http://slow.writerscafe.org/bunkeatpotatoes The original writings of author Ruminating Archaeologist en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776055746 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 galaxies stretch across my subconscious. they alight with fire and ice and I note them over time; http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1092522/ Christmas songs sound like depressed lullabies and my heart feels numb and my ankles are sore http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1090734/ can't you see that I've been tied to a chair by my own ropes, and I cannot escape or move or break for fear of hurting myself in the process. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1072618/ today, I took your hand on the playground monkey bars as we sat above them all. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1059688/ (my life's got a rhythm to it lately) can't figure things out, wringing my hair out (a paradiddle of a sort, a heartbeat) and it's all up and down with you; with me http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1050857/ The days flip by like the pages of an encyclopedia.... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1049891/ The lock to the abandoned apartment had been busted. The striated marks might mean that some sort of axe or something with a heavy blade had been used. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1044941/ I want to feel warm It's raining now and I want you to cut me open like an autopsy maybe you'll find something I repress http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1041204/ Dez just wants to find someone who will both accept her and lift her up without dropping her. As she starts her senior year, she begins to feel like everthing's going to crap. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1038503/ with my pencil poised to write, I think back to days of past, where I could say I was alright, however, unsure. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1037096/ more than who I am and yet there are shadows behind me http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1035422/ It's the same nightmare as before same hallway as before but this time, something's different http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1035420/ my hand are itching to rip apart myself and the music's jumping in my skull, vibrating my skin like waves of sand on a drum after every downstroke http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1034464/ dropping like the temperature from the burning to the frost- the moon is destroyed; I'm hurling out of orbit http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1034461/ I leave the French doors open as I walk, barefoot, slowly towards the mirror. There's a mist about my feet ad I can barely see my reflection before me. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1032301/ "Doesn't this all figure?" I ask myself. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1028676/ "Which do I cut?" said the surgeon, spinning the point of his butcher knife on the tip of his finger. The knife cannot harm him. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1028674/ "falling down a rabbit's hole..." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1024956/ "Sometimes, you make me feel like throwing up." Dez looked up from her survey. "What?" I shrugged in thought, and idly flicked off some eraser-shavings from the table. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1024955/ As I step into the dimly lit alleyway, I grimace. It's bad. Real bad. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1024954/ Sunlight streamed in through the glass panes of the greenhouse. Tamsyn Raymer wiped sweat off of her brow as she finished watering a flat of anemone. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1022823/ if you'd let me / maybe I'd let myself; / keep on going with this / back and forth http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1020761/ you almost seem / like your teardrops are your / sympathies / and you cry over all your broken dreams / but they suddenly it's day. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1003913/ There’s a place in between where my vertebrae meet And the notochord supplying a small speck Of pain in my lower back that Makes my eyes water http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1002168/ "There's so much sadness here and so much hurt." "I want, in a way, to take a lighter to these pages." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/1000567/ "Sometimes, you make me feel like throwing up." I blinked, frowned, and looked up from my survey. "What?" She shrugged in thought. "Like, you make me sick of not hearing you talk." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/998548/ some things. written around last week, but posting now because I like it better now. I was sort of on the fence about putting it in my journal thing or posting it. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/993025/ hard to believe I've written 140 poems. I'm glad. maybe one day I can make a book of these for myself? I'd...really like to do that, now... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/987442/ I scuff the ground with my shoe and then draw the gun from my hoodie. I point the barrel directly at the taller one's head, and grin when they flinch. "Just hand over the money, and no one gets hurt." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/983728/ My fingers are numb. I don't know when I started playing, but all I know is that I haven't stopped. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/983282/ "opening with a flick of the wrist; the knife shines in the pale of the night. steady hand and a firm shove to the ground, the palms of my hands meet asphalt." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/983263/ I feel like I'm stuck between two walls it's quiet here, and no one's around but don't worry, I'm not suffocating, I just feel like I'm powerless. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/982001/ Fated to die before her. I don't know why it was; why the fates had wound our tale together only to shear it every decade or so. We lived our lives, then died, then lived again. And now I wait. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/977329/ wrote this, partly based on what I can remember for a dream I had. this entry's focused in the library. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/977319/ A small collection of oneshots centered around a mansion. wrote this, partly based on what I can remember for a dream I had. Every entry in this I'll write'll be in a different room. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/977311/ been a while since I wrote a poem. started up for next year- my senior year. It's both exciting and scary. but I'll do my best. I just want to make sure I leave without leaving behind myself. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/970233/ I went through the garage using my own key, and walked in to blasting Aerosmith music. Otto and I had entered the rock music industry fresh out of high school. We were bringing the band back together. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/962173/ nautilus means "sailor" in greek. thus, I suppose, the different chambers of this sailor are the memories and the ancestry and the dreams and thoughts and things. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/956266/ so, meet Carter. narrator here. needs more development. and an older version of Malcom. He's about 45. ish. maybe late fourties. and then Bryn. not sure how to develop her character. doesn't say much. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/956260/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/956258/ building with metaphorical glass blocks. getting a crane is easy, building is not. *sigh...* http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/947275/ golems are from Jewish folklore. cool, eh? catacombs that I'm referring to are the Parisian catacombs, because their walls are lined with human skulls and other bones http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/947273/ this morning. thinking of all the projects that are stacking up. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/947265/ wrote around 2:30 in the morning yesterday. whilst drawing. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/946732/ just some random writing with my character Ian, in our DnD sort of setting. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/946731/ partly inspired by a converation I had with my best friend Savanna, about how she would rather be an alien than a human. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/945038/ I'm not proud of this. But it taught me more not to judge hastily. To not take a glance and snap before finding more proof. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/942696/ in the past. just written after thinking about it. not entirely true. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/942672/ idea came to me in a bathroom, strangely, with the few things written on the stall. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/942668/ As I sat myself down at my tiny table in the kitchenette half of my apartment, I poured myself a glass of orange juice. I hummed to myself. I wasn't used to Earth, being an alien. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bunkeatpotatoes/942666/