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About Literature / Hobbyist Member Indigo SkyesFemale/United States Group :icontransmetlit: TransmetLit
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I write for the same reason I breathe.


These are amazing. End of story.


Critiquing? Moi? Wonders never cease. Aaand off we go. (I really do hate these star rating things. They're really not quantifiable at a...





The Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority is a colorful, veined spider extending its legs across 3,249 square miles. It carries a daily population of 1.3 million citizens, mainly commuters from the suburbs, and tourists visiting the city. This writhing hub is broken up into six different systems: the screeching, grubby subway, swerving buses heaving exhaust fumes, the commuter rail carrying nine-to-fivers, chugging back and forth from Providence to Boston, and the lesser-known The Ride and MBTA Boat. The MBTA is the fifth largest transportation system in the country, and it’s easy to see it as nothing more than a machine. And it is, in a way – a metal heart beating in the center of New England where the weather changes more than most people change underwear, an entanglement of railways, cable lines, and the famous dizzying Massachusetts rotaries – something that exists only for the purpose of carrying those 1.3 million people to their jobs and back again. It seems so impersonal, so cold and mechanical.

The subway is most prominent in Boston, Massachusetts, which many a city child learns to navigate with ease by the age of twelve. The famous “T,” a great beast threading under the streets of Boston, especially appears to be an ecosystem where everyone exists in their own private bubble. Nearly every passenger has ear phones blocking their ears, their eyes glued to a glowing screen, chattering into their phone, or is staring blankly off into space.

But I believe there’s a reason why the subway is the most common location for Massachusetts’ “Missed Connections” on Craigslist.

Intimacy is often craved, but not easily found.


I’ve read that everyone in our dreams are people we have seen before. I have dreamed of conversations in sign language with a brown-eyed child on the subway, sitting in her father’s lap. I love you, she tells him. The colorful plastic beads hanging from her braids patter together when she moves her head. The lights in the car flicker green and white and go out – she cries out, her voice unheard. I wake up. Out of 1.3 million people, I remember her. How alone can it really be if I remember who she is, even in my sleep?


Skin is a language that is not spoken, but felt. My hand brushes against someone else’s as they clutch the pole. They slide their grip upwards to make way for mine, and I wrap my fingers around the still-damp aluminum. The contact both repulses and fascinates me. I want to draw my hand back quickly, knowing that our sweat and germs are mingling on my palm, but wishing to know what their fingerprints would look like overlapping mine.

Sometimes I feel the residual heat in a seat from someone else’s body like a phantom, a tangible reminder that we both existed in the same space.


An elderly gentleman with a mahogany walking stick and blue cataracts glistening in his eyes, a pregnant woman juggling groceries, her shirt stretched tight across her swollen belly, a young college student with dark sunglasses and a white cane, gingerly stepping up into the train. I touch each of them carefully on the shoulder, ask if they would like to sit, and see gratitude, surprise, and relief cross their faces.

I tell a girl I love her shiny red rain boots, nod my head along to the music pumping from someone’s headphones, and smile at a baby in a stroller. I knock my water bottle against a child’s sippy cup, and he shrieks in glee. We toast again and again, to me, to him, to the miles we still have to go.


People crush into the car, even though the bored, frustrated operator insists that “there’s a train directly behind us, folks.” Many bodies are touching my body, holding up my own tired limbs, but I find this rush hour closeness comforting; these people are going home to families, lovers, or perhaps canned soup, and a pet goldfish. Their lives are touching my life for these brief stops, our bodies swaying together like marionettes.


A 74-year-old homeless Veteran named Jake sits outside Copley station and sings songs by James Taylor, Frank Sinatra, and the Beatles. I offer to buy him food, but he tells me someone already did, calls me darling, and says I am blessed by God. I buy him a Beatles CD from the discount section at Newbury Comics and wrap it in a glittery blue bag. I hand it to him, nose shyly buried in my scarf, unsure of how he will receive this gift. He beams, and proudly tells his companion, “Look what this young lady bought for me!”

Jake is one of the 19,000 homeless people in Massachusetts who takes refuge in the shelter of train stations and in the kindness of others. Even on the coldest winter days, Jake’s singing echoes off the concrete.

I'm surreptitiously watching a middle-aged couple on the train, a few feet down the car from me. The man is balding and has bright blue eyes, framed by deep smile lines at the corners. They go almost all the way up to his temples. His wife is blonde and tan and her eyes are warm and clear. She is dressed very tastefully. She is clasping his hand and they frequently meet each other's eyes and smile, as if, even forty-odd years later, the honeymoon never really ended. These are the type of people who look like they're smiling even when they're not.

The man bends his head to talk to his tall teenage grandson. The boy is wearing a Red Sox cap slightly askew on his carefully mussed hair, his t-shirt a bit too big for his slim body. He doesn't seem to mind though, ginning easily back at his grandparents. His grandfather smiles down at someone out of my line of vision. The teenage boy moves and I see a mini version of him wobbling behind him. The teenager says something to his little brother and I can read lips well enough to know that he's telling him what stop they're getting off. He adjusts his cap with a deft flick of his fingers. The smaller boy looks up at his brother with thinly-veiled admiration.

I find I like this family.

As they exit the train, the grandparents' fingers are still twined, the younger brother is stumbling on his untied shoelaces in eagerness to keep up with his big brother, and the teenager is thumbing the keypad of his phone.

I almost wave goodbye.
The Intimacy of Strangers
I have a couple questions for this one.
:bulletblue: Is this too idealistic and happy?
:bulletblue: In the first paragraph, are there too many metaphors? (Beast, spider, machine, etc.) If so, which do you think I should stick to and why? 
:bulletblue: Should I add more personal details about myself? 
:bulletblue: Should there be more/different organization?
:bulletblue: Did you enjoy the snippets/fragments, or were they too unfocused? 
:bulletblue: In the fifth section, I began with a close lens (the one interaction between Jake and I), then zoom out with a wider lens (mentioning the 19,000 homeless in MA). Should I do that more throughout the piece? Where? 

Critique here:….
Your house went first -
Packaged up like a Christmas present with a mortgage,
A red bow on top to our oldest cousin with the four children and the husband who was always on the brink of being hired
But never was.
Your car -
It was silver and neat,
Smelling of leather polish and wax.
I found your gloves in the front seat,
Slipping them on,
Hoping when I opened my eyes it would be your hand in mine

Your furniture -
Shipped off to antique stores that smelled of moth balls and memories no one cared about.
Carted home by two aunts, three uncles, and five cousins,
Until the skeleton of the old house swayed,
Nothing inside to hold it up.

Your things -
There is no better word for them.
The old radio you could always fix, no matter how broken it was,
A stationery bike in the garage that would be abandoned for the new gym down the road,
Your nutcracker collection everyone thought ugly except for me,
Embroidered pillows no one would sleep on.
They were sealed in stiff cardboard boxes and glossy tape,
And I had nothing else to say.

Your clothes -
I kept.
I did not want the Salvation Army or the homeless veterans’ shelter or Goodwill to have them.
Every night I wrap myself in your shirts,
Hold myself goodnight,
Wait for you to come back to me.
The air is golden, dancing with dust motes.
Your hair smells of sugared lace swirled into a dreamlike cloud,
The kind your mother always warned you not to eat too much of
Or you’d ruin your teeth and turn your tongue blue.
But you are at the peak of a Ferris wheel as it churns the sky,
Your eyes liquid amber in the sinking sun.
From atop your plastic, swaying throne,
You are goddess of this kingdom -
A tangle of tiny flashing Christmas lights.
The wheel creaks, groans,
And you descend from your reign,
Graciously abdicating to a new deity.
It is dusk when your sandals touch asphalt,
And you are human once more.


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Hello everyone! :wave:

I thought a new journal was in order, considering my second Daily Deviation just happened yesterday. :faint:
I am absolutely honored by your comments, critiques, watches, favorites, stories, and encouragement. You all are wonderful people, and I'm so happy my work-in-progress touched so many of you. :heart:
Massive thank you to the beautiful Steph (IrrevocableFate) for suggesting the piece! You're amazing, lovely. :tighthug:

As for my life itself, this summer involves fun activities such as:
:bulletblue: Netflix marathons (Orange is the New Black, Cake Boss, Doctor Who, Say Yes to the Dress: Atlanta)
:bulletblue: Working as an intern at Harvard Medical School 
:bulletblue: Watching recipes on YouTube at 3am and then getting really hungry
:bulletblue: Getting ready for college(!!)
:bulletblue: Trying not to melt 

How are you all doing?

Indigo :heart: 

P.S. (If you would like to find me elsewhere on the Internet, my tumblr can be found here.)
  • Mood: Awestruck
  • Listening to: Like Real People Do by Hozier
  • Reading: John Dies at the End by David Wong
  • Watching: Orange is the New Black season 2
  • Drinking: Water


Indigo Skyes
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
I read like an absolute maniac. Music is my oxygen. I'm a hope(less) romantic. I love meeting new people and trying new things because there's just so much in life. I will always and forever be figuring things out and there are some things I'll never figure out, but that's okay. I will dance to any kind of music, with anyone, and anywhere. Even if I don't know the lyrics, I'll try to sing along with them at the top of my lungs. My friends are the most wonderful people in the universe. My family puts up with me like no one else, and I love them for it. I believe in magic, love, the impossible being possible, and that everyone has a skeleton or twelve in their closet.
I don't think that I'd like to be anyone else but me.

I measure life in love.

Current Residence: Somewhere over the rainbow
Personal Quote: "I exist as I am, and that is enough." - Walt Witman

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MustafaSEZER Featured By Owner Oct 9, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
:iconbouquetplz: :iconwineplz: :iconcakeplz::iconwineplz::iconbouquetplz:
IndigoSkyes Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you!
MustafaSEZER Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Always best wishes :)
Bambi-Claire Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
Thanks for the fave! :)
Tarzok Featured By Owner Jul 1, 2014
:party: Happy Unbirth day :party:
IndigoSkyes Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Why thank you. (:
iamadem Featured By Owner Jun 26, 2014  Hobbyist Photographer
You're very kind for all of those! I'm sorry for being so late, I haven't spent a lot of time here in the past few weeks, or months, or something. :heart:

We must catch up soon! I hope you're well. :)
IndigoSkyes Featured By Owner Jun 27, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
You're quite welcome!

I'm not on here much anymore either, but I check in every few weeks for various housekeeping things.

I hope you're doing well, too!
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Mar 9, 2014   Writer
IrrevocableFate Featured By Owner Oct 10, 2013   Writer

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