Unrelated extracts

How do I perform? How do you perform?
Pandora's box and floodgates.
Words rush out and actions, too, that I can't take back.
You'd think we were two little trees trapped in two separate boxes
but we're really not.
I am merely obsession and avarice,
The other is disinterest and lust.
Strategies fail and succeed but bring no joy and
I'd really rather lie on the grass in the sun.
The sun doesn't have quite the same feeling as your hand on my back or
your lips on my neck but it'll do.

*******************

We have an annoying tendency towards the superlative. A night out is no longer 'great' or 'fun', it's the best time you've had in years. Your response to that joke is the hardest you've laughed in ages. A sports star cannot just be amazing s/he has to be the best living athlete, the most talented the sport has ever seen.

And so badly made films are the worst pieces of work you've ever seen. 'Ew' will no longer suffice, if you're disgusted you vomit in your mouth a little. And so when it comes to love.

Andrew, this boy you like, is the cutest. You've never felt like this before. There is something very special about Andrew that means he far surpasses all previous boys. And then it all comes crashing down and you're not just sad, you're heartbroken.

Do you ever realise?

*******************

I've tried to write this story many times. I've chosen exotic names, origins, settings though often close to home and revealing of my own self loathing. The many unfinished short stories and novels I've written are great testimony to that. Now I've woken up in the wee hours of the fourth day of a novel-writing challenge to set down the truth. To finally use my own name, age, origins and experiences to tell my own story. I am _________ and I'm a 21-year-old BA student and a nervous wreck. I can't sleep because I am thinking about someone I shouldn't as I tend to do; desire the impossible, fall for the out of reach. The story of my life, one could say.

This is me in all my glory, fat but with a die-hard refusal to do something about it and ashamed. Of who I ought to be and what I'm not. I was born in England and have always wanted to call myself English but know I'll never be able to. In my stories I am often of mixed race which is most certainly not true. I am ashamed to admit that I'd like to be, because I associate it with beauty, balance and, most important of all 'good hair'. Something I lack, of course.

I often call myself unconventionally attractive but the truth is I'm pretty. Not as pretty or fit as the top five percent of the population we adore but...I'll do.

I am scared. Of being alone. Of not being loved. Of lacking in the intellectual stakes. Of being a mediocre writer. But I keep going, mixed tenses, unpredictable bad grammar and all. I advise you to take me as I am though I haven't quite managed it myself.

-Trish

Untitled

Old feelings.
They're outside of me,
I've written them into existence
and now read them into memory.
They'll be in the background of my dreams,
they'll be wooden bureaus and dated wallpaper.
There is no deeper meaning,
it just is.
Old feelings are crawling on my skin,
settling in places my bitten nails cannot reach.
Maybe tonight is the night.
Maybe tonight I pick up my mother's habit of grinding her teeth.
I'll finally have a reason to.
Please new feelings, please
Please win.

- Trish