into-your-arms-monamour-blog

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Question Mark

She wanted -, wailed for - It was so important to her, I could tell As she emphasised - In her garbled language. What was -? Why was - so needed? Was it the ghosts of her past? The sound Of her mother’s voice? - meant everything and nothing to me, I wanted to deliver it; become it So that I could soothe her. But I was not -, I wasn’t even close. - was lodged deep in her mind, - was torturing her - was cruel and unrelenting. Whatever it was to her, I knew That I was a question mark, A shadow of her memories, a shadow of the day Lost in her mind, forgotten by the awesome power Of -.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Class sketch of a horse I colored in today

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Rainy Days

A kite, a phantom wisp of wind. How I had wanted to fly, to soar Above the world – tethered to my young hands Gazing up to see myself, such colours, such height, Such imagination. This kite, this apparition Manifested in being was my salvation. The ground now bored me, I needed more; To go, to lose gravity – perhaps even deceive it, And grab the clouds with my dream-state hands The water condensing on my imagined blood’s heat So that several raindrops would fall. Not a storm Or a rainy day but a single tear rolling down The cloud’s gaseous cheek -drip, drip, drop.

My kite, where was it? I bawled, Trapped without this essential organ with which I could fly. I had been dissected, violated -the clouds beyond my reach. Not a single drop would fall from the sky Without my delicate, boyish hand.

Where was it, where was I? In reality Where scars ran deep across my abdomen, shaped As my spirit, my kite. Or in the sky at the horizon’s edge? Where the wind would bite me, my skin would prickle As I drowned in water droplets, breathing deep.

I demanded answers. The kite was in the shed -today was not the day to fly.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Merci beaucoup @isteauctor. I’m sorry to say that I don’t even know 10 other people that I could tag so I’ll just answer the questions.

1) My first ever story was one I wrote about Shrek when I was 5 years old. It was meant to be funny so that’s when I started writing. Obviously I write for different reasons now, mainly just for fun. But I also find that once I have the idea for a story or poem in my head I need to write otherwise it sits in my head irritating me.

2) The ocean; so mysterious and enchanted. You could set anything in the ocean but it would be perfect for fantasy.

3) No, I’m thoroughly boring.

4) I start my ideas by hand and then transfer them over to the computer.

5) Having my work appreciated in any form would be something I think. I need to get published before I could any such question. Best not get ahead of myself!!

6) Yes, but the answer is there is no definitive writing music. I tend to listen to Snowmine, Angus and Julia Stone or Max Ritcher as a general rule but sometimes nothing at all. It all depends on my mood.

7) I have a close friend who works with me at university but neither of us have ever had anything published so I’m still in the struggling/ deluded into believing I can make it phase !!

Writer Interview Tag Game

Answer the questions, and then tag ten writers!

1. What made you start writing for the first time?

2. If you could only write about the ocean, the forest, or the desert for the rest of your life, which one would you pick? 

3. Would you ever write a memoir?

4. Do you like writing by hand, or writing with a computer?

5. Would you rather be popular among many readers, or unpopular, but loved by critics?

6. Do you listen to music while you write? What is the best writing music?

7. Do people you’ve met find their way into your writing?

I’m tagging @sonador-reveur, @isteauctor, @amended-noumenon, @voidlightmoon, @eggletine, @drearydaffodil, @definegodliness, @supervioletfrenzy, @creatingnikki, @gabrielgadfly, @jayarrarr, @scrawls-of-daisy-jacobs, @justscribbledwords, @existential-celestial, @shipshapewithsliders, @autumnsunshine10 and @destroyrofnations

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Explore (rodtrvn) | instagram

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Être

Is this what we are? Tired and alone. I was promised so much more. By fairy-tales, By hymns, by teacher’s report cards, by myself, By friends. We allowed time to erode us, The wind to whistle through us – hollow. I am not defiant, we, our voices in unison Cry out. The water, the imbued salt of Our tears rots us further, like damp wood. This is what we are, broken, hand in hand Collapsing into each other. The burden was too much To bear. My shoulders crumbled, hunched over, Never straightened. Blood runs, mine, yours, ours Into the stream. We follow it And rot further. Why? Because this is what we are, what remains of us, What we have become.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

You, in the back?

I, I, I, I, I demand to be heard I scream, I yell, I weep, I evoke Great emotions through mimicry. To feel, to yearn, to hope is irrelevant. I need eyes -gazing, enraptured, focused- On me, as I let my voice grow hoarse. Lights, action, audience hushed. The stage is mine. These words you hear? Mine! Mock them, loathe them, let yourself Be ambivalent. Yet – I swear – Never lose them. Never ignore them. To not be heard, to be cast in the dying light Is to let the lights of my eyes dim; I slip Away, no longer a human but a shadow. Not raging, no. I am swallowed by the emptiness Me, myself and I.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

On Words

My fingers ache, hungry to languish Over your brittle flesh, your secret Passageways. They probe the surface, Exploring, hunting for directions, seeking Guidance. My fingers fumble As they become intimate with you, Pausing as they relish your minute details; The sultry curve of the comma, the teasing Full stop. How could they not notice your spine, Your lurid dressing, the scarring ink Which brand you so unique? My fingers run through you due to greed, Salivating as they caress your enchanted mouth, Clinging on your last breath, begging for more.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

You

I journeyed around your lips, your cheeks, Your soft, auburn hair as I held you close. We were still, yet dancing on the riverbed -peering through the translucent water, gasping for the sun. We had – fallen? ventured? wandered? – And were lost in each other, hand in hand. You journeyed my short-cut spikes, my breastbone, Clinging as we went with the current, waltzing Our way downstream. You took me somewhere new, I knew that I was not lost yet I never relented My grip. We gushed, our bodies melting As we sprinted from the river’s mouth. I journeyed the dimples of your back, the Curvature of your smile. The schools of fish Swallowing us, the whales singing as they floated by. The vast expanse of ocean wrapped us like a blanket, Soothing us as we headed for warmer climates, Still aching for the sun; content with the light We shared together.  

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Short story excerpt

I guess my art never was the finest. I remember attempting to recreate The Bell Jar with miniature clay figures. What utter shit. Too much colour in Ethel Rosenberg’s cheeks. Never mind I guess, never mind, can’t help it if the rest of the world is too dense to get it. Tolstoy, now there’s a man who would have seen it. Not many can but I bet you he could have. Would Plath have liked it? Doubt it. My work is rather consciously free from daddy issues. Bless her really. This piece, now I’m certain my next piece will really thrill. It was inspired by this thought I had one day: opening my wrists onto the canvas, the blood seeping into that bone-chilling whiteness. My spine literally tingles. I guess it would be thrilling. But darlings never forget, the true thrill is your work getting those rave reviews and actually being around to read them, experience them. Can’t do that if you’re chewing grass from the other side. But I’m no daisy pusher, sweetie. Oh no, not me.

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Ashes in the fireplace

I hid my colour, draped myself in black So that nobody could see my inside was molten. I had set myself ablaze, took the ashes of myself And yearned to conjoin with them. Nobody could know that I was truly red, My thoughts singeing my brain, hissing, red-hot, Like a poker – shameful, disgusting, wrong. My skin would steam, screaming like a kettle And I would wrap myself in asbestos, in black. I took solace in the shadows, cried in vain Hoping my tears would cause the heat to relent. It had started as a spark grew and grew and grew And so the more soot, ash and charcoal I needed. Why did I hide? Why did I run? The flames I hid, that cracked my flesh and Trampled through my thoughts like kerosene, Were not red; but a pure shade of blue. White-hot, they were my fuel, my crackling wood, My gasoline – so I gave myself to the fire. I burned bright. I had become the sun.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Don the Salesman by Phil Noto

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Deep breathes, deep sighs

The world eroded, shrunk, defeated At my feet. These grains of sand are tired, Limping in their final days; waiting To be cast out. The wind, the lapping water, the salt biting the air All seem so final. So quiet. A gull caws so I look up Its surveying the scene, desperate for food To be found in this watered dessert. A mass of green vegetation would be promising, If it did not reek of salt, of silence. My skin prickles and squirms and crawls And I breathe deep, searching Desperately – my fingers clawing the sand. A shard pricks itself on my gooseberry flesh, Caressing me with its bladed edge, so I raise it up. My eyes peering into the palm of my hand. It’s pink. The colour washed by the elements. I can see its tired, like me. So I close my fingers around it, My buried treasure, my golden doubloon And place it my pocket.   Seashells remind me of wildflowers -wild at heart, born free- Yet I continue to walk on home, Nature under my control.

C.J.Fuller

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

You won’t allow me to go to school. I won’t become a doctor. Remember this: One day you will be sick.

Poem written by an 11 year old Afghan girl 

This poem was recorded in a NYT magazine article about female underground poetry groups in Afghanistan. An amazing article about the ways in which women are using a traditional two line poetry form to express their resistance to male oppression, their feelings about love (considered blasphemous), and their doubts about religion. 

One of the best articles I’ve read all year. Here’s the link

(via salamalaikum)

Right in the feels

(via jamesphoenix)

[into-your-arms-monamour-blog]

Excerpt from “A View from Middletown”

Of course Father will not be painting my nursery for me – it shall be Husband who does that. It is an impossibility to paint when you’ve been long dead. He’s trapped, Father, in some mine, just calling to be let out.  No colour but black down there. He is still the man who haunts my dreams – more than often I’d wake up with a fevered brow calling his name. “Daddy” I’d call, “Father”. He responded to neither. My world was bleached white as such a young age. That’s why I love Husband so dearly; he brought me back to the world after Father. On our first date he bought me a cupcake with the most fantastic blue icing. The artificial blue sparked something within me - a hunger – and I knew in that moment I no longer wished to be alone. I clutched to the sweetness of that coral blue which told me more was possible and that all I needed was to find someone again.

C.J.Fuller