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Literature Text
I knew a boy who used to count each of his bones before he fell asleep just to make sure he was still together, still in one piece. He told me he was defected, with salt-skin lungs, a curled tongue, eyes that could not lie; spent his life hiding his flaws in threading jumpers, thick gloves and alcohol. Once, he tried to scratch out every freckle, carve open his smile, fill in the hollows echoing through his ribcage.
One, two, three…
Words dripped off of sallow stretched lips as his spider fingers traced over his skeleton, dancing across taut skin, sinewy muscles - inches from his organs.
Four, five, six…
Creases ruptured over the bridge of his nose, disgust at a particular scar puckered on his elbow - a translucent lilac bruised into his tanned skin.
Seven, eight, nine…
I remember when he broke his wrist, the dull heat radiating into my palm as his head pressed hard into my shoulder, the sterile scent of hospital wards slick on his breath. And his chalk bones fissured during the lengthy pause before he decided to count that bone twice.
Ten.
I knew a boy who used to count each of his bones before he fell asleep. And who, in time, counted mine too. At first it was subtle; his pupils ghosting over each joint and bend unconsciously.
Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…
Soon, the pads of his fingers were walking the trails of my blood, the path of my bones. He would wander in the gorge nestled in the dip of my collarbone, meander over the mountain range of my spine, swim over the crests of ribcage waves. In a night, his hands would cover the continents of my shoulder blades, the vast white ocean pooling between my vertebrae and my hipbones.
Seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six…
Most nights, he would work his way up, crescent nails curling around each joint in my foot. Sometimes he’d trace the rattling bones in both feet simultaneously, but often he’d do the left then the right, steady and methodical. Then his palms would skate up my curved willow legs, mouthing numbers as he went.
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine…
At my hips, our pupils would flick up and meet, dark crevasses boring out and in to each other. As his fingers searched for the protrusions of my pelvis, the tides of his breaths would falter and I’d have to whisper -
One hundred.
The routine became embedded in my body as another reflex, another reaction. I’d arch as each segment of my spine was inspected by his half-moon nails, ribs raked by eclipse eyes. And in turn, my mouth would hold the shape of a full moon, a round ‘o’ of practised surprise.
One hundred and twenty-one, one hundred and twenty-two, one hundred and twenty-three…
Around us, the bed sheets creased into outlines, sculpting around his sharp elbows, rippling around my lax hands pressed palm down. Contorting, I’d open up the canyon between my shoulder blades, his endless drone of numbers filling up the space, up the air until I swear I’m just laying on the number -
One hundred and forty-four, one hundred and forty-five, one hundred and forty-six…
And that I am simply in love with the numeral -
One hundred and sixty-seven, one hundred and sixty-eight, one hundred and sixty-nine…
- locked in his wrecked hull of a chest. He once told me that he thought the inside of his ribcage was carved bare like the innards of a pumpkin. He told me how he tried to swallow a candle, a lit splint, just so the hollow aching in his core would have some purpose. I imagine amber light pouring through his taut drum-skin and peeling around the curves of his slender ribs, the shadows spinning across the walls.
Two hundred.
And I imagine fireflies pouring out of his cavernous mouth, a deluge of light lacing around each of my preciously precisely counted bones.
Two hundred and one.
His mouth numbers the bones in my head, pressing kisses to my temple, the digits etch into my skin.
Two hundred and two.
I am just a skeleton, a collection of milky bones and joints. How do I feel?
Two hundred and three.
Am in love or is this all just a chemical reaction, a biological trigger pulled by his crucifix nose, his torn obsessive lips, his repetitive patterns?
Two hundred and four.
His fingers find mine, intertwining and meshing like barbed wire. (Who are we trying to keep out?)
Two hundred and five.
As usual my tongue is stuck in my mouth while I lie dumbly, questioning why I exist and what I am and maybe this is why he has to count every bone – to remind himself that that is all he is. At his core he is just a pile of porcelain shaped into a vase, a vessel that remains empty. And as usual my hands grasp his tight, as if I am trying to reassure myself that if he is real, if he can feel then I can too; that I am more than just nerves and joints. His eyes slip behind his freckled eyelids and the light is gone. My lantern boy is temporarily extinguished and for a moment I am just a parcel wrapped in white paper. I watch mindlessly as his lips part and he sighs the final number, is able to give in to exhaustion at last while I fall into a dreamless sleep, tossing every hour, trying to forget.
Two hundred and six.
One, two, three…
Words dripped off of sallow stretched lips as his spider fingers traced over his skeleton, dancing across taut skin, sinewy muscles - inches from his organs.
Four, five, six…
Creases ruptured over the bridge of his nose, disgust at a particular scar puckered on his elbow - a translucent lilac bruised into his tanned skin.
Seven, eight, nine…
I remember when he broke his wrist, the dull heat radiating into my palm as his head pressed hard into my shoulder, the sterile scent of hospital wards slick on his breath. And his chalk bones fissured during the lengthy pause before he decided to count that bone twice.
Ten.
I knew a boy who used to count each of his bones before he fell asleep. And who, in time, counted mine too. At first it was subtle; his pupils ghosting over each joint and bend unconsciously.
Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…
Soon, the pads of his fingers were walking the trails of my blood, the path of my bones. He would wander in the gorge nestled in the dip of my collarbone, meander over the mountain range of my spine, swim over the crests of ribcage waves. In a night, his hands would cover the continents of my shoulder blades, the vast white ocean pooling between my vertebrae and my hipbones.
Seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six…
Most nights, he would work his way up, crescent nails curling around each joint in my foot. Sometimes he’d trace the rattling bones in both feet simultaneously, but often he’d do the left then the right, steady and methodical. Then his palms would skate up my curved willow legs, mouthing numbers as he went.
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine…
At my hips, our pupils would flick up and meet, dark crevasses boring out and in to each other. As his fingers searched for the protrusions of my pelvis, the tides of his breaths would falter and I’d have to whisper -
One hundred.
The routine became embedded in my body as another reflex, another reaction. I’d arch as each segment of my spine was inspected by his half-moon nails, ribs raked by eclipse eyes. And in turn, my mouth would hold the shape of a full moon, a round ‘o’ of practised surprise.
One hundred and twenty-one, one hundred and twenty-two, one hundred and twenty-three…
Around us, the bed sheets creased into outlines, sculpting around his sharp elbows, rippling around my lax hands pressed palm down. Contorting, I’d open up the canyon between my shoulder blades, his endless drone of numbers filling up the space, up the air until I swear I’m just laying on the number -
One hundred and forty-four, one hundred and forty-five, one hundred and forty-six…
And that I am simply in love with the numeral -
One hundred and sixty-seven, one hundred and sixty-eight, one hundred and sixty-nine…
- locked in his wrecked hull of a chest. He once told me that he thought the inside of his ribcage was carved bare like the innards of a pumpkin. He told me how he tried to swallow a candle, a lit splint, just so the hollow aching in his core would have some purpose. I imagine amber light pouring through his taut drum-skin and peeling around the curves of his slender ribs, the shadows spinning across the walls.
Two hundred.
And I imagine fireflies pouring out of his cavernous mouth, a deluge of light lacing around each of my preciously precisely counted bones.
Two hundred and one.
His mouth numbers the bones in my head, pressing kisses to my temple, the digits etch into my skin.
Two hundred and two.
I am just a skeleton, a collection of milky bones and joints. How do I feel?
Two hundred and three.
Am in love or is this all just a chemical reaction, a biological trigger pulled by his crucifix nose, his torn obsessive lips, his repetitive patterns?
Two hundred and four.
His fingers find mine, intertwining and meshing like barbed wire. (Who are we trying to keep out?)
Two hundred and five.
As usual my tongue is stuck in my mouth while I lie dumbly, questioning why I exist and what I am and maybe this is why he has to count every bone – to remind himself that that is all he is. At his core he is just a pile of porcelain shaped into a vase, a vessel that remains empty. And as usual my hands grasp his tight, as if I am trying to reassure myself that if he is real, if he can feel then I can too; that I am more than just nerves and joints. His eyes slip behind his freckled eyelids and the light is gone. My lantern boy is temporarily extinguished and for a moment I am just a parcel wrapped in white paper. I watch mindlessly as his lips part and he sighs the final number, is able to give in to exhaustion at last while I fall into a dreamless sleep, tossing every hour, trying to forget.
Two hundred and six.
Literature
Bones
Love
is less about flowers
than it is
about Monday mornings,
when all the world
dreads the commute,
yet I
am eager
to share a space with you.
Some dream
of serenades and starlight,
and yet
I often find myself
lost
inside of mundane fantasies,
the simplicity
of your shower wet hair,
your sleepy-eyed
gaze.
Fingers fit
so snugly together
in dashboard light
like lips and hips
in the blue glow
of
satellite stereo screens,
where I
long to take you
again.
So many men
seek the perfection
of
wakeless dreams
that have no basis
in reality,
while I,
unlike most,
want to dive head first
into your
muddy waters
and become
tangled up in every complication
Literature
dust-centred bones
she can't
say she holds
the world on her
coathanger
shoulders,
but the
weight
of
everyday
drags her down
like nothing else:
until she thinks
maybe she
might
be
slicing
open sharp
hip bones until
they soak the
air with rust and
salt and
dirty desire
and
the mirror
steams to
hide away
Literature
Death of a Cutter
It broke.
Inside every man there is something more dear to him than life itself. A man may lose his head, his arm, his eyes, or even his life, but he is still recognizable as a man. But a man must never lose his soul, lest he become no better than the beasts he once hunted. A traitor to his beliefs, crushing that which makes up this inexplicable organ, is doomed to live the remainder of his days hollow, no longer living but merely undying. Men with broken souls are biological clockwork, rusting out their days until they break down into wet cogs and gears.
So cherished, and yet so fragile.
It happened while protecting the corrupt government
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15/5/14
I didn't actually know a boy who counted each of his bones. But I knew a boy who if he said that he did, I wouldn't be surprised.
This was weird. This is weird. I can't explain... hopefully will be able to edit some sense into this in the next few days~
Edit: Featured aryiea.deviantart.com/journal/…
surrealcachinnation.deviantart…
Critique questions: is the overarching message clear?
are any of the phrases awkward/interrupt the tone of the piece?
do you like the repetition of the numbers or does it interrupt your reading?
I didn't actually know a boy who counted each of his bones. But I knew a boy who if he said that he did, I wouldn't be surprised.
This was weird. This is weird. I can't explain... hopefully will be able to edit some sense into this in the next few days~
Edit: Featured aryiea.deviantart.com/journal/…
surrealcachinnation.deviantart…
Critique questions: is the overarching message clear?
are any of the phrases awkward/interrupt the tone of the piece?
do you like the repetition of the numbers or does it interrupt your reading?
© 2014 - 2024 comatose-comet
Comments24
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Overall Vision Originality
Technique ImpactOverall I think this piece works well, the tone is well maintained throughout and the counting is used to good effect without becoming tedious.
Things to improve:
Firstly, after an initial reading, the thing that stands out is spelling. While there aren't any glaringly obvious errors, there are several instances where you've made mistakes with homonyms, for example, using "lying" where you meant "laying". When it comes to spelling in English, never rely on sounding as English is a mongrel language with odd pronunciations and a plentiful supply of silent letters, and that's before you allow for regional differences and accents.
Secondly, some of your language becomes a little repetitive and in places it just sounds mundane. However I'm not sure whether to fault your vocabulary or my own in this aspect. I'm rather verbose and enjoy using complicated words, even when a simple one would suffice.
Good points:
As I mention above, you maintain the tone of the piece extremely well throughout, and you use the counting sparingly to bring the piece together in what would otherwise be a jarringly disjointed collection of thoughts and observations. At no point does the counting become tedious or distracting from the narrative.
This is a relatively original look at obsessive compulsive behaviors, and how it affects those around the sufferer. It's my first time reading a piece with such a perspective.
In summary:
Check the spelling, especially in regard to misused homonyms.
And optionally, consider where you could improve the vocabulary of the piece.