The Gift - 3When Eli stepped out into the courtyard of the St. Thomas Mental Health Institute, he had to shield his eyes against the light. It wasn’t a particularly warm day—a cool breeze was blowing by—but the sun was high in the sky and blindingly bright.The Gift - 3 by TheEmptyChest
The courtyard was the closest thing some people at the institute got to freedom; a place where they could roam around without being confined by walls, where they could see something other than small, hospital-like rooms and offices and evaluation sheets, where they could feel like they were still part of society. It wasn’t much to look at: a mown lawn with a few benches, a garden, a pavilion, and a badminton net. But it was an open area and that counted for something in a place like this.
Eli sat down on one of the benches and drifted off to sleep with his head leaned back. He dreamt of faceless soldiers, pitch-black nights lit up by fires and machine guns; he dreamt of screaming children, of shadows and eerie silence; h
The Gift - 2"Nice to see you again, Eli," the psychiatrist, Dr. Anderson, said. She was smiling but Eli could tell it wasn't genuine. He knew a fake smile when he saw one.The Gift - 2 by TheEmptyChest
His eyes wandered from her too-white teeth to the black, cushioned chair on which she sat to her office. She was an organized person by the looks of it. There was a desk next to her. Stacks of crates were situated at the edge with papers shuffled into them. Her computer and keyboard were both well-dusted. Pens and pencils were clumped together in a utensil holder. There was a box of tissues at the ready for when he broke down and spilled his secrets. The only thing that looked remotely out of place was the evaluation sheet she had on a clipboard in front of her, ready to label him. Eli leaned against the back of the couch she’d told him to sit on and added, “Should I lie down?”
“If you want to,” she said.
There was a coffee mug on the desk, which she put to her lips before speaking. "How are you fee
The Gift - 1It was just past three in the morning and Eli stood naked in front of his bathroom mirror, examining gashes in his forehead—linear grooves etched into his skin, extending from his hairline to his eyebrows, crisscrossing and burning. His girlfriend Melinda stood outside the locked bathroom door, rapping on it, twisting the knob that wouldn't budge, yelling at Eli to let her in.The Gift - 1 by TheEmptyChest
Eli applied hydrogen peroxide to the cuts he could see, then touched his fingers to the back of his head, feeling warm, goopy blood clumping his hair.
"Eli, come on!" Melinda was getting pissed now. "Open the damn door!"
Eli washed his bloody fingers and then did as she said. It took a moment for him to register the sight of her. Her eyes were wide with anger and worry, her face streaked with blood—his blood, the droplets that had fallen from his forehead onto hers and had trailed down the side of her nose when she bolted up.
She had put on his shirt when he ran away. She was wearing it now, th
Post-It Notes to Send Back in Time (part 2)i.Post-It Notes to Send Back in Time (part 2) by TheEmptyChest
You own your own body.
Your life is yours.
And don’t let
tell you otherwise.
It’s okay to believe in God.
It’s okay not to.
And it’s okay to go back and forth
between the two
because no god worth believing in
would punish you
for doubt or disbelief.
Learn how to take a compliment.
Invisibility isn’t so bad.
When people notice you
they scrutinize you.
If they don’t see you
you have ultimate freedom.
So don’t be afraid to hide in that corner.
Own that corner. It’s yours.
Pay no heed to art snobs.
Don’t be an art snob yourself.
Remember how you were told
that every time you “sinned” it was
equivalent to crucifying Jesus
all over again
so every mistake you made
no matter how small
made you feel like you’d killed someone?
Yeah. That was bullshit.
It’s okay to not have a boyfriend.
It’s okay to not want one.
Hate is not the problem,
it’s what you h
The Wither-manThey warned me aboutThe Wither-man by callerofcrows
He carries himself
like a broken skein,
shambling he leans,
softly padding forward.
They told me
how three men were found,
shriveled husks beneath the leaves,
They told me how
they found the pellets
by the pebbled lake,
clothes and bones
and nothing else.
And how I shake to see him retch,
his breath-fog catching moonlight
and he raggedly turns to sniff,
his deadened sockets find my shadow.
His maw unhinges
and his throat rattles soft.
They'll know me by my boots
and crack-ed teeth.
I only hope
they never know him.
her's was gray just like her skinwhen i was nine, she folded two origami cranesher's was gray just like her skin by StarlightComet
out of gum wrappers she plucked from the sidewalk
cracks. she placed one in my palm and curled
my fingers around it; told me
one day they're gonna come to life and help us
the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice...the observant curator will notice... by Tyrison
softly, mocking the rain, and
horses shuffle, shy
of what could kill
or sustain them
slowly dissolving, diffusing
into the earth
of how people curate
their lawns instead
of their families
1. What keeps you writing?
My love of writing. It's a part of me. To stop would be to deny myself.
2. How do you get over a block?
Reading, listening to music, sleeping, taking a walk... any number of things. I find that I get over blocks when I least expect to.
3. What is your favorite word?
This is subject to change but right now, epiphany.
4. What is your favorite thing to write?
I would say philosophical fiction – stories that explore philosophical concepts. I also like to write bizarre stories. I’m an “out there” kinda gal. I'm attracted to the weird, the inexplicable, and the downright awkward; I plan to write a story (in the distant-ish future) about conjoined twins where one falls in love with someone the other has no interest in, and another story (in the even more distant future) where a girl with Dissociative Identity Disorder falls for a guy her alter ego wants to kill. Neither are situations one sees every day, and yet they’re both plausible.
5. What would you say your style is?
I'm not sure. I used to be quite the verbose writer. Now I make a steadfast effort to pare away all unnecessary words. My goal is to pack the biggest punch I can using the simplest prose.
6. What is your biggest challenge when writing?
7. Who is your favorite person to show your work to? (On or offline)
I don't have a favorite. I take feedback as I get it.
8. What made you decide to make writing a part of your life?
I feel like it's always been a part of my life, in a way. It was always there, in me, waiting to be discovered.
9. Do you have a favorite font?
I have a few. Nyala and Garamond are both pretty; I also like Bookman Old Style.
10. What is your favorite thing to read? (A book, a poem, poems in general, books in general, etc)
I’d say I like novels most, but I have nothing against poetry collections.
11. What music do you usually listen to, if any, when writing?
All sorts. It depends on what type of story I’m writing, what kind of mood I need to get in.
12. Is there a phrase that you tend to love and/or use a lot in your writing?
When a character is smiling, I tend to say that the smile is “tugging” at their lips, or “splitting their face.” For pauses in dialogue, I say “there was a moment of silence.” And I have a habit of conveying awkwardness or uncertainty by having a character “bite their lower lip”; it’s a common gesture of mine, so it finds its way into my literature.
13. Do you have a favorite character (orginal? Not original?) or topic you like to write about?
Not so much a specific character as a specific type of character. My characters are pessimistic, self-loathing, and hyper-aware. They’re introverted and reflective. Cut off from society. Oftentimes they’re angry and prone to sarcasm. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever written a well-adjusted character. Well-adjusted people don’t make good character studies. As for topics, I like morally gray areas. There’s one story I’ve been meaning to write where a young girl gets into a car wreck that leaves her brain dead and forces her deeply religious parents to contemplate euthanasia. It’s been on my to-write list for a few years now, and I’m hoping that with time and planning it comes to fruition.
14. The best part about writing is?
Telling a story. Taking a journey with a character and seeing it through (even if it doesn’t get resolved). Creating.
My questions (they're not writing-specific -- they're more general):
1. Is art a hobby to you, or do you plan to make a living off of it? (No judgment, just curious. )
2. Has becoming an artist changed your view of yourself or the world?
3. What would you say is an artist’s role in society?
4. Are there any themes that consistently show up in your art?
5. Describe a real-life situation that inspired you. (It may be something that happened directly to you, or it may be something that happened to someone else but you knew about it.)
6. What is some memorable feedback you’ve received on your work?
7. Is there anything you dislike about the art world?
8. Name an artist, living or dead, who you’d like to critique your work.
9. Do you have a specific “method”? (For example, if you’re a writer, do you start out with an overall idea and then work down to the details, or do you start with details and work your way up to an overall idea?)
10. How do you know when a work is finished?
11. How do you feel when someone interprets your art differently?
12. How would you say your work has changed/developed over time?
13. Is there any advice you have for aspiring artists (or fellow aspiring artists)?
14. And lastly, do you know you’re awesome? (Because you are. )
I tag... whoever's reading this. I know, I cheated. Shame on me. But I'm really interested in you guys' answers. Take as much time as you need. No pressure.