in cahoots? Are they rivals? Do they live in the same place or discover each other online? Let your imagination go wild! https://www.writersdigest.com/be-inspired/sparks-fly
It burns. Everything burns. The world around me, everything I’ve ever built, turns to ashes all around me. Slowly, everything falls apart. I should have expected this outcome, really. Everyone always warned me. “You can’t fight fire with fire.” But how could I do anything different? I’d been raised with flames in my blood, an inferno in my head. Some people were taught with rain on their lips and rivers in their words. They build, they nourish, they water the ground for more life to grow from their bones. But when you’re only taught how to destroy—how to burn the earth to ashes around you—you don’t know anything different. Water beats fire, afterall. The only thing that can beat damage is creation. More damage doesn’t stop it, it only fuels the flames higher. I hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. I thought I knew the feeling of getting burned. No one told me of this pain. How it would pale in comparison to the tiny scratches and blisters I’d sustained before. No amount of water or ice or cold could take the burning heat from my body. Behind the flames came scarred, burning flesh. I couldn’t care. None of the pain was any worse than the betrayal of it all. She told me that she could be trusted. She told me that she’d take care of me—that she’d take care of us. Even though everyone warned me about her, I followed her into the flames. I trusted that she’d lead me safely through the smoke. She was a lifeline, pulling me through a disaster that she had crafted. And I thanked her. I shudder at the fact now, but nothing could stop my past actions. Hell, nobody else could. When there was fire all around you, you couldn’t exactly see the red flags. Most of them had been burned to the ground. I sighed. Everyone had told me not to play with fire. But I had kissed her beautiful face, laughing as the heat caressed my skin, as the smoke caught in my throat. I reveled in the warmth of it as she burned me alive. I wish I had listened. TW: death, depression
The Veckters died three months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours, forty-seven minutes, and eight seconds ago. It had been a car crash. Well, more like a car accident. Wilson Veckter in the front seat had to cross the railroad tracks in order to get to the grocery store. They were already halfway across them by the time they realized the train was coming. By that point, it was too late. The train took off the front half of the car. There wasn’t even any blood left to wipe off of the gravel. The back of the car was left completely unscathed, as if a knife had cut it in half. The paramedics came, took in the scene. There’d been two people in the car. They only pronounced one as dead. Jane knew that was a mistake. She may have been sitting in the back of the car, but she’d died as if she too had been taken away by the train. She looked down at her body from the outside of it. The body ran through the motions just fine. She ate, even though she couldn’t taste the food. She showered, even though she couldn’t feel the heat of the water on her bare skin. She talked, even though the conversations were never able to linger in her memory. By all accounts and purposes, she should have been alive. Anyone who looked at her from the outside certainly thought so. Unless they could see the emptiness behind her eyes, that is. Everyone thought she was alive. Hell, she’d have thought it if she wasn’t floating outside of her own body For the first bit of it, she hadn’t minded so much. She was so caught up in her grief that it was okay for her to just float outside of herself, to let some other entity take the reins for a while. It gave her some much-needed peace, to not have to take care of herself. As things were currently, however, she was incredibly bored and incredibly tired of not being in control of her own being. She was ready to take it back. The only problem was that she had no idea how to get back to herself. It wasn't a lack of trying, not really. It was just that she’d never had to force her soul back into her body before. Her body and soul had always been one united force. She’d spent such a long time away from her body that she had no clue as to how to get back to it. And then she met Rylan. Rylan was everything that Jane had been missing in her life. He was so full—full of emotion, full of care, full of love. He was gentle, understanding of her in a way that no one since Wilson had been. He was warm, a warmth that she could feel on her skin, in her bones. It brought her happiness, it brought her warmth. It also brought her guilt, the guilt that only comes with loving another after you’ve lost one that you loved. Was it not wrong to love someone so fully that she became distracted from the pain of losing those that she’d loved before? Was it not wrong to give her heart to someone else when it had been so thoroughly beaten and damaged before? But then she would think of Wilson—because, although the warmth distracted her, she never forgot about him, could never forget about him—and his shy smiles and his gentle hand. And she knew what he’d want for her. So slowly, Jane Veckter began to come back to herself. It was a painfully slow process. It seemed her progress had to be measured moment-by-moment, hour-by-hour. A brush to her hand brought her shooting back into herself. A plate crashing against the floor sent her richochetting back off of the walls. It took time. Rylan’s gentle smiles led her way. He did not bring her back to herself. That effort was all hers. He was rather a cast, holding her broken bones in place while her body sealed them back together. The Veckters died one year, six months, one week, four days, twenty-two minutes, and fifty seconds ago. And Jane Veckter’s ghost had finally returned to its body. |
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