I Work Here — It’s Been Such A Rewarding And Interesting Experience So Consider It If You’re Interested

exit music for a sister driving out of state

the wind is crowned in lemongrass as it stumbles from the field, some king that left her throne cold and throbbing — a purpled cheek under a frozen section of steak, the marbled fat of citizens needs veining through a red-velvet muscle.

I breathe in once and hold it, the day and its run-away king at the top of the air, her slipping royalty, the field bright as honey in lamplight or lamplight in honey.

I build a little headache and keep it like an ant under a glass, its sharp frantic body agonizing blackly in the circle of my skull, as if it had a home of sand to crawl back to but my bones kept it from the colony.

this is enough, I’m sure, the king and my thrum of forehead, enough to fill the day to its brim, nothing else could possibly be happening to us. I bow once and the ache follows me down, I think to kneel as a gust trips by, to become knighted and feel the ant itch up to a scarab beetle— scratching the hieroglyph for migraine onto the edges of the over-turned trap of glass and brain.

                  - c. essington

Icing The Bruise

and we pressed the water till it gave way to bone and marble— you, with your voice coated in pond scum, say that muscle must be some afterthought of river and history. even if it’s only a statue’s legs and hurt, there is still a blood to stone if it’s  set up as a body.

empathy kicks up like a reflex the size of a carbuncle buried in the side of kneecap. 

we go into the forest and lay palms on a riverbed of clay, pushing as if on the chest of someone breathless;

there is a heart to this somewhere— and it can be called up from the sleep of the day like some story where Tiresias keeps his eyes open the whole time and doesn’t tell anyone why. 

from here, the metal of the sink trips the bright of the afternoon into one blot of silver  just thick enough  to get dim on.

from here, sleep is below us like a manta ray is below the water. we feel wings, slick and cousined to a shark, slip across our eyes. we fall in and out of ourselves, hands very close to not touching. 

from here, I’ve caught the picture of your eyes closed across the pillow, brain still shadowed, leg twitching  on the rim of a dream. I woke up before you to find the world soft, to find a privacy, the bed dented lightly with the girl of it. 

        - c. essington

prof: you use some awkward phrasing in this sentence here

me: me too

prof: what

me, with a brain full of exhausted bees: what

Writing game: How about a phone number scribbled on a bit of paper, two dollars in change, a pen, a receipt for a restaurant, and a pack of cigarettes?

Sure thing, thank you. 

Inventory:1. A phone number scribbled on bit of paper2. Two dollars in change3. A pen4. A receipt for a restaurant 5. A pack of cigarettes

There is a piece of paper in my pocket, folded twice over, like pigeon’s wings, or my tongue in a fight, or how I sleep when I’m sad. It’s white with black print and it says that I should be full by now. There’s also receipt from my dinner. After eating through six truffle mushrooms curled in oil and laid over pasta, I left with some coins in my pocket and not much else, my mouth ringing with salt and linguini and fungi I can’t afford but swallowed anyway. 

I’m not full yet despite the seven digits that sit like a brand by my left thigh, so I take out ink and cross them into black hashes. There is being bloated and there is being starving and I’d rather fit in one of those places than be left alone in the middle, a stranger’s affection listed to me in numbers. 

I light something and watch it dwindle, a white column of paper singing in orange and going grey. I think that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing too. It’s not great, I’m still hungry and aching and made of willow leaves and molars, but I can stand upright in my name and store my grievances on the dark sides of my quarters and breathe like I love it, but don’t really have a reason for it all the time.  

           - C. Essington

Thank you for this and your support,

If you want to play this writing game, send me a theoretical inventory of five items in an ask and I’ll try to write a person for it. 

How To Take A Radial Pulse

maybe this has been one of those nights that I’ll come back to later, to outline in crayon and label softly, drawing looks out from the eyes like water from a well. well,

all days have sore ribs, burnt nerves, places which go tender under threat but this one feels like something particularly loose and abused enough already, something which will just  go to heaven if it’s ever touched again.

there is something memorable about hours way too made of blood to ever bleed. 

it’s not going to hurt to put fingers on this: the dim around the pizza box around the carpet around the working anatomies around the exactly seven kidneys. 

it’s not going to hurt it’s just going to all come back in through the palm, one pressure at a time, working just like the un-music a heart makes to keep a head. 

                                   - c. essington 

Hi! Your writing is amazing and I always love reading it. I've been having writers block and haven't been able to write anything for a very long time. I don't write short stories or anything like that, but I do write songs and sometimes poems. Do you have any advice for writes block? Or any websites or apps that could possibly help? Thank you for your time! (:

Well thank you, and certainly, I am quite often plagued with  blocks so I’m familiar with that particular frustration. Here’s how I’ve dealt with it:

1. Read, and read broadly: watch how other writer’s approach scene, character, and plot. Don’t copy or steal, but observe and apply techniques. 

2. Engage in small experiences: eat something, go for a walk, stretch, run uphill for as long as you can. These sort of things, when really paid attention to, can get you to words. For example, if you eat a strawberry and really focus, you can often figure out something about its taste and texture that isn’t wholly obvious or stereotypical. 

3. Combine experiences: I’ve mentioned before that I don’t think you have to solely “write what you know” because this will often keep you from writing a lot of things. However, I do think you should try and have a gateway for writing an experience. Example: If you want to write about someone falling from the deck of a ship in a storm, you don’t have to have fallen yourself, but maybe do a trust-fall with someone or take a very cold shower. Theses are gates and platforms you can write from without actually having to drown to write a drowning. 

4. Get away: Stop trying to write and go somewhere far from pen and laptop. Do something you haven’t done, especially if that something involves another form of art. Museums are great.

Most of these tips are about attention. They revolve around really paying attention to where and what you are and what you’re experiencing. I love to write minutia and try to give it greater significance than its mass. In order to do this, particularly in an age where our attention is so spliced with ads and technology and ridiculous needs to never get bored, you’ve got to get away from thoughts and into feelings. Thoughts are excellent seeds for writing, but it’s very hard to think yourself into caring irrationally, which I believe is required in a lot of writing (to care about fiction,) so at some point, you’ve got to have an undiluted emotion to get ink from.

I hope this helps somewhat and I’m sorry for the length. As a side note, in the next couple of weeks I’m going to be starting a writing prompt column that I’ll be posting links to once it goes up. 

Best regards,

C. Essington. 

this poem is made from rainwater collected outside my dead uncle’s house

my dead uncle’s house gleams like a sore bone

a neighbor’s dog could have brought in, slicked with saliva and dedication.

the more-chip-than-paint walls stand skinned by the storm

that sawed through this county no more than two half-hours ago.

my dead uncle adjusts his death into the still-dying/ still-living cells

that hum on inside him without understanding. parts of him glimmer,

still bright, his hair growing like something shocking

that doesn’t know its shock— the silent video of those years-ago fireworks

pasted to the limp tongue of an elderly VHS tape, its fire

broken, vivid but mute, the cheers I know are there stuck in the air—

like the dark sticks to the night— I can’t see either. all those blank

shouts careening through the screen without their bodies or mine. my dead uncle’s hair

grows down to his knees, no one whispers the secret of his new reality to his follicles

so they all just go on spinning straw-colored beer-calories

into gold. I am outside the house and its long sore silence

which bends the water off its arthritic boards like an old victory I never fought for.

he was not a good uncle. it is july or it was about an hour ago. here is my uncle’s house

I am outside of it, trying to think up something new to call the place that doesn’t belong

to anyone anymore except maybe to those blond locks buttered across the floor like light.

I stand under the gutter and hit it with a stick. old rain,

which sat still long enough to lose its name, hits me cold.

I say hello, think about the hurt of throats in the old video from the picnic on the 4th,

how happy everything must be from behind the camera lens. my uncle doesn’t know he’s dead

like the cold in the gutter doesn’t know its name isn’t thunder any longer.    

                        - c. essington

- c. essington

what is your most favorite piece that you've written?

Agh I’m not entirely sure but I wrote a short story about gender dysphoria and greyhounds that’s coming out in the fourth issue of Bridge Eight Magazine that I’m a bit fond of at the moment. 

Please feel free to send in any more college/ kenyon/ writing/ publishing questions! I have a lot of time today.