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jodizzle:
Awww the second one was cute.
Ok, I am not happy with this at all. It kind of stalled and I had no way of getting out the words I wanted to.  It's hard to explain, but I couldn't get across the feeling I wanted to.

Challenge: Dark, blossom, memories


The blank spaces bothered me.  Like someone had been moving furniture around in my mind, leaving empty shadows where there should have been life.  Tiny light switches flicking on and off brought brief glimpses of memories my mind would rather forget.  It was infuriating, going months on end blissfully ignorant of the past, only to have some dark recess of my mind illuminated.  But never for long.  The light only lasted long enough to knock the wind out of me and bring images rushing to the surface of my consciousness, snaking shadow tentacles reaching out to grasp my limbs and pull me into the cavernous depths of my memories.  Fear blossoming as the line between reality and nightmares becomes impossible to distinguish.

My mind knows best, I try and forget.

Vendetagainst:
I am sort of bringing this thread back to life because today I was in a cafe and spent about three hours writing a poem. It's not particularly long, but I wanted to challenge myself to break my typical format (in which I follow a specific rhyming scheme and it is largely Stream of Consciousness) and I think it turned out ok-ish. First I wrote several paragraphs describing exactly what I wanted to express in the poem, then I found and described the key points, then wrote several crude stanzas, and then the poem itself. There was no rhyming scheme (or rhyming at all, for that matter) and the only format was that each stanza was four lines and each line was eight syllables. It's a little awkward, but if anybody thinks it has potential I'll write a 2nd draft for myself and be happy. Otherwise I'll probably cry and whine about it in my myspace blog (not really).
Criticism reluctantly welcome!

The scholar weeps behind glass wall
The desp'rate want to grasp the soul
That dances vibrantly throughout
That ever-present paradox

How our eyes gleam as they do search
Yet just behind our glassy sight
A view of them they do present
Save for the world they have beheld

For this we search throughout ourselves
We search our ev'ry corridor
But no mirror reveals that glass wall
The eye that is our searching soul

Oft we act without direction
Blindly led throughout existence
We chance upon the puppet's strings
Through which we may retake control

If only we could see the road
On which our conscious mind does walk
Then clearly we would understand
Our eye, our mirror, our very soul

Most intimate of all, our soul
The stream that guides our flowing thoughts
We rest atop its gentle wake
Uncomprehending of its depths

The introtracted mind does hold
Its soul to be its nest, cocoon
Engulfing all, in mother's arms
That which is ev'rything—itself

And thus he may grab hold the strings
Without pervading, blinding doubt
Immersed in that flowing current
A consciousness beyond himself

J-cob9000:
I wrote a thing for English at the beginning of the semester. I'm going to go look for it and post it if I can find it.

EDIT: also: http://creativewritingprompts.com/#
Some of them are crap, some of them are okay. Thought you'd like to know.

allison:
I scribbled this down after the commute home from my evening class.

The Subway

The sun has gone out of the sky for the last time. The chill in the air sets into my bones and I pull my old collar closer. I hurry toward the light rising from the ground; me, descending into the grimy underbelly of the city. The air down here is stale but the smell is familiar and its heavy, damp warmth filters into my lungs. I make my way past the throng of people, all hiding like me.

Toward another staircase I go, venturing deeper into the cavernous hollows beneath the surface. I take refuge in the last empty corner, leaning against the wall, pulling myself together. The crowd has thinned. There are a few other brave souls, but they seem vacant, distant, almost empty. We are delicate and as the ceiling above me quakes, I pray it is not as fragile as those under it. I am silently relieved when the thunder stops and the walls cease to tremble.

My hearing is sharpened, acute. The thumping of bass in someone's personal world seeps into mine. It pushes me to near sensory overload, a complete cacophony of muffled rhythm, mechanical voices and then there is a distant rumble that deepens as it approaches. Screeching, squeaking, shuffling to a stop, we rush toward this iron snake that arrives in front of us. It opens itself and we delve into its crowded innards.

There are already people here. They are pushed deep into seats and corners, holding onto the metal bones for dear life. Everyone is staring at the floor or the ceiling; stealing glances at one another but avoiding any eye contact. My gaze darts here and there, never focusing too long on one thing. I hate to draw attention to myself. I can almost feel people looking though, when I turn my head this way or that - someone is always watching. I close my eyes and pretend I am alone. Part of my consciousness is aware of a child crying. I peer out the corner of my eye; a little girl is clutching a woman's leg and crying as if she has lost something dear. At her feet lies a stuffed toy, soaking in a pool of dirty, gritty water. I look away.

Every touch is electric inside the great beast, hurtling toward untold destinations. An old, tired man brushes past me and we both exclaim suprised apologies for how dare two strangers touch - even so briefly. The contact is strange and discomforting; there are people staring now. I feel dirty, claustrophobic and inexplicably enraged. The beast turns along the track and I sway gently, my anger dissipating with the slight rocking. I slip back into comforting isolation, but it is calculated and forced. There are empty seats now, and I slide into one, shrinking back as far as possible from the aisle, from the other people.

Across from me, there is a woman knitting. I forget my own rules and stare, completely enthralled by the way her fingers and the needles move together. It's effortless for her. The needles click against each other again and again and she doesn't even blink. Her face is lined with age and her mouth droops down in a frown so deep it seems almost comical. Though her face is old, her hands are young. I wonder who she is knitting for. I wonder if she maybe made the very sweater she is wearing, deep red with an ivory pattern around the cuffs, and around the neck.

Screeching, squeaking, shuffling to a stop. I burst out into a new world, crowds parting from my path. I am desperate to get away, back into an empty place void of the hundred eyes boring into me. I climb up and up, the chill again seeping into every seam, but I can't lose momentum. I burst out of the ground, free. I can't help but laugh - I've made it out again.

jodizzle:
Trying to write agaaaain.  Sorry it is so short, that's how I roll.

Apple, discreet, effulgent


He took me on a whirling carousel ride through his life, making me dizzy with bright lights and carnival music.  The candy apples and playful laughter merging with cocaine and debauchery, the sensational taste of vodka mixed with sex.  We waltzed through a playground at midnight trading bitter mouthfuls from a brown bagged bottle, and I tore my stockings climbing over the fence.  He fucked me in the tube slide, silent and discreet, and afterwards we giggled like children as we renamed the stars.
He seduced me with sugar and the sway of his hips, an effulgent angel buying his time on earth with liquor and lust.

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