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Writtin' Thread

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schimmy:
Bumping because, hey, writing is pretty cool.
Mobius! I really like your poem. There are parts of it where I'm not crazy about the way you word it, but overall I think it works very well.
I'm trying a new way of writing poems where I write several simultaneously, and go back to them once or twice a day, and do a new draft. I think it's working out pretty well so far! Here is one that I shall call Tenderness:

-

There's a moment of abrupt tenderness when we realise a few too many things
amongst these things we know I no longer love you.
It's you and me and I don't care.
And whatever it was, it's not any more.

I'm indecisive and fake buy when I try honesty
it means arguments beyond my resources and care
I have told myself that I've tried more than enough
I have been told that same fact,
but despite all these efforts once a month we'll give up.

I can't stand being in love with you, even though that's what they say I do.
I tried to explain. I said it. I said it. I said it.       I said it. I said that.
I said that we're through though it's not what I want.
It's a forgone conclusion; we're talking again.

We give more blame and take more blame than either of us is worth.
We give more blame and take more blame than either of us deserve.
You insist I'm wrong. I insist you're not the only reason I'm discontent,
but I hate you anyway.
And you use your fragility as another reason not to work or help me out, just like your insecurity.

Without a doubt we'll forget all our problems we've had.
And if we remember, we'll forget again.
But I'm sick of cursing your name every time.
So I want to try something new. Go somewhere new. Be someone new.
I can't decide for the life of me if it's going to be with you.

maxusy3k:
There's a lot of really nice stuff in here I enjoyed reading, I sort of want to contribute something too but now I am all like "hurrr but my stuff is trash". With that in mind, this is something that was going to be a blog post on MySpaz but I ended up kind of going off on a tangent and it became not really about real life anymore. This is also why it's first person when I pretty much only ever write in third person. I might come back later and post the sort of opening to my current writing project.

--------------------

Everything is about pros and cons. For, against, plus, minus. For me the lack of any kind of 'morning after feeling', at least, no hangovers, sickness or anything to generally ruin the 24 hours after an alcohol fuelled night out has always been the big plus thing. It's like 'why not?'. Most I can worry about is aching from dancing too hard, which is as dependent on the music as it is the amount of alcohol I consumed.

Sometimes though I should think things through more. There's reasons I don't get utterly wasted on a regular basis. Sinking a few shots here and there to supplement my normal progression isn't exactly a world-ending scenario and, the way things have been recently, I'm in no doubt that the warm blanket of alcoholism is one I could wrap myself in to make things so much easier... but still, there comes a point where I should realise enough is enough, it's time to pay for water instead.

I don't remember lastnight. Maybe it's a good thing, maybe not. I remember starting the 'night' at about 2pm. I remember that my drinking buddy only had 3 shots of Jager, yet the bottle is nearly half empty. I also know I was the only other person drinking from it. I think there were cocktails? There was a bar I've never been to, and there were people I didn't know. I think it was mostly fun, but honestly... I can remember snippets, blurred images in the corners of my mind like old graffiti in a bathroom stall... there but infuriatingly impossible to translate. This amnesia worries me, because it calls into question how much I drank, why I did it, and why I didn't think stopping would be a good idea.

It's not like I've ever had a problem before, though. I'm a 'happy' drunk, even if recently I have just been doing it to mask or forget my own problems. It's easier than dealing with it though, it's easier and it's sure as hell a lot better for me to be drunk and blissfully ignorant of my own life, while having fun with my friends, than being conscious of a hundred weight of bullshit bearing down on me like a planet destroying comet, having to constantly mutter excuses and lies to the oft repeated 'are you ok?' sentiments of those around me.

Which leads me to start wondering, do I have a problem? Is drinking to escape the start of a spiral or the end of it? Is it too late or am I being melodramatic? I can't be an alcoholic, not yet, surely. Besides, I don't even end up putting myself in ridiculous places or having unexplained and embarassing black patches afterwards, it's not like I'm ruining my life. I'm young, right? I'm allowed to have some alcoholic fun once a week. Three times a week. The odd drink on a day that ends with a 'y'.

But here, curled beneath the bed of a girl I've never met before, while her father screams about desecration, impurity and being late for church, wearing a pair of painfully tight panties that sure as hell weren't made with me in mind, the taste of lipstick thick enough to know I'm actually wearing it... I can't help but think maybe, just maybe, I could do with laying off the drink for a while.

ZJGent:
The tunnel was jet - an electric stain from the building behind me cutting planes from the bare stone corners... and not much else.

Don't assume stupidity, I do understand the multitude of dangers bequeathed upon a lone traveller by dark under-bridge pathways. It hadn't been my intent to cross the railway in quite as poorly lit and nerve-piquing a fashion. A cavernous and sodium-bright route lay a mile or so to my east that night, but my primary concerns tended more towards haste and in a spectacularly dismal decision I opted for the sinister erosion of tunnel that sat darkly before me. It is due to the events that this choice engendered that I am a wiser man today. Wiser... but ten shades more weak of mind and body. Better that I not shed the final chapter early though - as a warning, I urge you, listen closely:

At a mid-point in this labyrinthine blind spot of an underpass, I understood a second tributary to cut away to my left. Noticing a spider's finger more light there than in the direction I currently faced I - foolish as I was - inclined towards this urban will-o-the-wisp like a moth to its own neon cremation. Luckily (though luck is hardly the word) I was not heading to any kind of mortal incandescence. What I found, as this new-found light grew stronger, was a widening architecture. Soon I found myself standing in a reddened cave, before a bebarrelled fire, in the company of a quite singular man. It was quite evident that he was a vagrant of some kind, yet his clothes were, in style, at odds with this assumption. He wore a jewelled waistcoat of an archaic style and his faded and ripped trouser ends held gaudy tidbits of gilding reminiscent more of the aristocratic fashions of our recently passed century than of any street vendor or pavement artist. Nonetheless, this man smelt as rancid as a Parisian sewer - much fouled were his sleeves and shirt cuffs... and the odour of cabbaged fish permeated the cracked brickwork like a viral plague. He beckoned me forth, and I, being at the time an overly curious fellow, approached cautiously.

"I'll sell you my house for a button. A bean! I'll sell it to you."

I was bemused. His accent was remarkably polished. No shred of dialectic twang hung about it. It was, if possible, the voice of a learned man. But how was he in such a state of disrepute? My curiosity grew as the Olympian monolith, so I replied in this way:

"Why so cheap? With so grand a house? Surely not!"

I looked about me in mock marvelment, chortling internally at my immodest waggish wit. The bizarre maverick estate agent before me leaned under a cracked porcelain urn (I recoiled despite myself) and withdrew three pieces of yellowing paper, with printed type scattered cleanly over them (the only cleanliness present, I hasten to add). The writing was some small prose to the effect of natures of contract and such, with demands for the keeping of the house I assumed. I instantly, in my own individual humour, determined to sign and retain this little facet of my evening, if only for its curio value amongst my friends at Crossford's. Leaning again upon my lickerish wit, I asked for the "house's" beneficial features. The diminuitive dealer in habitations before me smiled a terrifically nausea-afflicted grin toward the area of my necktie, and declaimed three words which shrivel my spinal faculties to this day...

"No Questions Asked."

------
(to be continued in Part 2!)
(bonus points to anyone who can guess the inspiration)

Eris:
He was there when I woke; looking down at me huddled in the corner, his hands in his pockets. A small sigh escaped his lips as I tried to push myself further into the corner; trying to make myself as small as possible.

He crouched down so he was closer to my level and with his hand under my chin he forced me to look at him properly. “Are you hungry?” He asked simply, not letting go as I winced at his voice making the pounding behind my eyes worse. He stood, not waiting for a reply, and walked to the door, waiting as I clumsily followed him.

We walked down an old shabby hallway. There was something wrong with my eyes; the colours were too bright and the details too clear. I stumbled along with my eyes half closed, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. He waited patiently whenever I got distracted by the print of the ragged wallpaper, or the pattern that somehow appeared in the cracked paint on the walls. It was a slow process, but we finally stopped in front of a door. It was no different to all the others we had walked past, but for some reason I knew that I wanted whatever was behind it. I started fidgeting as we stood there, not noticing him place a shackle on my wrist or the chain that led from it to his hand. All I could focus on was the pull I was feeling.

He opened the door casually, the chain stopping me short as I rushed in ahead of him. I struggled against my restraints, my instincts stopping me from thinking clearly. The sound of him clearing his throat made my head throb again, bringing my back to my senses. I spun back to face him, annoyed as he stood there so calmly; stopping me so easily from getting to the food. He had his hands in his pockets again.

He pointed across the room, ignoring me as I strained against the chain. “I caught him especially for you.” He stated, and I looked where he pointed, where I wanted to go.

The man was tied to a chair with his mouth taped over, his eyes wide and unblinking. I could hear his heart beating erratically and see his chest heaving in fear. The urge to go over there intensified. I looked back at my captor and silently pleaded to him. “Do you smell his fear?” He asked, watching me closely. I closed my eyes and groaned with longing as the metallic tang filled my head. I moved as close as I could to the tied up man, the chain stretching taut, but I was still infuriatingly far away.

“Do you want him?” Asked the voice from behind me. The ‘yes’ hissed from between my gritted teeth, making the man’s eyes widen further and his heart beat faster, pumping out adrenaline and making him smell even more delicious. I growled in frustration and scowled at the man holding me back. He raised an eyebrow at me, unfazed by my anger.

“Well go get him then.” He dropped the chain and I was there in an instant. He watched as I devoured my meal, unperturbed by the muffled screams. I drank him dry, feeding long after his heart has stopped beating, until I started sucking air. I was dully reminded of the feeling of annoyance when you finish a drink too suddenly and your throat is still scratchy and dry. I looked at the body of the man I had killed, searching for the blood I could still smell, eventually realising that it was all over me. I wiped the blood off my chin and licked it off my fingers, crouching next to the knocked over chair, eyes darting around for something else to eat. Slowly the urge to kill anything near me lessened, though the back of my throat still burned. I noticed the corpse's eyes were staring blankly into space, which made me laugh. I stood, straightening my bloodstained dress the best I could and looked around for the man who had brought me here.

The room was empty except for me. An impatient sigh huffed out of me and I stalked towards the door, gathering up the chain so it didn't make so much goddamn noise. I threw open the door, ready to storm off until I found the man, but he was leaning again the wall in the hallway, obviously waiting for me to finish. A smile tugged at his face as I stopped abruptly, making me sniff with disdain. He pushed himself off the wall and stood properly, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Are you ready for more where that came from?" He asked, and my slow smile echoed his.

"Definitely."

0bsessions:
We join our protagonist, one Frank Johnson, on a day much like any other. The sun is in the sky, the birds are chirping and coffee is brewing in the corner kitchenette of the office. Unlike his typical routine, however, Frank is locked in a battle; a battle he is not sure he can win.

The office is quiet and still, it is yet early in the day, scant minutes past ten in the morning. His coworkers go quietly about their business, barely cognizant of their own duties, much less the drastic struggle with which Frank is wrestling this fateful morning. Wrapped up in their own little worlds, unaware of the stern consequences that could arise should Frank falter in the mighty task before him.

Sweat drips down his brow, yet he feels a sudden chill as he feels the goosebumps tingle upon his arms. He breathes deeply, struggling with what effort he can muster to compel him toward his goal of conquering his ever increasingly powerful foe.

As he fights seeming inevitability, he thinks back on how he could have prevented this. He has no one to blame but himself for the position he finds himself in this morning. After all, everything in life is a choice and was it not his own series of choices that led him down this road? Still silent, the morning calm of the office is unimpeded by Frank's anonymous efforts.

Alas, he feels his convictions waver. He senses his fortitude begin to give. His muscles contort as he feels all hope leave him with a sudden rush of almost uncomfortable warmth and hopelessness.

As the consequence of his failure permeates the air, the silence of the office is broken. All know now of the valiant battle Frank has fought and quite clearly lost. Though none know precisely who fought this battle, it will drastically impair all those who encounter the result.

As the faces of those surrounding the epicenter that is Frank's cubicle contort almost in unison, one oblivious onlooker stands and queries:

"Alright, who cut one?"

Frank sank deep into his chair in a vain attempt to avoid notice and retain his anonymity.

The End!!!
Dedicated to Taylor, for providing me inspiration for this story.

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