Stranded. Please Help.

‘Need to get to Seattle.’

Black marker thick on cardboard, dog-eared

moist, and heavy.

The bundle of blankets rustle,

a mound of what refuses to die.

She tightens her grasp on an orange tabby,

fur gritty and tufted as the afghan-comfort-quilt that enclose them both.

The eyes of passersby skip her over,

from one side to the next,

their feet push faster until they blur.

Her breath condenses, rises to the gray above,

the city’s blanket in the sky.

She wraps her own warmth closer,

counts the change thrown.

Not quite twenty cents

for the not quite twenty years of mistakes

that make up her life.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Violet Filaments

Illuminate the long violet filaments,

hair soft and light as the web clinging

to the picture frames, family photos

erect on the table near the window.

Light streaming through the curtain

of hair, purple like the flowers in your garden.

It blankets our faces,

reflects and mixes with your lipstick,

the skin appears a mottled blue.

But the flesh is warm,

moist as it slicks and slides

over my mouth.

I press against you hard,

try to forget

that your boyfriend

should be home any moment,

that mine is already waiting. 

Finding Truth

The Following is more a piece of character development than anything. It was developed for an assignment where I was to write the beginning of a play. I became intensely interested in the characters I began, so I thought I'd put it up here anyway.

Act 1

A dorm room. The bed unmade and a desk overflowing with papers and books on its surface.

ANNA (early twenties) is sitting on the bed. Her hair is unkempt and she looks as if she has been ill.

VERITY (early twenties) is standing at the desk, facing away, holding a book and looking at its back. Her hair is magenta and she wears matching lipstick. Her clothing is flashy and tight fitting.

Anna coughs

Verity remains looking away.

VERITY: So are you feeling better?

ANNA (suppressing a cough): Yes a little better.

VERITY: Good enough to be out yesterday.

She tosses the book on the desk.

ANNA: I – I’m sorry.

Pause.

VERITY (still looking away): What for?

Anna rubs her hands on her jeans, nervously.

ANNA: After all you did for me. Helping me get home, being there when I felt so badly. I should have known you wouldn’t forget about our plans. I should have checked and asked. I’m so –

VERITY: It’s fine. Okay? Stop apologizing.

Anna stands.

Verity turns to her, arms folded.

VERITY: I really hope the medicine I brought by yesterday helps. I’m sorry you weren’t here. And yes, I know you’re sorry too, but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I hope you had fun. I hope it was worth it.

Verity exits room.

Anna waits a moment and then rushes to the desk shifting aside papers and books until she find a small cell phone. She dials, hesitates, puts the phone to her ear.

ANNA: Hey. Sorry to bother you –

Pause.

ANNA: Yes. She was just here.

Pause. Anna begins to pace.

ANNA: No, I don’t think she knows. How could she know? And anyway what does it matter, she doesn’t have a say in this.

She pauses in front of her dresser, catches site of the medicine there. Stops. Picks it up. Bites her bottom lip.

Pause

ANNA (subdued and sad): Yeah...I know. No, I’ll be here...Yeah, just text me when you’re here.

Pause

ANNA (deeply sincere): Thank you for this, for all of this...Kay...see you soon.

Puts phone on the dresser and resumes pacing jumping dramatically when the door suddenly opens.

VERITY: Upon further consideration I might have come off a little harsh there. I mean, I’m sure you can understand that I was a little miffed, but I can let it go.

Verity strides forward and pulls Anna into an embrace and then begins to kiss her. Anna slightly rigid relaxes abruptly. When Verity pulls away both are out of breath.

VERITY: Well get better soon. And tomorrow we’ll watch the next episode?

Anna nods.

VERITY (Smile over-bright): Cheers love, I’ll see you later.

Verity exits.

Grief (Rage Final Revision)

This poem is the result of an extreme revision of the poem Rage. I took the raw emotional maelstrom and put the energy into an actual story. Once doing that, I realized that the emotion showed by the narrator might not be so much rage, as grief. I have hopes that this turned the poem into something much better than the original jumble of non-corporeal feelings  

Grief

From the moment you walked through that door,

the tangle of Christmas bells jangling discordantly,

I should have known better.

You pointed to them,

“Trophies from boyfriends of Christmas past?”

Your tone playful, your eyes uncaring.

I should have thrown records at your face

from behind the counter where I stood

until I saw blood,

not laughed, inviting you to stay.

And when you later pushed me against the alley wall,

kissing me so hard it hurt.

I should have smashed the broken bottle we stepped over,

right across the top of your head,

not grasped the fake leather of your jacket

until pieces of the paint flaked off on my palms.

I listened to your stories,

and shed tears.

From your ever lit cigarette

or the bleakness of your tale

I was never sure.

I wanted to fix the pain,

tape up your broken pieces of a life lived hard.

Now I wish I could have destroyed and mangled your heart,

until nothing was left but a crumpled mass.

Because that’s what you left me.

A useless bit of flesh.

But I can’t touch you,

dead flesh moldering in the ground.

Your dirty footprints are scrubbed from my floor.

The taste of you in my mouth has been brushed away.

You deserve to be punished

for all you didn’t leave behind.

They say there’s seven steps

but there is only  this hatred

for everything you’ve ever done.

Every person you touched,

Every argument you won.

The rage rushing through my veins

tells me I’m alive;

reminds that you’re not.

You always were a selfish prick,

everything revolving around you.

But now I’m moving forward,

you’re held back

by the dirt on your chest.

What were you thinking when you

pressed the gun to your skull?

Fuck knows I’ve stopped asking,

I don’t even care.

I just wish it had been me

pulling the trigger, blasting your brain,

one year ago when you first said my name. 

One Hell of a Trip (Final Revision)

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten Dodge is like coming home. The familiarity sends an ache to her quick. She is aware of an empty space she hadn’t known was there, a missing patch somewhere below the left side of her heart. She starts slowly forward, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all this time. Maybe she has. But she can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But it did stop, with a spinning crunch of metal, a flash of light the taste of blood. Now the girl pulls the beads back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but she walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.    

By Alissa Tsaparikos

The Rise and Fall of Dreams

When I talk to you

I can pretend this is real.

For a moment, dreams of you holding me tight,

stolen hopes from the night before

manifest, then disperse,

startled birds rising from branches

of a dead tree.

I pretend that these fairy tales,

my imaginations of being with you

are reality for a mere second.

Our eyes meet, you smile.

And then you move away and towards her,

as inevitable as the tides’ rise and fall.

I want to take the responsibility,

be the moon in your sky,

but it is too much to ask

in the face of your own dreams of someone else.

So I only look at your hands

resting on the table between us,

but do not touch.

I treat you like a wild animal,

skittish and shying from my touch.

If I make too sudden of a move,

Come to close, you will run from me,

far beyond my reach.

Eyes wide open I still wonder if you’re true

or just another image running away

between the books and pages

scattered on my floor.

Should I add you to those

discarded leaves from long ago?

Another memento of

dreams never meant to be.

Yesterday you enclosed me in your arms,

so softly and so brief

I wondered if you could have been near me at all.

Could I step forward and press my lips against your skin,

taste your chapped lips?

May I press my weight against you

until I can believe you’re more than air?

No, for I shudder to see you push and pull away,

punishing me for testing illusion with the heat of my skin,

touching what isn’t mine to take.

I was satiated by phantom thoughts

And stolen bits of companionship.

Because inconsistent ghosts were preferable

To the ringing silence of an empty room.

And though I yearn to reach out for your hand

I stop myself short.

Because you will always be half in my world,

half in someone else’s heart.

I want you to see me the way I see you,

but I am a window to look through,

on the way to better things.

So I swallow the words,

and they don’t go down easy.

They are razor blades I slip between my teeth,

one by one.

Convulsively pushed down my throat,

tearing me apart inside.

Later I look in the mirror,

find that I can’t see anything there.

I wrapped myself in layers,

surrounded by the unreality

of unrequited feelings,

hoping for you,

until I disappeared.

By Alissa Tsaparikos

Revisions

I have recently discovered that a few pieces of my work posted on here were not in fact the most updated versions of my drafts. The following posts will be updates will be noted as revisions. Feel free to comment on which you like better or lend advice.

I will also be posting a few new pieces I have recently written. :)

Clockwork Princess by Cassandra Clare

5/5 stars

Tessa Gray and her Shadowhunter friends are back fighting for humanity once again in this third and final installment of The Infernal Devices series. However, things are more complicated than ever with threats rising up darker and more dangerous than ever as the inhabitants of the London Institute find themselves without aid in the face of the greatest evil they have yet faced. As they fight for the world and their lives Tessa finds herself torn between love and honor, and yet driven forward by the very love that has caused her so much confusion and pain.

As the last book in this steampunk rendition of the shadowhunter world, Clockwork Princess had a lot to live up to. And it did so nicely and with flare. As usual with Clare’s work there was nary a dull moment and every page has you begging to go on and every chapter ending just when things are starting to get good. Clare’s fast wit and easy narration carries you through as effortlessly as it does in her previous novels, living up to her excellent characterizations and delivering noteworthy plot.

This novel was most assuredly a good read, and well worthy as an end cap to the Infernal Devices trilogy.

*SPOILER WARNING*

The ending however, in my opinion, left something to be desired, and in the opposite way than one would think. It felt almost too happy, too perfect. As a reader I am often fond of happy, well wrapped up endings, but this one had the distinct taste of almost unrealistic and convenient. It was a little bit of having one’s cake and eating it too that has been often criticized in such end cap novels as the Harry Potter books. That being said, I still very much enjoyed the story and the writing on the whole.