đ¨đł+đşđ¸/đ¨đŚany pronouns. HSPVA creative writing dept. been writing for four years since fifth grade. age approx 14 years. my older writing is shit so watch out
đ¨đł+đşđ¸/đ¨đŚany pronouns. HSPVA creative writing dept. been writing for four years since fifth grade. age approx 14 years. my older writing is shit so watch out
i sit at your spot at the table and i think do i want to be you or do i just miss you i take naps in your bed and read books on your carpet and pretend you're in the room down the hall i look at the couch you played video games on and curl myself into the dip in the center cushion because you never sat anywhere else i do my work at your desk and i ring your little bell sometimes because i remember when you first put the label on it and heard it ding one afternoon and thought to myself i wish i could give him a hug i leave bottles of water around the house like how you scattered your half empty plastic cups and there's tears on my phone screen right now because i'm writing this while crying and it's hard to see i see you every week but only for an hour i went looking for photos where you were smiling a real smile i found two i wish you could have been my big brother a little bit sooner
when someone hurts you intentionally that is sin, it is sin, sin, sin, slithering its way beneath your skin, raising a scar, be it a reminder or a trophy for all to see that says yes yes yes i won this fight and this is my reward and even when itâs a helping wound beneath the blade of a scalpel or point of a needle and thread the hurt is all the same and your scars will raise and bubble with blood that pops and spills and hurts all over again and your skin will get thicker and thicker and thicker until you canât make it hurt anymore
occasionally you bleed too much, too much, too much, and the evil canât worm its way through the mess and into your flesh so all it leaves is emptiness a divot where your skin should be but it isnât, isnât, isnât, and thatâs quite a thought because oh where did it go where did it go your skin is a canyon where there used to be a river of blood now dried
sometimes itâs an accident and thatâs ok because a small cut isnât big enough to give way for the devil but oh son do small cuts bleed and bleed and bleed, they scab over, they shed and peel and itch but then they turn white and disappear and thank god they do because itâs embarassing to have a mistake etched into your skin isnât it
the game has gone to overtime again.
the game has got our teeth aching, white-knuckled grip on nothing the game has us praying for a last-minute buzzer beater, a final act of god the game has the next shift hurting, yet we still believe ourselves to be divine the game has us all thinking itâs gonna be me i just know iâll make sure of it
the game has gone to overtime again.
the game has that little black void searching for a white nylon lining the game has a heartbeat, something that thrums in each tape-to-tape pass the game has a life cycle, metamorphosed in three stages, four if weâre unlucky the game has always asked us the question in each and every thing
the game has gone to overtime again.
the game has all the time and space in the world but it is clearly not enough the game has us shivering, from cold or adrenaline we donât care to know the game has us wishing it would just end so we can go home and cry the game has always been forever, something that asks do you desire this once more?
the game has gone to overtime again.
the game has us turning away from cameras, the men on the screen are not us the game has our friends wondering what happened, why we are the way we are the game has them remembering the fault of those who came before us the game has us wishing to play once more and innumerable times more
the game has gone to overtime again.
[fair warning: this piece is 1.2k words. if you're looking for a snippet, this isn't it.] [not super accurate to the prompt, just wanted to write some dialogue.]
âHeâs like some neurotic trapped prey animal. Look at him,â Rally says, jerking his head in VoraÄekâs general direction across the kindergarten classroom. âHe deserves a break, at least this time.â
Yen looks up from where heâs directing one of the kids as she builds Legos on the floor. âYou donât even like him,â he replies, expression blank, as he reaches around the girl to grab at another box of bricks. âItâs Tyler. If he wanted a break, heâd ask Hoshi or the admin. Heâll deal.â
Rally looks back at the man in question. Heâs got his hands behind his back, legs closely pressed together, and he seems like heâs trying really hard to win a staring contest with the far wall. Heâs a freaking statue, really.
Rally stands for a moment, arms crossed tightly over his chest, before turning his gaze to the amalgamation of colored bricks that Yen is attempting to put together. The other man catches him looking, raising an eyebrow.
âLike you could do any better.â
_Huh,_ he thinks, glancing at the camera crew thatâs been meandering around the room. _I guess Iâm doing this now._
âScoot,â Rally mutters, tapping his shoe against Yenâs leg to get him to move over so he can sit.
âHave at it, kid,â Yen says, rattling the box of plastic bricks in front of him.
For maybe the next ten minutes, they make random objects. A lot of it is just Rally accidentally putting two half-pieces together and being unable to pry them apart.
Suddenly, the toddler thatâs been playing with them pipes up. She says something in Japanese, and Rally turns to look at Yen, who scoffs, shaking his head.Â
âJust because Iâm Asian and drive a Miata doesnât mean I speak Japanese,â he says, and Rally knows thereâs no heat to it, but he still feels a familiar pang in his chest. He pretends to brush it off, continuing his attempts to use his fingernails to separate the Legos heâs messing with.
Someone clears their throat from behind them.Â
âI do. Speak Japanese, I mean.â
Rally looks up to see- oh, whaddya know- Tyler VoraÄek, standing there. He looks like heâs either about to explode or break down and scream. Or both. Either way, Rallyâs never seen him so uncomfortable.
âHi, Tyler,â Yen says, far too casually, like teleporting is something Mazda drivers just _do_ on the regular.
âHello, Sato. Korolyov,â VoraÄek says, nodding at Rally. Itâs been a while since heâs heard his last name addressed to him, so he forgets to respond until Yen throws a two-by-one Lego at his ear. It stings, but he has enough restraint in him that he manages not to swear in front of the little girl.
âUh,â Rally fumbles for words. âWhat are you doing over here?â
Well. At least he said _something_.Â
VoraÄek tilts his head with narrowed eyes, staring at Rally.
Actually, maybe nothing would have been better. The man doesnât give him a moment to recover, though, and Rally canât blame him.
âHoshi said I need something to do. A disassociating driver isnât typically what the media is looking for when it comes to promotional content,â He mutters, and Rally notices the slight jitter of his right leg.
_Itching for the pedal and the clutch. I get it, man,_ is what he wants to say, but heâs still got some semblance of situational awareness left to his name, so he stays quiet.
VoraÄek looks down at the girl sitting before him, and itâs like his whole demeanor shifts. His eyes soften and he says something in Japanese, but all Rally can make out is the word âcute.â The girl beams up at him, returning with a quiet thank-you, before going back to playing with her blocks.
Yen huffs, turning his head to look at his teammate. âYou gonna stand there like some sort of gargoyle the whole time, or are you gonna play with this kid so I can go take a piss?â
VoraÄek makes a _âTcht!â_ sound with his teeth at the same time Rally baps the back of his head with his palm, so at least they share that common ground. Yenâs got two kids, for God's sake, he should know better. And sure, the girl doesn't even understand anything they're saying, but kids her age still copy mannerisms, right?
Yen waves them off. âYeah, whatever,â he mumbles, shooting a glance up at his friend- and, after sort-of struggling to stand up, he just. Walks away.Â
His shoes leave impressions in the kiddie foam that spans the floor. Rally watches them disappear.
Good grief. This is the second time his friends have abandoned him with VoraÄek. He looks up at the other man, his own gray eyes meeting sharp brown ones.
The other man doesn't move to sit. He doesnât blink, either.
âHowâs Dallas?â
Uh. What?
âHuh?â Rally says, before realizing that VoraÄek is asking about his navigator.
âOh. Heâs doing okay, I guess. Less stumbling in the pacenotes.â He turns his attention back to the child in front of him, whoâs currently trying to rip apart the toy house he had given her to destroy with her tiny hands.
VoraÄek hums. âThatâs nice.â
Itâs- well, itâs not _un_comfortable silence, but itâs definitely a few beats before Rally realizes.
âYou ainât gonna sit?â He asks, before he can really think about it.
VoraÄek just does that head-tilt thing again, like a dog that doesnât understand its name just yet. âNo.â He pauses, before adding, âThank you for the offer.âÂ
Rally nods and makes a noncommittal noise that he thinks should convey âsuit yourselfâ pretty well.
âSo, you speak Japanese?â He tries. âThat's cool.â
âYes, and you.. how do I say this. You are Russian, and speak Russian, but have a Southern accent?â
Rally chuckles, clicking a circular piece onto the blue snake heâs building. âYeah, it throws a lot of people off. Born and raised on a ranch in Texas, but my dadâs from Samsa and my momâs Puerto Rican.â
VoraÄek doesnât reply, but when Rally looks back at him, he looks lost in thought, like heâs trying to remember something thatâs told through the scar across his crooked nose and the furrow of his eyebrows.
He taps the ground beside him with his pointer finger until the other man meets his eyes. âSit,â he says.
And VoraÄek does.
He postures stiffly, on his knees and shins, his spine ramrod straight. He puts his right hand over his left in his lap, and when he smiles, it almost looks painful. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
âI donât like to feel small,â He whispers.
Rally deliberates for a moment, handing the little girl the snake heâs just finished.
âBut youâre still taller than me. Youâre never small around me,â Is what he settles on.
VoraÄek turns his head to look at the cameras. âI donât want anyone but God looking down on me.â
Rally stands up, a little too quickly if you ask him, because the room is spinning for a moment. The Mazda driver practically leaps up after him, some wild look in his eyes.
âHold on,â is all Rally says, and he goes to find VoraÄek a chair.
today is the fourth of july.
living here in one of those rural suburbs that folks build around lakes,
every house has a wind chime.
itâs not time for fireworks; the sun is still out.
i should be out of my element.
a small chinese girl in a group of big american boys.
itâs strange.
street hockey.
beach football,
freeze tag.
we play any game that ends in skinned knees.
someone yells for us to come back inside. we kick up clouds as we run along dirt roads.
today, itâs hot outside. the bonfire is a beautiful funeral.
we donât get to wonder what weâre gonna do tomorrow. if weâre lucky enough weâll lie in the dead grass and watch the wind blow by.
weâre the wannabe cowboys with no dads and tired moms.
we are the kids who work overtime, the kids they told you to avoid.
do you know our names?
[reverse version:
do you know our names?
we are the kids who work overtime, the kids they told you to avoid.
weâre the wannabe cowboys with no dads and tired moms.
we donât get to wonder what weâre gonna do tomorrow. if weâre lucky enough weâll lie in the dead grass and watch the wind blow by.
today, itâs hot outside. the bonfire is a beautiful funeral.
someone yells for us to come back inside. we kick up clouds as we run along dirt roads.
we play any game that ends in skinned knees.
freeze tag.
beach football,
street hockey.
itâs strange.
a small chinese girl in a group of big american boys.
i should be out of my element.
itâs not time for fireworks; the sun is still out.
every house has a wind chime.
living here in one of those rural suburbs folks build around lakes,
today is the fourth of july.]
[dedicated to my friend ethan's hatred of oil-burning cars.]
âGod, I hate rotary engines,â Rally bemoans, waving a hand through the air as he lists against the balcony rail. He feels something snap under the heel of his gear, and he tries to look down, but then he gets really dizzy and it kind of makes him want to throw up. So, instead, he continues, âItâs a Dorito spinning in a tin can, dude. A _tricycle_ has more torque than a car with a rotary engine.â
âUh huh,â Dallas says, turning his head to stare at Rally. He has zero clue what the hell his driverâs talking about. âWhy are you complaining again?â He asks, looking between his friendâs clearly drunk face and the Jägr heâs currently got in a death grip. âWhat did Mazda ever do to you?âÂ
âTh- hnph. The Mazda driver who won three times ahead of us. I hate him,â Rally whines. âHeâs annoying and stupid and if he won that many times it means my driving was bad that many times. Itâs a Miata! Itâs got its own dirt-track subgenre for a reason,â He mutters, tossing his head back. The stars look really weird right now, woah.Â
Dallas snorts, because Rally had said that out loud. âThatâs âcause youâre drunk off your ass, stupid,â He says, plucking the bottle out of his hands. âWouldnât want to piss yourself in your racing suit, would you?â
Rally quirks an eyebrow. âYou call it a _racing suit?â_
__
âWhat else would I call it?â
Someone else pipes up from behind them, a tiny âExcuse me?â but neither the navigator nor driver hears him.
âA freakinâ fire suit, idiot. Theyâre called fire suits.â
âJust because theyâre fireproof doesnât mean they should be called fire suits-â
âWell, nobody calls it a racing suit-â
âI call it a racing suit if thatâs any help,â the voice says again. Both Rally and Dallas jolt, snapping their heads around to see, of all people, Tyler VoraÄek. The Mazda driver.
Dallas regains composure far quicker than his friend, so he says, âRally was talking shit about you,â and just. Walks away. Back into the building.
âUh,â Rally blurts. âNo I wasnât. I mean. Yeah. I was? But-â
VoraÄek gives him this sheepish half-smile and waves him off. âItâs ok. You are, uh, standing on my phone, though.â
âOh. Shit. Sorry, god, do you want me to pay for a new one?â Rally asks, as he takes a wobbly step to his right and VoraÄek squats down to pick up the mangled black rectangle. âIâm sorry, man.â
But VoraÄek just looks up at him, smiles for real, and says, âI have others.â
-
âWell damn, Dallas, youâve managed to make me rethink my thoughts,â Rally says, halfway to a yell, once theyâre back in their hotel room.
âNot like youâve ever had any,â Dallas mutters, then adds, âThatâs good. What did you-â
Rally snorts. âI hate him even more.â
[Yes, I know that the IMSA VP does not work like this. Yes, I have driven rally cars. Enjoy the story.]
Youâre not _really_ a rally racer. Well, you could be, but itâs nothing like how it was in the 80âs. Too much safety. Not enough speed. Itâs why you race for IMSA VP, where they have a million useless sponsors andâll take anyone who wants a big silver trophy and can drive a fancy car.
Some people call it nominative determinism, but you just call it being born into the profession. Rally the sometimes-rally car driver. Fun name, even though everyone thinks you're lying when you introduce yourself, and when you get coffee, the barista always spells your name as âRaleigh.â But enough about you, more about your failed professional racing career.
Red Bull wonât take you. McLaren wonât take you. Youâve never gotten a chance to race a Mustang, no matter how much the muscle car aesthetic appeals to you. They say itâs because youâre not good enough for those big names- but oh, Rally, you know itâs them that ainât good enough for you. These cars are like the pretty boys of the auto industry. _You_ drive indie. You donât need a big name for people to pay attention. All you need is four wheels, duct tape, and a V8 engine.
Thing is, youâve never had a navigator. No buddies, just you and your frankly absurd ability to drive stick. Maybe thatâs one of the real reasons no brands have ever picked you up.
_Never did like working with others. Always did the least on group projects, you know?_
_Ma, none of them like me. None of âem wanna like me._
You move faster with nobody slowing you down, you tell yourself.
Itâs at the Boston course when you finally(and forcefully) get paired with a navigator. His nameâs Dallas, which is a little silly, because Dallas is a city in Texas, your hometown. You never thought it could be a name.
Dallas used to race for Ford, a car that looked like it was clad in silver armor with two pretty blue racer stripes running from the hood to the rear bumper. It was a Mustang GT4, he tells you, his dream car, âtil he crashed the damn thing on a hairpin corner and Ford stopped paying him.
_Iâve never had a big sponsorship,_ you say, while you watch the other PR teams do promo shoots on the track as the sun goes down.
_Youâll get one sooner or later, _Dallas replies, flicking an ant off the guardrail._ You seem like a Yamaha kinda guy._
You laugh. _Is that a compliment?_
He smiles. _Depends on whether you ride motorcycles or play the piano._
You lose your first race together in a yellow GT3 Mustang with no pit crew. Then you lose the next, in Detroit. And the next. And the one after that. So far this season, youâve only won four out of 10 races with two more to go. Compared to others, it really shouldnât be that bad. Some drivers havenât won _any_ races- Dallas tells you as such.Â
_Hey. Listen. That Chevy driver hasnât gotten past ninth place for the last six races. Weâll be alright._
_Dally, we donât drive for Chevy._
You want to blame Dallas for each lost race, each third place begrudgingly accepted, each step not taken towards the championship at Daytona beach. You donât talk to him, you wonât call your parents, you switch hotel rooms. You start to consider calling up a replacement driver, as sickening as that thought might be.
Then, you get a car swap. Ford, apparently, has had a change of heart.
You meet the Dark Horse in race 11. Two golden racer stripes, glimmering black paint- itâs the prettiest car you or Dallas have ever seen in your damn lives.
It's a battle consisting of aching muscles, Dallas yelling directions until the speakers in your helmet start clipping, and defending first position like the car was gonna explode if you fell behind. But when Dallas anticipates a turn that couldâa given you whiplash if you had half a second less to react, you start to let yourself smile.
One day of celebration is all you get, a day filled with champagne and laughter and a nice hotel room. The next race is at the same course, so you're glad you and Dallas can revel in the liberty of not having to catch a 3 AM flight the next morning.
Now itâs tomorrow afternoon. Youâve just won race 12. Everyone is roaring praise around you as you cling to Dallas with your helmets pressed together, the smell of ruined, burnt tires sharp in your nose and the taste of salt on your tongue. You canât tell if itâs sweat or tears.
Itâs a two hour flight to Daytona.
But all you need is four wheels, a V8 engine, and a navigator whose name is a city in Texas.
he was the star boy. i was a hail mary.Â
he spat at me. heâll need that mouthguard.
all he did was kick me. he put his skate blade
into the back of my neck.
that game didnât happen. there were two
minutes on the clock
when it happened.
i was never scared of him. i am so terrified. i was never scared of him.
he always smelled like copper. i always smelled like ice.
he smells like antiseptic. i smell like copper.
i walked home. he walked home. i ran.
i walk home. isnât that nice?
he won every fight. i let him win every fight.
did i? no.
he wants me to be a perfect picture.
i take my own damn pictures.
hey rally, heâd said.
you ought to stay behind the boards.
you donât wanna lose any teeth
do you?
hey rally, heâd said.
you got a boyfriend yet?
be a shame to let all that
go to waste.
hey rally, heâd said.
you donât belong here. make room
for the big boys.
hey henry, i say.
in this locker room
you call me captain.Â
i am not your fucking hail mary.
have you ever slept so little
that when the morning came,
all you could do was move slowly
and try not to fall asleep?
on these days it feels like im being piloted by someone else
someone that i shut down when i was eleven,
because she was too run-down
and tired
spending three years without a power source
dreaming of running through fields green and gold
now all she can do is try not to fall asleep
because these veins arenât wires
and this heartâs not a motor
and these muscles arenât pistons
and this brainâs not a motherboard
but good god,
sometimes it feels that way
fourteen pieces you tore me into fourteen goddamn pieces and for what, set? a throne? a crown? a title?
howâs it feel to bite when you got rotten teeth?
you killed me you let my wife find me; she hid me did you pretend not to know? did you hide while she tucked me into those reeds, like a coward?
she could kill you easy, you know.Â
i wonder what you used a cleave, an axe or did you rend me limb from limb with your bare hands? i wonder what that feels like
not being torn apart; nah, i know what you did to me. felt all of it. i wanna know what it feels like to rip the flesh from the bones of my very own brother chop him up into fourteen little pieces maybe tear your jaw from your face, that ugly, long-snout mug split your arms at elbow and wrist, your legs at the hips, then knees, then ankles, then your head ainât that fourteen pieces?
youâre war, storms, chaos, yeah? lemme bring that back âround to you
i remember you said, once, âoh, brother, you will never amount to anything. you might be old, but you ainât wise.â iâm alive, for one, which is what you wonât be by the end of this
you know, set, the best thing about being reborn over and over again, is that i can kill you over and over again. i see god in all of man, but i see no such god in you
i don't know what you were ever scared of, to kill me like that, but believe me i am worse
your heart is heavy i cannot wait to watch it burn, and feed those cold, charred ashes to ammit freak of nature, just like you
but at least sheâs useful