taylorrness

Taylor

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I was supposed to be sad. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

I was supposed to be sad.

That was the summer the car caught fire in our driveway and the firemen were thirty minutes late She liked birds and artificial sugar packets spilled across apple pieces and my patterned sweater We had to watch as they put the coffin in a marble box like the cardboard one under my bed where I kept the books with broken spines from being read too many times She taught me how to draw houses like people with their windows like eyes and smoke that rises up The summer that the car caught fire, when the firemen arrived I remembered my cat hiding under the bed

32nd and sideways. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

32nd and sideways.

Elise counted down days, throwing them away like old receipts, waiting for Sundays. On Sunday mornings she would put on her sunglasses and wind a thick scarf around her neck before setting off, leaving Seth the apartment to himself. She always told him she was going shopping or meeting a friend for coffee or picking up some groceries, and he never questioned her. As Elise walked up Pine Street's steep hill, she noticed the foliage falling all around her. Dusty yellow leaves coated the road, dark with tire marks from passing cars. Autumn came late this year, still flashing its colors in early November. A breezy chill blew her hair back, b

sunday morning. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

sunday morning.

At exactly eight thirty-three, Elise woke up with slashes of light cutting from the blinds across her face. The morning reminded her of the mountains she woke up to everyday--cold, sharp, bright. Leaning over, she whispered into Seth's ear. "But it's Sunday…." He mumbled, and turned toward the wall. The sheets still smelled like sweat and his cologne from the night before, when they had dressed up for dinner and a midnight showing of Blue Velvet across town. Four glasses of red wine and a movie later, they stumbled home sometime after three. She remembered feeling like she was looking through a dirty window as she watched limbs touch,

nothing to say, dear. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

nothing to say, dear.

The studs on his motorcycle jacket are red in the sunset light, and when he waves it reminds me of that boat trip to Ellis Island. I am his Statue of Liberty, he told me then, and as the water crashed entire stories across the sides of that graying boat I believed him. "Where have you been?" He asks, and I think I lost my past again. You're the last of your kind, Mona Lisa, and don't ever forget it. Don't leave, don't change. But I miss you, do you remember? He pulls an orange peel out of his coat pocket. "I saved this for you. It's from that one afternoon, from under your pillow, falling from your teeth…." He keeps talking, and I stop

closing the window shades. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

closing the window shades.

He and she and it sleep late on Sunday mornings. She wakes up, slowly, yawning wide and big, showing teeth that forgot to get brushed the night before. He pretends to keep sleeping but instead watches her through slitted eyes, sonnets in his head. She remembers the night before — wood tables. Glass cups. A birthday, a year too early but practiced too late. Two by two, no ones, no lone head among them. She steps out of the tiny bed, trying not to make it creak. Her knee joint snaps — no movement. Coffee. He is finishing counting out the meter in a couplet. Trying to make it rhyme, make it sound like speech. Shakespeare must have

Leda, After. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

Leda, After.

Now she is thinking of trees again, and flowers The scratch of trunks like silent legs Rough to the touch but strong, Still standing. Roses bloom across her legs In patterns like egg shells, Round and loose and cracking. In the dark of closed eyelids she hears wings That follow her through the scratch Of broken branches, the sound tied To a ribbon around her wrist. Her dress, once white, is brown as the loam Giving way beneath bare feet, falling Footsteps below her.

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I was supposed to be sad. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

I was supposed to be sad.

32nd and sideways. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

32nd and sideways.

sunday morning. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

sunday morning.

nothing to say, dear. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

nothing to say, dear.

closing the window shades. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

closing the window shades.

Leda, After. by taylorrness, literature

Literature

Leda, After.

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i can't find my heart. by taylorrness, visual art

i can't find my heart.

taylorrness

About taylorrness

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Artist

Sep 9
United States
Deviant for 15 years
taylorrness.wordpress.com
She / Her

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My Bio

You talk, I'll listen.

Current Residence: Seattle, WA. (originally Muskego, WI.)
Print preference: matte and flat.
Favourite genre of music: indie stuffs.
Favourite photographer: whoever gives me pause.
Favourite style of art: creative writing, followed by photography. and music.
Operating System: Windows (against my will.)
MP3 player of choice: iPod classic.

Favourite Movies

Willy Wonka. also: Garden State, East of Eden, The Fall, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Death Cab for Cutie, Andrew Bird, Ryan Adams, Patrick Wolf

Favourite Writers

Yeats, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Eliot, Salinger.

Tools of the Trade

Canon Rebel XT, Photoshop CS3. (also: a pen and paper.)

Other Interests

words, pictures, sleep.

Posts

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taylorrness

Jul 2, 2010

round and round.

0 min read

Let's try this journal thing. Summation of things I am thinking about right now: A year ago, I was in Ireland. When I look back on it I realize that something incredibly momentous happened there and I didn't even stop long enough to realize it. There's been two breaks in my personality growth in the last two years, and each have turned me into an entirely different person. Obviously the first was going away to Seattle for college, but the second occurred right after this trip. I stopped looking to people for influence and started, well, just not caring. I recommend Europe and bottles of wine if you want to change your life. It's already Ju

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taylorrness

Jun 12, 2010

point of departure.

0 min read

Lately, I have felt like writing. What I eat, what I say, what I hear - summer, for me, is the intensely individualistic time in my life where I am without prescribed schoolwork and in need of some other necessary expression. (Not that writing a paper on Victorian times is really a form of self-expression, but c'est la vie.) Sure, I have a blog. (http://taylorrness.wordpress.com if you're interested.) But I'm still a member of that ever-shrinking ideology that believes in having Internet boundaries between what is polished and what is simply, for lack of a better term, nonsense. Sometimes it's nice to write something down without it needing

I was supposed to be sad. by taylorrness, literature

32nd and sideways. by taylorrness, literature

sunday morning. by taylorrness, literature

nothing to say, dear. by taylorrness, literature

closing the window shades. by taylorrness, literature

Leda, After. by taylorrness, literature

I was supposed to be sad. by taylorrness, literature

32nd and sideways. by taylorrness, literature

sunday morning. by taylorrness, literature

nothing to say, dear. by taylorrness, literature

closing the window shades. by taylorrness, literature

Leda, After. by taylorrness, literature

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Deviation Spotlight

i can't find my heart. by taylorrness, visual art

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