vyvyd

[vyvyd]

[vyvyd]

Intro:

Hey everyone, my name is Vyvyd (she/her). I am an aspiring author hoping to bust through the .0025% percent to become a successful author.

Tumblr is my writing dump. This is where I drop my dictated, unfinished sections of prose/ shorts. Everything is unpolished.

Mostly, at least.

[vyvyd]

Writing Dump (voice dictated/ ignore misspellings)

I died last week, the doctor, hand over hand assuming the position. Was holding touch is there physicality might harm her. Like a machine, programming told her to soften her eyes-and lower her voice.

“It’s terminal “she said voice drawling on.

“I know, I’ve always known. “I responded.

I’m not sure she was expecting that response, maybe a shrill cry, shriek, or something signifying any regret. She just looked at me, more puzzled.

“No I’m not going to give you the bullshit, that everyone is dying.“

It’s just, when you’ve been sick for a quarter of your life, you already know what you’re going to die from it. It’s no surprise. I suppose the timing is the surprise, kind of like throughout your years and your many birthdays, there’s always going to be the one jokester in the crowd that put a prank candle on your cake. Maybe this is my prank candle. And many birthdays that I’ve had, I’ve never had a crank candle. Maybe this is my Frank candle, because my birthday is tomorrow, and it’s terminal.

I’ve died, many times. Once when I was 17, a few times when I was 20 something. I won just six months ago as well. I don’t know, that is not as mysterious as people make it out to me. I say that they see light, no death sort of feels like when you take a shot of amaretto. It’s nice and smooth, warms your throat as it goes down. But rather, as you’re dying and drifting you feel as if you’re falling backwards into a velvet blanket. A warm, velvet blanket. It’s not black, and it’s not even really any color. It’s just there, and you’re with it. And you fall, and it is true that the only sense you retain is your dying a sound. I heard everything, I heard them prepping the defibrillator, the nurse screaming at someone for something. Somebody saying “oh shit she’s not breathing“. I didn’t mind dying, I laughed. I remember chuckling, ha ha she’s not breathing. No shit, I’m not breathing. But then as quickly as I fell, I shot fourth back into the world, as it being reborn. But the talons of an eagle sunk into my shoulders and ripped me from the darkness. It was unsettling. More unsettling than dying. The talons-which were actually the defibrillator pads, left alveolar shapes on my chest and back – burns. Scars of my trip to the beyond or wherever it is.

I don’t remember feeling a whole lot. I don’t remember seeing anything at all, there’s no light there’s no life flash before your eyes it’s just nothingness. And I’m not sure if I’m reassured, or unsettled. I can’t particularly say that I wanted anything in the afterlife, no Rosie gates her trump tears no sendoff into the ancient fjords on a flaming boat. No, I’d rather falling into the Marianas Trench of life or death but never truly hitting bottom.

[vyvyd]

Writing Dump (voice dictated/ ignore misspellings)

To fuck a skeleton

I stood there, peering into the mirror, without looking at the same time. I don’t look in the mirror, I avoid it. But today, I’ve decided to look. Even through swift glances, the tent draped over sticks made a new mistake. Almost like a rotting deer corpse long summary Pennsylvanian roadway. How when their pelt begins to drape over their bones during future faction. Every rib, joint, imperfection - visible.

I was going to wear the red, the dress that kind of frills around the middle. To hide my xylophone bones. But I decided to go with the yellow one, but the little sunflowers scattered about. Once to strategically placed on my left nipple. Not that you would know, I’m too flat chested.

Why the sunflower dress? Well, that’s the dress I want to be buried in. Oh wait, not married incinerated. To fall to Ash, and be placed into a bio earn. I don’t wanna grow sunflowers, I wanna grow trees. But sunflower seems so appropriate for today.

The mortician will give my remains to the family, each mote of ash, could have a sunflower. But they mix the ashes together. So maybe I’m sharing an urn with that girl who overdosed on Brook street. Or maybe with the older woman who died from a broken heart. That’s what they said, at least. Yet, suggest a communal burial, and you’re the monster.

Then we dress the feet. Like turkey toes, they stick out all which way, phones jotting upward sideways to and fro. But Lynn, because I haven’t walked in a decade.

Again we return, to my xylophone bones. Where, with light fingers, he moves vertically and it feels as though you’re playing a piano with no sound. But I feel it, I hear it, I know the music that it makes.

Of course there needs to be make up, cover-up, something to make the eyes pop. One time I consulted a mortician, and how to best cover up dark circles. Because the dead have dark circles, and no one wants to see those during the funeral. She gave a few good suggestions, I suggest talking to your local mortician, they really know how to do make up, hell even do a killer job.

I always choose blue for my eyeshadow, even though you’re not supposed to. There are rules about this, but I never paid attention. Blue is nice, and my eyes are blue. I don’t know, color is color. For the eyelashes, I go big and bold. Hoping that my eyes will take their eyes away from my deflated body.

It’s time. I take myself to the foyer, and waits my husband. Who also, he’s dressed his best. Still wearing that graying suit, the one I called the shark suit. It was custom tailored, I didn’t even know that was such a thing. Growing up in the sticks, we got our good clothes from Goodwill. He straighten his tie, held out his hand, and enclosed it around my toothpick fingers.

Of course we had dinner, of course I didn’t. We return to our home, where we made violent love. Well, it was probably normal love for the average couple, when your way a little less than two sacks of potatoes, everything is violent. But when I always remember, from the days when I was still alive, was his breath on my neck.

And he would run his hands along my xylophone bones.

Working my story in fiction the fiction is the hallucination. The hallucination is a spin-off fiction of the non fiction reality.

In A Minor. The minor scale is blah blah blah

Harmony

Melody

B Flat.

The feeling of how wet leaves stick and sting in passing when grabbed through the window of a moving car - because we played the game of “how many leaves can you grab? Until it was a briar branch”

The Himalayas of my collarbones jut skyward, as if they were linking to flee

You can measure how long I’ve been here, by the amount of dead flies in my light fixture

Or perhaps the wear in the carpet, that trolls from three places.

Or by how the refrigerator door sags slightly under the pressure of the milk that hasn’t been opened in a month.

Old habits die hard, or so they say.

Merry Christmas I’d say, sometimes happy birthday. Giving gifts, that I need to know what we are. Yes, they were a surprise to them, and also to me. “Oh I love it, how did you know?“

And then I’d have to pretend, like I knew all along, exactly what they wanted.

———

She’s 28, well almost, but feels at least double that.

At Goodwill, thumbing through racks of dresses, she chooses a yellow sunflower dress. “This is the one, the one I want to be buried in.”

There are hummingbird wings in my heart, my eyes are beads on an abacus too and fro

“They won’t see me,”

They move along the outline of my

Reflection.

Only interrupted by a spidery crack spanning the left side of my face.

Ironic how the imperfections in mirror hide my own imperfections. Because when momma got angry, she wouldn’t stop until our asses turned cherry red, but for me, until I bled.

My jaw felt like there were screws in the joint that tightened with each landing of the belt. When I was 7, my favorite tooth broke off. I watched as it hit the tear stained floor, where it did a small pirouette and then disappeared into the vent.

I fell, I fall a lot. I’m just a clumsy kid. Kris from 5th street fell a lot, too. Michael used to. He fell so hard, he broke his nose and jaw.

He ate and drank through a straw for months. His blue and green tinted face, changed a lot that year. His nose reminded me of a crooked picture frame. It didn’t look right, but the teachers said not to talk about it.

It was almost Christmas when a group of kids, including myself, were called to the principal’s office.

Five of us, sat stiff in the blue school chairs. We were all thinking the same thing

“My parents are going to kill me,”

I think some one said it, but no one responded. The principal came out and collected us all as one, we sauntered into the office.

I don’t remember what he said other than the fact that all of us didn’t go home. People with briefcases took us elsewhere. I’m not fond of people that carry briefcases.

Michael was the only one who didn’t come. We never saw him at school after that. Someone said he feel really hard, and was no longer able to come to school.

Remember that time I put a piece of glitter in my eye, mimicking grandma as she put her contacts in. Do you remember how you laughed, laughed how I cried and cried, because it hurt. Remember how my eyes swelled shut, and bled this awful, putrid yellow pus from the tear ducts? The doctor said nothing was wrong, and I wasn’t about to tell. He said I had pinkeye, gave me a cream.

Do you remember when, my eye bulged out of the socket? Do you remember seeing that piece of glitter, use out with the pass? I don’t remember seeing anything. I don’t even remember getting better.

Do you remember when, you rode your dirtbike, and flew headfirst into a pile of leaves along the roadway? Do you remember, when we came to the hospital, and your eye was bulging from your head? No, you don’t remember, because here you are just a stone in the ground.

It was like that time when I drank fruit punch, and then ate corn chips. It tasted like apples. Two completely unrelated things, combined to create something truly amazing.

I can’t remember the exact day when my mind was transferred to this body. Most of us don’t remember. Only one ever remembered, but we didn’t believe her anyways. She was one of those silver-tongued folk that old people caution us from.

I hadn’t been a good girl, so when they put me in this body, I couldn’t appeal. They usually reserve these types for my to type, or as a challenge for the older minds.

OK, if you know so much about him then you’ll know the answer to this. Where is the freckle on his face? Where is the mole that he hates?

“Oh that’s so easy, it is about 1 1/2 hickeys away from his mouth”

As far as the mall goes. It’s right on the tip of his penis. And I happen to like it, his pp looks like it’s wearing a little yarmulke! Except he is circumcised so, anyone wearing a yarmulke wouldn’t like him very much.

——

Serial killer in wheelchair. Never suspected because in wheelchair. Actually a fake.

My mom bought mea gift for Christmas, for once. It’s pink. Wearing it, I become the Sugar Plum Werewolf.

Time passes by, marked only by additional fly corpses in the bathroom light fixture. I was never tall enough to remove them.

Time: Expressed in Fly Corpses.

A month = one corpse

12 corpses = a year

I use a pastry knife to mash avocados. Grandma hates it, says there are tools for the job and not for the job. She doesn’t like avocados - just guacamole.

She sat in her spot at the table, playing Candy Crush on her tablet. Code, black, steamed as she pulled it to her mouth. I don’t understand how she doesn’t burn her mouth. Aging probably has toughened her mouth, or deadened the nerves.

It was the melody of black birds resting on the power lines. B flat, A, D, D sharp. Each bites melted all together, looking like a whole note

It’s when you’re laying in bed do you see this dark wispy creature ajar

How can such a small animal create such a big racket?