I hate the new DEV IDI really do. I'm not a hobbyist, professional or whatnot. I'm a writer. I write. WHAT ARE YOU DOING DA? I loved that I could stay here and just say I was herding llamas.
SQUEEE: VINDICATION!!!After what feels like years of getting rejected for publications, I'm happy to announce that one of my poems is getting published! More news when I get it but it will be part of an anthology of Contemporary Philippine Literature. I feel really happy about it (believe it, I thought I was getting another rejection email/letter and almost trashed the thing, but thank heavens I didn't.)
Three (THREE) of my short stories are also being considered for publication, and I'm sooooooo excited. Boys, After The Everything and FuckIT, which I've moved out of PRL for the time being. Boys is one my personal favorites--and has been the most popular deviation in this gallery, which was why I submitted it in the first place. I don't think I wouldn't have had the balls to submit it if wasn't for all the encouraging comments and faves. GOD I LOVE DA! Wish me luck, since they'll be going through a reading group. *Crosses fingers and toes and braids boyfriend's hair*
Loving MermaidsShe ate sea urchins, breaking them open with bare hands to eat the soft insides raw. She spent hours walking the seashore cliffs and came back smelling of salt and the peculiar burnt-skin scent of too much sun.
She knew nothing of manners or etiquette. Why, she couldn't even curtsy when his mother swept into a room. She laughed silently with her mouth open and refused to use the pretty fan he had given her to cover her lips like a true courtier should.
The ladies-in-waiting had informed him she wore no corset and went barefoot wherever she liked. One had told him of that her skin was as white as the bellies of cod, that her veins were fine and blue beneath it. The other had sniffed and said it felt as cold as a fish's belly too.
He taught her how to walk, like the child she was. She wept and sobbed, as if she had never had feet before. He had told her his name and asked for hers. She simply shook her head.
She sat now, adorned in finery h
RecipesUnderneath the floorboards in the old kitchen there
was a box left behind. It had no note,
Only the recipe book. She was the
Organized kind of person who kept notes on cards,
Carefully copied recipes word for word,
But always misspelled TSBP
A notation here and there
too sweetreduce sugar
Perfect crust for fruit filling
Mark liked this one but strain raspberries nxt time,
Made this for L.'s Birthday, v. good
Chocolate stains obscured instructions,
I traced my finger over her thumb marks in green and red food coloring
From the day she made that red velvet mint cake
Use real vanilla here, worth it in her strangely formal,
Catholic school girl handwriting.
I wept, I think, remembering
Of pie, rain and other adventuresWe make pie today. It seems to be the perfect sort of day to make it. Rain falls quietly outside, but the sun is shining. The storm that graced the northern part of the islands is gone, but here it rains almost every day.
There are extra apples in the fridge, all sliced and ready to go. We hope we have enough for two. I make the crust while Yuji preps the filling. We switch--he rolls out dough, I cover apples in sugar, flour and cinnamon. We stuff apples into the plate, making sure there is no room. He makes the lattice top, I push butter into the squares. Syrup spills over the sides. We worry about it burning and place it inside another pie plate.
Downstairs I kneel in front of the oven--it's an old one where you have to hold the thermostat and wait till the little blue pilot light flares. We wait, impatient till the temparature reaches 350. We pop the pie in. I go back to work. The timer rings. I check the pie. The house starts to smell ilke cinnamon--bright, earthy and fragrant.
An Ode to My iPhoneOh, iPhone, how I miss thee. You were stolen out of my handbag at a cruddy mall with seedy characters and cheap shoes.
I still have thousands of pesos left to pay on you, but really, that's not the point.
I miss the crack across your screen, a mysterious occurrence that my father never explained. I miss the way the tobacco from my cigarettes would find their way into your crevices and the hours I spent trying to clean them out, with dubious results. I miss my oily fingermarks on your screen and the furious wiping that ensued whenever I got a chance. I miss the way you always smelled like beer, mainly cause I kept spilling it on you. I do apologize for the treatment I gave you. You were like the boyfriend I could kick around and put away whenever I wanted.
I even miss the way you turn my most innocent texts into something dangerous--as if Apple somehow programmed you to think inappropriately. I miss how you run out of battery at the most crucial times--leaving me stranded and incommunic
Rediscovering haikuA flower in a glass bowl is my first memory of haiku. A particularly enthusiastic art teacher of ours in fifth grade plopped it down in front of us and told us to WRITE A HAIKU. Sadly (and now looking back the memory shames me slightly), I distinctly remember ignoring it and creating a horrible poem about something else, and bugs. Nowadays I find myself watching things more, striving for conciseness as I rediscover haiku.
If you love reading or writing haiku, or know deviants who do, mosey on over to the :iconthe-haiku-club:.
Join the June 2011 Saijiki Contest over here: [link]
Or peruse the wonderful entries of the June Haikuthon here: http://the-haiku-club.deviantart.com/gallery/30390304
I'm still reading through the Haikuthon entries (so many, so little time!) but here are a few who deserve a fave, your time and perhaps, a good cup of tea to sip while you read their haiku. I was inspired by :iconreddragonfly:'s mini-feature and I would also like to return the favor.