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Author Topic: Writtin' Thread  (Read 15979 times)

ampersandwitch

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #100 on: 01 Dec 2008, 17:42 »

 :-D
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J-cob9000

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #101 on: 15 Dec 2008, 18:51 »

I was stuck at home this weekend without internet. Ew. I was bored.

Quote
   Henry was the kind of person who could just sit at his desk and think. Not about anything in particular. Perhaps he would think about his job, perhaps his wife or kids. Perhaps he wouldn't think about anything and he would just stare into space.
   He was happy with his life. He had a beautiful wife and two wonderful kids, Brock and Eileen. They were each 12 years old and twins. They, and his wife, were his favorite thing to think about.
   This desk that he sat at and thought was in his office, which was on the forty-third floor of the Heimlich building. Henry's job was to make sure that all the computers in the building were running and that the network was in good shape. Henry got quite stressed sometimes but just going home and seeing his family calmed him down and let him forget about his job.
   Henry rode the elevator down all 43 floors with no interruptions. He went out the door and used his key to unlock his brand new company car. He turned they key and engine began to hum. He loosened his tie and began the drive home. The radio host was talking about war and about the economy. He changed the channel.
   Pulling into the driveway always cued his two kids to come running out of the house to welcome him home. They wrapped their short arms around his waist and tried to climb up his body like his arms and legs were branches on a tree. Henry had learned to walk while dragging two kids. That's how it was. Gradually, they stopped coming out to meet him. Henry knew it was because they were getting older and didn't find it necessary anymore. They were still happy to see him after his long days at work.
   “Honey?” Henry called for his wife every day when he got home. Every night she answered him with an, “I'm in the kitchen!” or a, “Back here!” And then she would walk out into the foyer and hug him and tell him that she missed him.
   Dinner would almost always be ready when he came home. The family would sit down at the dinner and have a peaceful family meal. They each discussed their day. The kids talked about school and what they learned that day. His wife told him what all she did that day.
   Henry was glad his family was normal.
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schimmy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #102 on: 23 Dec 2008, 12:44 »

Don't die, pretty thread!

-

I have been to Italy only once.
Twice more, but three people I will discuss were only together on this trip.
The other two trips were with my family.
One of which was uneventful
and one of which is a story you probably already know.

So, it's the school trip I'm going to talk about.
We went on pseudo-educational sightseeing trips during the day
and at night, we drank, the people I no longer like or never liked at all.
I drank, with one of the people I shall discuss, whiskey:
Jack Daniels and something with what might have been a cockrel on the label.
Though not in exact words, I remember why I drank it,
he's never told me why he did.
I wanted to be one of those cool, handsome, clever, sexy, people
who know all about whiskey or whisky, or even bourbon.
A connoisseur.
Who still doesn't know what the addition or lack of an 'e' means.
I am friends with him, though just barely I think sometimes.
He hasn't changed a bit. And I like to think I've changed completely.
I brought a box of condoms on that trip.
I hoped more than I claimed: "Just in case."
I think he's still focused on that and
though my girlfriend might tell you different, I'm not.
I think he's still using intimacy as a tool
to find love, and I hope he finds it
but I know he won't,
not this way.
He treats sex and drinking and drugs as more grown up than really they are.

Now, the other person I am going to talk about,
I was only starting to realise it then, is amazing.
I was still sort-of-interested-in-her in the way that I always was with new friends
I was apparently the first guy to know about her new boyfriend
who went on to break her heart a few too many times for me to ever forgive him.
But back then I was full of hope for the two of them.
She and a mutual friend were amongst the ones who didn't drink.
They had early nights.
I didn't know how, but they enjoyed the trip.
I was told no guy could get close to her.
I never did, and I never wanted to,
past our initial meeting.
Whenever I think about her she is happy and so am I,
and our lives are almost-perfect now,
and I'm still not quite sure why.
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ZJGent

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #103 on: 23 Dec 2008, 21:17 »

Yaaay sci-fi that has no actual direction! One day I will actually write something that actually goes somewhere. p.s. did I post this on the forum already? I don't think I did, so here you are:
---

The apartment was a grid of fractured half-thoughts on architecture, the bottom level coding borrowing thoroughly from old London maps and half-sketched diagrams of piping. Still, the internal descriptions were a comfort to S Ellis 52*, known better as Sellis by her networkers, and she again decided not to sell the place. She reclined in a barrel of old texts on relaxation, via antique dialogues on bathtub ornaments. There was an old lavender subroutine behind the tub somewhere - dangling over the porcelain-written edge she poked her hand around the tile-code, finally grasping for a cylindrical length of purple numbering. Finding it empty and devoid of thought, she sighed and sank back into the bubbles. Realising relaxation would come easier among company, she dried the idea of her torso (a fairly original one - though modest, Sellis got attention) and slipped into a faded grey discourse on fashionable little numbers from twentieth century pop literature. Dry and dressed, it was a short walk from the apartment to LOL|RICK|ROLL, the new irony bar on the corner of her information street. The bartender didn't recognise her, so she ordered a double meme on the ricks, and sat silent at the stool to the side. A couple of spam lads came up with tawdry offers they'd bought from unoriginal sources, but she sent them on their way. Even with Sellis' modesty, a girl has to stay unique, you know?

I apologise, kind reader. I forget your own uniqueness - but let me let you catch up. Your brain, boggling at these 'abstract notions' of things, is no doubt having a bloody hard time of things. I will attempt, therefore, a little history for you. A touch of... explanation, in as clear and succinct a fashion as is allowed by the current state of... well, we shall get to that in a moment.
In the clattering and grime-soaked dying years of the human race, a solution was required to just about everything. Poverty was rife, disease pandemic, the environment a dirty great fuck-up of catastrophically unhealthy proportions. The further we advanced with our cure-alls and health gadgetry the more our own dirty marks would catch up with us. A pendulous cloud of guilt began to be heaped upon our statesmen and women, our Great Neon Leaders… nothing was working! Where would they find their voter confidence now? Humanity, in its short span aboard the earth, had shat on itself so many times that it seemed there was no hope.
Then, a miracle. It has to be said, whilst your comic-book frazzle-haired mad scientists were hard at work, it amounted to nothing. Yes, a solution did present itself. There were no funds involved, no mutated rodents, no bangs or fizzes. The man behind the escape from our own detritus wasn’t particularly clever, nor did it take him a great time and effort when the solution was formed. Look, the saviour of our race was no electric afro science whiz.
He was Clive, an accountant from Barnstow.




also: Gilly Thunder aka I HATE IT WHEN MY BRAIN COMES UP WITH IDEAS FOR SHITTY ROMANTIC COMEDIES.

Gilly Thunder was chronically single. Not just ‘chronically’, actually: the adjective couldn’t quite cover precisely the scope and width and breadth of all the whirlwind romances and torrid affairs she never really experienced. There was her ‘first time’ which was really no time at all. It had ended rather abruptly with a phone call to her father in shaky pubescent tones, one Valentine’s evening. The phone call was from a young love completely besotted with Gilly. Unfortunately, he had also been beset by nerves. The night of their first and only big date, Stephen Gandley of Class 7B, had stood her up via her father. Her father, being equal parts doting and incorrigible as all good Yorkshire-born fathers are, had only said “Oh well, love, better leave it ’til you’re older, eh?”
This had infuriated Gilly then – why wasn’t she allowed to bonk boys behind the bike sheds like all the other seventeen-year-old girls? Not that it looked particularly fun, and it was exceedingly messy, but the feeling that she was missing out on something hovered over her.
Gilly had hit thirty last year. She had, after the prophetic remark of her father that fateful evening, “left it until she was older”. Then she’d left it a little longer. And then, just to make sure, she had absented herself from the idea of falling head-over-heels entirely.
She wasn’t particularly bad-looking, though…
« Last Edit: 23 Dec 2008, 21:51 by ZJGent »
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[02:29] Danosaur: I'd Spektor your Regina.

Barmymoo

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #104 on: 24 Dec 2008, 12:00 »

You didn't seem to think it was too much of a good idea last time either, so it's probably fairly masochistic to be trying again. Hey ho. No harm in being optimistic.

I sit across from you and try to make conversation without really knowing what to say. You're not listening anyway. There's another woman across the room, with short black hair and sophisticatedly bare ankles, and she's caught your eye as I never could.

I consider the scene before me. There's a hole in the tablecloth, a single fault in the white expanse between us, and I idly tug at one of the loose threads as my sentence dies on my lips. I've already forgotten what I was talking about. No use asking you.

Suddenly there's movement from the other side of the table and I look up to see that you've finally torn yourself away from the arresting sight in the corner. A smile skips between us, although it doesn't make it past the eyes. And just like that, I've found another glimmer of hope that will keep me chasing smoke and stardust.
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There's this really handy "other thing" I'm going to write as a footnote to my abstract that I can probably explore these issues in. I think I'll call it my "dissertation."

jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #105 on: 31 Dec 2008, 21:40 »

I don't want the thread to die so I am posting this unfinished piece of something.  I was trying to write something with substance but I never got past the first paragraph, surprise surprise.  I will maybe build on it one day, but until then, it can be a happy fragment in the thread.


“The past never stays in the past” my mother said, gripping me intently with her eyes across the kitchen table.  I watched as she filled her water glass to the brim with scotch, and grimaced when she drained it in several quick gulps.  “Don’t ever forget Janie, the past is a prick who returns to fuck you up when you’re at your lowest”.  She was talking about my father of course, the king of the mental mindfuck.  Her hand shook a little as she filled her glass again.  “It will always fuck you up Janie”.
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Quote from: Hannah in Meebly
you it be the mics taht are broked?
Quote from: ViolentDove
But then again, I used to dress like the bastard child of a drug-addled punk and a shrubbery.

schimmy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #106 on: 01 Jan 2009, 10:10 »

I wrote a poem as a sort-of-joke birthday present!

Evey,
I'd hate you for your modesty
if you weren't completely unaware
of your talents for persuasion
and the boys that hump your leg.

So many obsessed, and still you're clueless;
Either you are the great deceiver or something else.
You'll get by, you'll manage just fine.
There exists a boy with such persistence
he will eventually sway your heart.
You will let him in, and you will be fine.

And you will be happy,
and whenever you're not,
choose the right memories to remember
and you will be fine.
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Ceiling Cat

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #107 on: 02 Jan 2009, 19:07 »

You say the road to finding love
Is never very far,
But
What if you're staring back at Earth
Through a spyglass on a star?

-

He's incompetence
Multiplied by an anxious
Facial expression.

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mishy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #108 on: 07 Jan 2009, 10:19 »

i have nice things to say about the stuff in this thread i have read. (i admit to skimming some of it. it's hard to catch up when there's so much text all put together...) i <3 the detective story on the first page. i will comment more on other things. i don't see much in the way of constructive criticism, mostly just support and "i likes", but i encourage you to swing clubs at my stuff. i can take it like a big girl.

my contribution (for now, more later, i goddamn hope.) this is something unfinished, supernatural fiction broken into scenes. so far there's 10 scenes, but that's a lot, so here are the first two. (it's partially inspired by John Dies At The End.) no title yet, working title is "the sparks" or something like that. tell me if you want more. i intend to post it on my under-construction website, but who knows when that'll be.

also, "someday i want to be a writer, like, a published one." i imagine retiring, or maybe baby-making and writing something awesome during mat leave, but i'm having a bitch of a time seeing myself as a writer *now*. i even have a wrist tattoo that says "write life" in courier font, a nagging reminder to myself. i regret the tattoo (i have others i don't regret) because i always have to explain it when someone sees it, and i always end up feeling guilty and stupid because i haven't been writing lately... ever... so someone, puh-lease, give me a challenge or an exercise, cuz i do my best work when it's assigned and the format is constrained. a blank page is my arch nemesis - to me a challenge is a weapon to fight the blank page.

~~~~~~~~~~

#1: The Bathroom Scene

  Expected blurriness. Her contacts? Yes, they were dry. Not surprising. She tried not to rub her eyes, but the blurriness seemed apart from that. Water would help.
  Her legs moved her to the bathroom. A garden of hygiene condiments littered the edge of the blue porcelain sink. This was not her domain. Her tattoo burned against her thigh. She knew peripherally that a mirror was poised for her inspection above her hung head, and that it was a door, slightly ajar, that hid more washroom fauna. She wasn't ready for herself yet, her face could wait.
  Without warning she coughed violently, dark blood painting the blue porcelain. Well, it was better than the alternative.
  Something bright flashed in the liquid and her breath caught, a painful sliver of adrenaline flashing across her shoulders. It’s still there! She hurriedly pulled some toilet paper off the roll and wiped every speck of blood she could find, flushing the mess down the toilet. She flushed again for good measure. The sparks scared her shitless.
  She now felt it necessary to hazard a look in the mirror, expecting to find the sparks in her eyes, the threat of power staining her face into something barely human. She held her breath as she raised her head slowly. But it was only her own deprecation she saw, mascara down her cheeks, eyes puffy after a terrible sleep, the remains of her alcoholic evening making her pores large and her skin grossly sweaty. She exhaled and smiled grimly. It was time to go home.
  And it was time to call Heng again.
  She rounded up her belongings, her clothes and stiletto heels, her cell phone – out of battery. She found the door out of the foreign apartment, and discovered she was at least six floors up a winding staircase. Her hurried descent felt like free fall to her spinning head, but was more likely a series of lucky stumbles. Once outside in the glaring greyness of deep-city streets, she walked to the nearest intersection to determine where she was. Corner of Oscar & Clarke.
  It came to her without effort, her 58-block route back to the Georgian Loft, the home she shared with four roommates. In the same instant she also knew three bus-route options and the higher likelihood of hailing a cab from a location three blocks west of here. The instant knowledge petrified her, another razor of adrenaline swept across her shoulders. The spark was in her, somehow. Something was stirring the wind, stirring up her blood. She had to hurry.
  She hated the source of her instant knowledge, but she recognized the weighted advantage of choosing the cab option, and headed west. She would head straight to Heng's and call the others from there. If she had known eight months ago what would happen to them, that it would change them permanently, she wouldn't be here now. She wouldn't be so used to being scared.


#2: The Bedroom Scene

  He sat up in bed, awakened by the feeling that something terrifying had just happened. He felt like he'd been running for his life and just tripped over a rock, the intensity of panic and danger suddenly doubled. His sheets were drenched in cold sweat and clung to his body. He roughly rubbed his face with the sheet, trying to dry the sweat and get rid of the heavy feeling that pulled at him. Not ready yet to face the day, he let the sheet drop and hung his head, exhaustion creeping at him from behind. Finally, he opened his eyes again, wondering what time it was.
  With a start, he noticed the blood on his sheets. It sparkled at him, like a wink. It was taunting him. "Oh shit."
  He jumped up with the sheet and pulled the red-stained case off its pillow. The white pillow was also red. He grabbed the pillow, too, and ran down to the laundry room. He shoved it all in the washing machine and turned it on to cold water, fullest setting, and slammed the lid shut.
  A cold shiver ran down his spine as he sat down on the stairs. The last time this happened, Jill was... There was so much blood... and the air was so thick with sparks that it hurt to move and all they could see was white. Cold and white.
  He didn't want to think about it. It was time to pack and give Heng a call. He shook his head to clear the mess of memories, took a breath deep enough to fill every crevice in his lungs, and turned to go upstairs.
  There was a sudden bumping sound in the washing machine, and he spun around, feeling the blood drain from his face. But it was only starting the next cycle. He hated being so jumpy.
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mishy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #109 on: 07 Jan 2009, 12:53 »

And just like that, I've found another glimmer of hope that will keep me chasing smoke and stardust.

holy shit, i knew a guy who really had that kind of hold on me, and i was pathetic just like that, knowing better but still getting swept up in whatever evil magic it is that gave me hope in an asshole like him.
when writing hits home, it hits like a truck! kudos.  8-)
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Gilead

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #110 on: 08 Jan 2009, 04:08 »

I've been in an amazing and hell of intense week long dramatic writing workshop at NIDA, so I thought I'd post some of the shit I've done, this is a dramatic monologue I did.

My most memorable day? Well mine was a night and a day really, but it didn't start there, it started with a girl.

Her name's not important, and I wouldn't tell you it anyway, what's important is the way we were together. Ever since we met it was like lightning between us, every touch, every word a little jolt and shiver down my spine; It only got stronger over time.

See, luck just wasn't on our side, whenever I was single, she had a boyfriend, when she was single, I'd be going round with some girl, neither of us were the kind who'd break those sort of rules. Instead we'd skirt the line, touching and teasing and flirting and always pulling back just short of the big shock.

Then one day, she moved away.

Slowly I forgot about her. About the love and the lightning, until the night I was out with my buddy Tim and there she was, back in town for the weekend. Instantly the lightning was back, a dancing current of light and tension crackling between us. Tim felt it and knew to stand well back, he's a heck of a guy Tim, the kind of guy that always knows when to step back and when to jump in.

Me and her, we got to talking, about old times and new times and pretty soon we're leaving the club. Outside, a storm brewing, a palpable pressure in the air that felt like it was just for us. A wind swept through, sudden and cold and cruel, she pushed herself in to me.

It was then that I raised her face to mine, pressed my lips to hers, as soon as they touched there was no controlling the current. We were wires torn free, twisting and touching and buzzing as we earther ourselves. I don't even remember the trip home, I just remember pushing her in the door, touching and tasting and smelling her and revelling in the ecstatic crackle of our own private storm.

The next day the air was calm and still. The sky, once thick with portentious thunder now sat silently. We said our goodbyes, kissed one last time. But the current that had danced between us for so long was gone, finally earthed in a powerful explosion of energy. After that, we parted.

I don't regret it, not really, I felt like it had to happen, it was a heck of a night though, and a damn memorable day.
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Persona

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #111 on: 08 Jan 2009, 15:29 »

Something a bit fantasy-ish I wrote for class. Figured I'd see folk thought this was crap or not.

At three o’clock in the morning, he walked over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of ginger ale, and a bottle of gin, and sat at the table with a pen in his hand. This was to be his proudest moment, his greatest work, and the thing that made him famous. Half a bottle of gin later, a chorus of nauseating sounds eminated from the lavatory as Hudson purged the liquid inspiration from his system. He looked down at the notebook he had set before himself hours ago and read from the first page.
 
 Hudson Freeman
  10-14-2015
  Eng. 394

   What can be said about, “Velvet eyes turning against the tide of coming change”?

   That’s it. That’s all he had.  One sentence, that even at this moment in semi-drunken stupor, didn’t make any God damn sense to him. “Did I even write this?” he asked of himself. His self examination was cut short by the loud rapping of a fist against the kitchen window. Hudson turned to look at the interruption, only to see peering yellow eyes in the darkness outside peering back at him. “Oh no, not going to fall for that one. The ol’ cat-waiting-outside trick, eh? It hasn’t worked for any of your other buddies, it won’t work for you.” Hudson said with a smirk. With but a flick of his index finger against the panel of switches beside him, the large UV lights positioned outside his house jolted to life, basking the yellow-eyed figure in searing light for a good 5 seconds, before the being burst in to flame and it’s ashes crumpled on to the ground. “God damn lurks are everywhere these days.”

   A few miles down the road in a run-down bus-stop covered in graffiti and red etches, a portly man in a crumpled and dirty suit and tie collected his breath and thoughts, hands on his knees. His disheveled hair and wide eyes would make any passerby think the man encountered something horrible just moments ago, and would be right to do so. The man sat upright, looked down at his hands and could see the dirt collected under his nails. As he sat, he could hear a thumping not too far away. He bit his lip. An overwhelming urge to find this sound enveloped his mind. He looked towards the noise as it grew louder. It was getting closer and closer. A maddening, repetitious thumping and gushing, like a faucet washing through a drum. Instinct told the man to hide behind a nearby tree. The thumping became louder still, a marching band bass drum in his brain, and he could hardly stand it anymore. Finally the source presented itself, and he lunged at it with anger and lust. The young girl had no idea what hit her, her iPod crashing against the sidewalk, as her head hit the curb. A sharp pain like that of jagged needles pierced her neck, and soon her consciousness washed away, as the dirty pudgy lurk sucked every last drop of her lifeblood. The first meal of a newly spawned vampire is the most important, after all.

   In the morning the newspapers we aflutter with the reports of another dead body found within the city limits of Ballston Spa, and just like the others, it was drained of every last drop of blood. Worst part was, this time it was a local girl, a living (not so much anymore) high school legend in fact. Everybody had thoughts of what that could mean, but few would vocalize them, save the children. They’d shout it from the hilltops (“Lurks! Just like on the screens!”). Though technology and folklore (and more importantly the disproving of folklore) had come a long way from the days of old when “vampires” were everywhere, the legends clung to life. The death of this poor girl just backed those stories up.
   Hudson put down the paper and exited the coffee shop, muffling the chatter of the townspeople inside as the door shut behind him. “Oh sure, NOW they’ll believe in vampires.” He muttered to himself as he walked to his car. The machine whirred to life, sunlight fueling the cells along the sides and roof of the vehicle, as Hudson did a three-point turn and exited the parking lot at the fastest speed the car could muster: a steady 45 miles-per-hour. School was just letting out for the last time this year, and the herds of adolescents were filling the road with their gas-guzzlers and bikes, both motorized and otherwise. Hudson had hoped to avoid this traffic, but it was inevitable. There nothing to do but wait and listen to the radio. Hudson’s eyes drooped, his head nodded, and before long, he found himself in a place very different than his solar-powered car.

Creaking boards echoed in the halls, a sound like that of a cat being stepped on. A few lights that hadn’t been shattered by raging storms of years gone by, or by hooligan children who liked to break things of old flickered in the night, vaguely illuminating the tattered wallpaper and exposed inner framing where holes were present. Further down the corridor, a lonesome stained-glass window glistened, housing a picture of a lone shepherd missing his flock. The cascading moonlight shone just enough through the dead trees outside to show the disappointed stare of the painted shepherd.
   Looking down that lonely hallway, Alex had held her breath and feared to move, less another chorus of creaking boards respond to her unwelcome presence. Exhaling and inhaling sharply, she raised the walkie to her naturally pink lips, biting her lower lip before pressing the TALK button. “Hudson, it’s still clear up here. There’s absolutely nothing in this damn house. I don’t know why I let you drag me to these places.”
   Hudson chimed in through the crackle of the walkie-talkie, “ It’s cause’ I’m adorable. And convincing. And dedicated.”
“ And you’re also apparently not a fan of complete sentences,” Alex smirked.
“Yet another one of my charms.”   
Alex could feel Hudson’s smile through the walkie. He had always felt he had a talent for comforting her in the most awkward and odd of situations. So far, this hadn’t been one of those situations, but Alex (or Alexis as her parents called her) never was comfortable being by herself in these places. All the same, she still did these nightly “adventures” with Hudson, hoping to find something abnormal. That night, they got more than they had bargained for.
   A flash of Alex’s face, the remembrance of her scream, and a splash of blood against the wall repeat over and over and over until Hudson’s head backs in to the seat cushion. The noise of car horns blaring at him has him return his focus to the moment at hand and he resumes driving home.  This has gone on far too long, Hudson thought. He looked in the rear view mirror, seeing a wooden box with a crucifix carved in to the lid resting on the seat, next to a 12-gauge, sawed-off shotgun, a bag of garlic, and empty shotgun casings. Peering back to the road, Hudson could see the sun retreating in the distance. It wouldn’t be long now before they came out again, and he wasn’t going to sit this out. It was time to get involved, not sit comfortably indoors, writing away his feelings and his lost love. It was time to DO something. He was the only one who could.
   The car drove on into the settling dusk, and Hudson was once again reminded of that fateful night. The smell of dead animals rotting in the basement, strung up by goat intestines, in a circle that perverted a sanctimonious healing star of pagan origins, and the two figures who were in the center of that circle: One alive, one dead. The man with the wire-frame glasses spoke in an odd language, and pulled Alex’s lifeless body up by her hair. Before Hudson could scream, the man slit her throat, spraying the wall and Hudson’s shirt with Alex’s blood as the surrounding circle erupted in flame. Through the crackling fire, Hudson could see Alex was no more, but the man had changed. Large inscissors in his front teeth, yellow eyes, and a crumpled forehead overtook his previous facial features, but before Hudson could charge through the flames, the strange man disappeared, leaving nothing but Alex’s burnt and bloody frame behind.

    Hudson pulled in to his gravel drive-way and grimly smiled to himself as he removed his “groceries” from the back seat of his car. “Time to go hunting,” he said aloud he said, as he walked in to his hous
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WestEnder67

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #112 on: 08 Jan 2009, 18:03 »

Wrote this poem/monologue thing to try and get into a university.

Here I stand, the voyeuristic gaze of the universe upon me. No longer is the mind clear, no longer is the heart still, no longer is the soul intact.
Here I stand, the last man aboard the lonely ship of romance. No band plays on, no young couple embrace, this is the Titanic of my infatuation.
Here I stand, underneath the storms of icy indifference and with the harsh cold surface of rejection beneath my feet.
Here I stand, my one true chance at happiness exploded, like the bombs bursting and rockets streaking above, with that wartime standard fluttering over my drooping head.

Now I only lay still; a spiritless corpse on the frozen and lonely streets of a metropolis, a society, a civilization even, all devoted to the ‘warm embrace’ of Eros.
My stare glazed over by the cruel bitterness of frustration and disappointment, my torso immobilised by the rigor mortis of unrequited love.

Here I stand, faceless and anonymous; like the ranks of office soldiers, marching along the avenues and corridors of commerce and wealth.
Here I stand; limp emotionally, physically and spiritually - like the broken hopes and dreams that come with a young contender’s shattered bones and battered flesh.
Here I stand, no longer with the gait and mannerisms of your typical love-struck adolescent.
Here I stand; incapacitated by that numbing anaesthetic of dismissal, the painful tourniquet used to cure the wound of love’s sweet searing arrow.

Jeff, John and Leonard proclaimed that all they’d learned from love was “how to shoot somebody who outdrew them”.
In my heart of hearts, I sincerely doubt that they ever had to take the bullet.

Naturally I didn't get in.

Also written a load of songs - although mainly the lyrics for now.
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Slick

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #113 on: 08 Jan 2009, 21:53 »

I thought I could love you.
I was looking forwards to telling you how beautiful you are.
In more than just the regular way,
in a way most people don't see.
I still want to tell you but I probably won't have a good opportunity to do so.
I'm sure it would have made you happy but clearly it'll have to wait.
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Ozymandias

Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #114 on: 09 Jan 2009, 00:05 »

(Note: I never, ever write. This actually started as part of the conceit for a novel that's been eating my brain for a year now, but suddenly turned into something different.)



Every day of everyone's life, they're aware that it's just a countdown. A ticking clock to the end, the inevitable point where everyone has to succumb to entropy. So many people fear it, feeling like they have to work their lives to the bone to make it all worth something.

I miss that.

I miss when I would lie awake at night, in those minutes that drag before sleep finally comes, thinking about mortality and hoping that it wouldn't come for me. Not this night, not yet.

I miss wondering if I will be judged after I die. If a shining man will tell me I was good or bad. If the weight of my deeds will raise me up into a higher place or sink me into the depths of pain.

I miss wondering if pulling a trigger would really be the end I want. A sad, pathetic life, punctuated with a bang.

I miss you.

!
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ampersandwitch

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #115 on: 09 Jan 2009, 09:19 »

Corroborating evidence to my objection that 'everyone can write' when people tell me that I can write and should therefore be a writer.  There is some really great work on this thread.

Keep it up, busty babes.
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Elizzybeth

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #116 on: 11 Jan 2009, 22:20 »

A sonnet:

In the kitchen, eating a tomato
I come upon the ending of the world:
Revelation in an old potato,
Apocalypse in coffee, gently swirled.
Up close, he's personal and calm.  He sighs,
"What are you doing after all?" and frowns,
Teeth gray, hair singed--there's salt in both his eyes.
"I'm only throwing out the coffee grounds.
I do what must be done.  How have I sinned?"
He presses up against my teeth, and slides
Against my tongue, so sweet.  "This is the end,"
His dying cry is faint, a whimper from inside.
I swallow fast; I do not dare to wait.
And when I'm done, I do not lick the plate.
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mishy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #117 on: 13 Jan 2009, 12:57 »

beautiful. and about food! amazing food.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #118 on: 15 Jan 2009, 04:09 »

I watched intently as she sat across from me, looking past me with bright eyes and gesturing excitedly; painting her dreams in the air, talking more to herself than to me. I tried to imagine what she was explaining, but what were bright, vibrant pictures to her were muddy and dull. The hazy scenes in my head didn't incite the same feelings of grandeur, but I didn't mention it to her. I never remembered my dreams, so living vicariously through someone else, even if they were pale imitations of the real thing, was better than nothing.

I wonder where all these dreams come from in that brain of hers; the fantastic images of other worlds or psychopaths torturing innocent people seem so out of place coming out of her mouth. Yet every morning when she mumbles out what she saw, starting half asleep and waking up more as the anecdote continues, it seems like such a natural situation for her to be talking about. It makes me look forward to waking up, even if I can't properly appreciate what she is trying to say.



(argh, I haven't written in ages and I am rustyyyy)
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Siibillam-Law

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #119 on: 15 Jan 2009, 05:05 »

Here's something I started writing ages ago and stoppec so I realised that I had lots of uni work and other things to write

It's a QC screenplay!
it's a pre-credit prologue where Marten gets a leaving gift from his mummykins to find, omg, that it's Pintsize




EXT. Suburban house - day

A bicycle is squeaks its way to the front of an average suburban house. The rider dismounts and opens the gate to enter. A loud whip crack is heard.

Int. Suburban house - Day

"Johnny B. Goode" by Chuck Berry plays loudly. a web camera and a laptop are set up on a table. On screen we see video playback of a woman in leather bondage gear cracking her whip and wrapping it around herself. A small IM Board next to it is buzzing with activity. The sound of a door opening and closing is heard from downstairs. Looking worried, Veronica Reed turns off the music, and closes the lid of the laptop. She exits the room and hurries down the stairs where Marten Reed removes a satchel and places it on the floor. He looks up at Veronica and sighs.

Veronica

Hey, honey. Home already?

Marten
(annoyed)

Mom, do you have to do this today? I mean, come on. I'm leaving tonight.

VERONICA

I'm sorry, honey. But I have to. It's my job and it's all the time. Besides, someone had to pay for the delivery truck.

MARTEN

There wasn't a lot anyway.


... and thats it
« Last Edit: 15 Jan 2009, 18:07 by Siibillam-Law »
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Oli

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #120 on: 15 Jan 2009, 17:37 »

Sunlight glides through my window and I blink bleary eyed, my mouth is the desert and this is the first morning. The first morning I've seen in weeks? The first morning. I roll over and God hurls a jolt straight into my brain. I groan.

'What did I do?'

Hazy recollections. Innocence lost. Oh Lilith...you whore.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #121 on: 16 Jan 2009, 02:44 »

It's a QC screenplay!

Stop shitting up my thread.
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ZJGent

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #122 on: 16 Jan 2009, 03:31 »

Oh god. I mean, I know it is part of the deal with writing that if you write you don't shit on other writers' writing, because yours is not necessarily any cop itself...

... but Sibillam, old chap, that screenplay was more painful than putting my head in a microwave and deep-frying my synapses.
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Siibillam-Law

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #123 on: 16 Jan 2009, 17:43 »

Yes! Sucess
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öde

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #124 on: 16 Jan 2009, 17:54 »

No.
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Siibillam-Law

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #125 on: 17 Jan 2009, 03:13 »

Hehehehe, there is a reason it's been only that for months, after all. I  do have some common sense (honest I do, somewhere). Interestring to see how it fits onto screen though

I think I'll just stick to my norm
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WriterofAllWrongs

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #126 on: 18 Jan 2009, 12:27 »

Oh power struggles in every form of relationship
You're right you're wrong your friend his wife
Their problems our problems
Toilet seat up or down
Shouldn't we both try to adjust the thing?
It seems to me like there are so many ways
To incite arguments and
Very few paths to a peaceful resolution
We'll agree to disagree means
"We'll agree to be bitter about the issue"
That's just unfair means
"You aren't seeing it through my filter"
Body language scrutiny
Intonation inquisition
Vitriolic nitpicking and semantics
What do you want from me?
To be an improved you?
To be a devolved I?
How about we be us?
Us seem to get along well enough
And after all it doesn't matter,
this is just senate in-fighting
This is just the two boxers having their match
And then going to a hotel and sleeping together
Ego booster as Self-Deprication as Waves on the Rocks
Loving acid spit
Putting a penny in Cola
We'll come out shiny like minted in a few hours
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schimmy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #127 on: 20 Jan 2009, 14:00 »

Go to a party.
Get drunk.
Talk to strangers.
Be charming. Be funny.
Make sure they don't know your friends
Pick one. Not too pretty.
Seperate from the rest.
Maybe fall in love.
Maybe get a handjob.
Go home. Fall over drunk.
Wake up in the morning
as lonely as you were before the party.
Now you're hungover, too.
Swear you'll never do it again.
Wonder when the next party is.
Where it'll be.
Who'll throw it.
Feel more lonely than ever.
Wonder where you can find decent friends.
Wonder when you'll have a girlfriend.
Wonder who it'll be.
Will you love her?
Will you see her often?
Will you be too clingy?
What'll make her leave you?
Wind up drunk again. This time alone.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #128 on: 25 Jan 2009, 03:15 »

I wrote a little thing to keep the thread alive.  I have started drawing again lately, which has become my creative outlet and as a result my writing suffers epically. I'm much less poetic when I have been spending all my time drawing out my life.


When I first saw you the room was hazy and smelled of cigarettes.  I watched you watching her.  She was falling over drunk, pulling her dress further up her thighs as she struggled to stay steady.  There was something not right about you, something I couldn’t quite place.  You were menacing perhaps, but you sent a thrill through me all the same.  You were dangerous, that much was certain, and you walked with a purpose.  I caught the predatory look in your eyes as you stared at her and I ached for it to be directed at me.  You stubbed out your cigarette and whispered in her ear.  The decision had been made, and the devil didn’t want me.
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WrathandRuin

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #129 on: 25 Jan 2009, 11:48 »

I had an odd dream the other night and, while I know that (like most dreams) it would make a disjointed, meaningless story, I had a story idea sort of inspired by it.  Here is the first 175 words and I would like opinions on whether or not what I have (mostly setting and tone) is worth pursuing (I see it becoming a medium to long short story).  I have only written two stories (very short) that I have found to be worthy of saving, and I'm definitely out of practice, so if triage is necessary, please tell me.

He trudges through the snow with the soldiers.  His clothes are a mottled white, lined with wool and fur and whatever bits of insulation he could scavenge at the last village they passed through.  The soldiers are as motley as his clothing, their uniforms: not uniform at all, their weapons: scavenged hunting rifles and heirloom revolvers.  Another village looms in the distance, a skeletal remnant of, if not glory, some happiness.  The soldiers pause at a well outside of the village to test the water: no good.  Too exhausted to fan out and surround it, they simply bring their weapons to bear and warily trudge up its single, powdered street.  He and the soldiers follow the spine along a shattered skyline of bombed out buildings, walls poking from the rubble like broken ribs surrounded by gangrenous, puckered flesh.  The road terminates at what was once a mayoral building, now an empty shell twisted into a hideous mockery of a smile; the gaping windows and the once enameled, now shattered, doors arranged in a prizefighter's grin.
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Josefbugman

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #130 on: 25 Jan 2009, 14:52 »

The opening paragraph or so to "A report by Johnathan turaleyon, special ambassador to the German Principate: Or The Black Forest Incident"

So a new dawn begins, having been released from my minor duties within the industrial cities of the North, I found myself once again at my old manor in the town of Sandbach, I had missed the old place and my family that inhabited it. I rushed in and said hello to my mother and father and waited, as one is often forced to, for my brother to stop lavishing his attentions on his intended bride in order to greet him.

That was 6 weeks ago, and after renewing my contacts within the town and its environs, I found myself increasingly disheartened, a kind of melancholy had attached itself to me and I found that whatever I turned my mind to I was ill equipped to deal with. So you can imagine my surprise when, quite unexpectedly a message game through on the telephone. We had only just had one installed and I found it useful, despite its vast size and incomprehensibility though of course I made far more use of the Difference engine in my line of work. I picked up the receiver and was assaulted by the braying voice of Sir Charles Meredith, my immediate superior at the intelligence branch who had a voice like a claxon and the mind of a steam barge. ‘ Turelyon?’ he roared down the line ‘You there?’ I lifted the connected nozzle to my mouth and said ‘Yes Sir Charles, it is me, how are things at Rothoby?’ ‘Capital! But I am not calling you to talk about my house, I have a new job for you’. I grimaced the missions that I was usually given by Sir Charles were usually matched in both time and dullness. ‘I suppose I could do some work if it-’ ‘Capital! Can’t speak about it over the phone but will get it telegraphed to you, see you soon’ and with that he was gone, and I breathed a sigh of regret, just what had I signed myself up for.

What does everyone think? Its only the introduction, and I hope to make a proper upload of it later, but thats the sort of style I am doing it in and am wondering what people think of it.

Thanks
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phooey

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #131 on: 26 Jan 2009, 21:33 »

I want to be more a part of this community, so here's little something I wrote to make me feel better about my life. I guess you could call it the beginnings of a character study.

   The man on the first landing in the east staircase of the Saint George hotel in Winchester, the one standing perfectly upright, is a bellhop. He takes his job very serious – to a fault, even, if you ask his mother.  The customer takes priority in his life, and following hotel policy and excelling at his job is paramount.  A polished and painstakingly upholstered smile spreading his rosy cheeks apart, he eagerly awaits his impending tasks and takes each customer’s hand suddenly in a firm, sturdy handshake. When he does this, he first bows slightly, then widens his eyes as though something has gone agley, and nods, unintentionally parodying in the once popular, now kitsch perpetual motion birds.  A little bit of hair peeks out from underneath the flimsy bellhop uniform hat from the vigorous, tense head-shake, and the jagged outline of the slightly damp hair gives his face the odd impression of having stress-fissures at the top.  This odd effect, in combination with his tensile grin and the sheen indicative of a twice-daily skin care regimen, gives him the air of being under an inevitable strain in entirely opposite directions.
   
   His eyes are a frenetic blue and hardly lidded, framed by lashes that are too thin and too dark, widely and sparsely fanning out from his eyelid.  His brows, which fall under a smooth forehead completely free of blemishes, are too narrow and to be masculine, and follow the same general line of a drawn-on eyebrow typically found on abandoned elderly women.   He tends to arch them invitingly towards the ends of his sentences, giving everything he says a crushing sense of pathetic desperation and urgency.  His nose is remarkable in that it is unremarkable save for his constantly flared nostrils.  His lips and cheeks are rosy even with minimal exertion, and he is always the first to turn bright red at the first hint of lewdness or impropriety, the red climbing down his face, down his neck, into the burgundy collar of his uniform.  His cheeks are otherwise totally bare, any hints of a beard shaved off each morning and each lunch break.   His chin is round and juts out slightly, and when he works, the strap for his bellhop’s hat cuts into his soft jaw, though he is very thin in almost every other regard.  His sole insecurity about his appearance dates back to his discovery (via eavesdropping) of the phenomenon titled ‘cankles,’ which made him suddenly and suffocatingly conscious of the aesthetics of his lower legs.  It is for this reason he always wears pants in public and often envisions disaster scenarios that culminate in his crafting new trousers out of dinner napkins.

Try that on for size, 'Writtin' Thread'
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Drambels

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #132 on: 27 Jan 2009, 16:38 »

They buried Billy today. I went through the service numb inside and out. Only part of it was the valium. I heard one of his aunts say that he looked like he was just sleeping. No he didn't. He looked like a wax doll. No amount of rouge and powder could hide the dead flesh underneath. They had a picture of him smiling next to the coffin. In the picture he was full of life, smiling. It seemed cruel. To remind everyone of what they had lost.

The shrink keeps telling me it wasn't my fault. What the hell does he know? It wasn't him they pulled out of the water. If I lean just a little longer out over the edge of the cliff I can see where it happened. Instead I take another swig of peach apricot brandy and look down at my feet dangling over the edge. Look at a car driving by fifty feet below. Hello little car. Did you know my friend Billy? Seventeen, going sixty, went over the side and sank seven feet. Billy walks among us no more.

I pick up the revolver and raise it to my head. I always thought I would feel some doubt at this point. Some flicker of remorse for my parents and friends. But all I feel as the cold metal presses against my temple is relief. Wait up Billy.
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TheFuriousWombat

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #133 on: 27 Jan 2009, 18:14 »

A poem! I don't know if it's very good but I do know that Robert Kelley, whom I revere as a poet very much, liked it which does make me quite happy. Anyway:

Cyprian

Upright but rundown,
A girl gleaming with bright-red wine-red lipstick and
Cured leather as social vessels,
Illuminated in the church nook
As boys with clarinets and crossbows,
cabbages and wrenched knives pass.

She receives them, if they bristle at her,
In storage areas and subway entrances:
Gulfs of lost esteem and social limericks,
Trapdoors where Beelzebub might sing,
Where sky sight is blocked by screens of melting ice and acid stains.
At least the winter stays without.

They talk like zookeepers with razor response,
Metallic words like bells of thin metal ringing round-the-campfire,
Having a look-see for the police or figures in calf-length dresses
Who could disturb the coup.
They, eyes opening on the spot, gasping like a smoker’s sound,
(Nothing mechanical there, polite classical training with a scent of
Some musty apparatus), grip barber cut combed back hair with fingernails,

Perhaps a friend there too, a bundle of electric units (all of us), passing
Open eyes over like at a peepshow, thinking about some young goddess,
Some late-night star with a popular bed in some wild place,
But too to watch and sound would-be alarms.

This is her informal auction. Interruptions of necessity.
Pressure against drenched walls from agents, runners, actors, princes.
A waning sea that bruises her arm bone, stitches her foot with lemonlike lettering,
Records etchings of unwound buttons and close clothes for part of the evening,
Until she falls upon the exhausted floor like elephants fall for piano keys.
She views the E.P.A. with approval. Reads Shakespeare. Decorates the commonplace.
On Halloween she wore the make-up of Greek myths. Ate soup by the spoonful.
Designed goals: to beat the traps and nod away the hunters.
But how? She follows orders till knocked off kilter, silently indisposed,
Showing fright to the grinning likeness of bears.
No need to fight as they consume.
She goes home with the air-conditioning on,
Watches the stock responses of TV bands.
Sleeps and dreams of the ocean and being in the waves.
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axerton

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #134 on: 24 Mar 2009, 03:22 »

Rise from your Grave to do my bidding.
Well I'm doing a creative writing course at uni, so I thought I'd post what I come up with here.

Beyond Hunger

It’s coming tonight. I can feel it. The hunger is building inside of me. No. Not hunger, something different, something more. You can deny hunger, you can fight it, you can ignore it. But not this, I can’t even try to resist this. I’M NOT A MONSTER! It’s not my fault, it takes over I can’t fight it, it takes me over. Literally.

It’s coming faster tonight, why didn’t I get as much warning as I normally do? I have to be somewhere with people. The more the better. It has to be satisfied. There’s no way I’m going through that again. It has to be satisfied or I suffer.

The car. The car. Car. START YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! Ok – calm. Deep breaths. Where do I go? Somewhere with people. Where are there people at this hour? Oh, just drive! Left here, head to the city. There has to be people. If I don’t… no, it, not me - It. I’m not the murderer, I just a passenger. A host. This thing inside me is what does the killing. I don’t want to do it.

What’s that smell. Car fumes – from the exhaust. sweat – my own. Leather. The seats. Oh god it’s starting. Get out of the car. Paws don’t work door handles well. ARRGGHHH. There’s not a soul in – URGH! Please, let there be someone, somewhere. Not again. Not another month without feeding. I won’t surviARRGHH….

Free.
Power.
Hungry!
... Smoke. Petrol. Beer. Sap. Rubber. 
…Flesh! Distant. Sweet. Young.
This way.
Stronger scent....  Flesh! Two. Both sweet. Both young. One masked. Perfume.
…Close.
…There. Flesh! Two. Inside.  Locked. Window.
Sound - High. Movement. Chase!
Outside.
…Flesh! Sweat. Fear. 
This way.
…Separated. Sweeter. Slower. This way.
…Close. Hiding.  Fear.
Light. Sound - Blaring. Coming closer.
Pain.


Ahhhhh…. Pain. Oh my god it hurts. Arm? Neck? Head? Ribs?  Legs? No, nothing broken. What happened? Last night. Something hit me – it! That noise? That light? A car, it must have been a car. Wait, my car. I was in my car. I changed on the road side. I smelled. No! It smelled! It smelled flesh. No. People, not flesh, people! Two kids, they ran. Then the car came. No! No! No! No! They can’t have got away! It must have fed. It has to have fed. I need to have fed. Those kids can’t have got away. No! I can’t handle it. The hunger, or whatever it is. Damn it! Why did they have to run?  If it doesn’t feed the hunger isn’t sated. Two months in a row now – I was barely able to survive one month without feeding. Oh god. Oh god.
« Last Edit: 24 Mar 2009, 03:24 by axerton »
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Gilead

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #135 on: 24 Mar 2009, 03:46 »

The clock flashes 3:27am on the bedside table of the motel room, it is 3 minutes fast. The room is bathed in a sickly green light from a neon sign across the street. In the room is a bed, the table and clock, a reading lamp, a small television which does not work and a couple engaging in intercourse. The word is clinical, it suits the act being observed, they are not making love, not coming together, there is no tenderness and warmth between the two participants, the act is devoid even of the raw animal passion that might inspire one to use a more vulgar term. It is simply a procedure, a strange necessity for both parties.

The woman is a call girl, the man of unknown identity at this point, his method of engagement is mechanical, almost businesslike, he thrusts at a constant even pace, his eyes filled with a kind of grim determination, not on the call girl’s body or face but on a point just past her left ear. The girl looks off to the side, a bored expression paying on her beautiful, gaudy features. She does not moan, there is no need, the unknown man does not care about her pleasure, he is focused only on the eventual goal.

12 minutes after it has begun, the man finishes, he grunts in a kind of half hearted satisfaction and rolls off the girl. He lies there expressionless, eyes fixed unseeing on the cracked plaster of the ceiling. The girl sits up on the edge of the bed, grabbing her clothes, which she has neatly folded on the floor, an idiosyncrasy left over from her childhood.

She turns to look at the man on the bed and requests her payment for services rendered. The man looks at her, meeting her gaze for the first time.
4 hours later she is found dead in an alley, 34 minutes after that I receive a phone call from the detective at the crime scene, an old friend of mine.

“It’s her.” He tells me.
« Last Edit: 24 Mar 2009, 03:49 by Gilead »
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Eris

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #136 on: 24 Mar 2009, 04:01 »

Saturday morning, trying to sleep in. The light sneaks its way through the gaps in the blinds and pokes my closed eyelids, urging me to pay attention. The day has begun, and I am missing out on all there is to do. Resigned, I peer slowly through my lashes out the window, smiling tiredly at the cheerful clear sky peering over the buildings. The room is quiet, only the sound of the man sleeping next to me. For once even the neighbours are silent; it must be earlier that I thought.

I take a look at the body laying beside me, noting how soft he looks when he is asleep. The worry has gone for the moment, and I am glad of that; he always seems to be thinking in three directions at once, trying to keep up with the world when he is awake. I lay back and relax, looking out the window once more and breathe in time with his sleepy breaths. It feels like we are alone in the world here, and that is an oddly comforting feeling.

A plane flies overhead and brings me crashing back to reality as I wait nervously to make sure it doesn't fall out of the sky. With a small sigh I roll over, away from him, and try to sleep again. The sun touches my face and I know sleep won't return.
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MACHINS CON ESFU EPETE

ZJGent

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #137 on: 24 Mar 2009, 04:43 »

The priest's corpse lies, strangely splayed, over a gravehead in the bowels of Saint-Simon-Just. We are mere metres away from the great sprawling sewer system of New Paris. I glance at the revolver in my hand, whose head seems now blunt and pitted, angled at the floor. I sigh, a sigh for the Simon this cadaverous labyrinth was named after. My recently shellshocked brain struggles with simple facts known once to me. Who was the grey statue turning an icy saturnine glance over the priest and I? Patron of... patron of... no. The pebble of information escapes from the buttered fingers of my mind, and I am lost, chasing my own thoughts down black scarps. A damp sigh turns the cold dead air grey in front of me, and I collapse onto the granite feet of this Simon of Nothings and Nobodies.

November again. I expected it to be different by now, and yet I am still riding on the mouldering coat-tails of older dead. When did I lose myself? Père Luiz does not answer my thoughts, so I ask again aloud. My voice spirals down to the city's sewage where it echoes and marks the walls whose history aches with detritus. It is then that I laugh. My own musings on coat-tails; and the long jacket I wear is now slick from the evening's efforts. The worms in the walls would be proud of my work. Such decay in only one short tussle! Luiz' habit fair reeks with blood and irony. So pure to his congregation. So deserving of the spikes of my armoury. His teeth open madly, as if to bite a brown earth sky. The electrics this far below Paris are none too good, so our father's earth-moon can only flicker dimly above him, an electric light built to scare away old shadows.

I retrieve the pocket-case from its ragged wool tomb, and unclip the tin edging. Inside, a needle's spike gasps glitter and sparkles in the dim light. Christ, I think, as I limply prepare my work. Wherever He sits, he's ignoring me now. The vial of green liquid adds a phosphorescence to the vault around me, seeming somehow to make its own light. Luiz' arm is knotted, and I think of the ease with which - yes, now - the pin of violence in my hand dives into vein. The green spreads up his arm and his corpish pallor is replaced by a shade of something sicker. It is now that I must hurry. The needle must rush quickfast back to its pocket cave, with the vial, and I must escape further. Not up, but down, to the sewers, where Simon and the other saints will catch no sight of me.

It is then that my mind realigns and the facts come together.
« Last Edit: 24 Mar 2009, 04:51 by ZJGent »
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Scrambled Egg Machine

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #138 on: 25 Mar 2009, 12:11 »

I'm working on a little steampunk-type thing, but it's going slow. Maybe later.
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Not so sure about these things anymore.

Scandanavian War Machine

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #139 on: 25 Mar 2009, 13:26 »

man, i forgot about this thread. i've actually starting writing short stories with the intention of compiling them into a book of some sort and i guess i might as well share one of them.

this is sort of a work in progress. the story is finished but i'm constantly rereading it and changing a word here and there, or adding some extra descriptions or changing sentence structure that comes off awkward. feel free to criticize, this is the first short story i've written since highschool so it's pretty unpolished. i'm working on my second one right now and it's much better (if i do say so myself) and longer.


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

Two guys walk into a bar. The guy on the right says
“What color is my shirt?” and his friend on the left replies
“Um, it’s blue. What color is mine?”
“Well, it’s red” he says, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

Besides these two, the bar is completely devoid of customers so the bartender stands behind the bar and watches while they continue their conversation in a quiet whisper. After several moments they nod grimly, pull pistols out of their jackets, and place them in each other’s mouths. The bartender can’t stand to watch so he starts walking towards the supply closet in the back as they start counting down.
“uhhn”
He opens the door.
“hdoo”
He steps inside.
“hreee!”
He closes the door and covers his ears.
Both guns fire at almost exactly the same instant, filling the empty space with their hollow clapping, sounding not unlike a deadly round of applause.  A second later the bartender emerges from the little closet by the bar carrying a mop and a bucket. He sets them down against the bar, pushes a little red button on the wall that immediately starts blinking furiously, and pours himself a drink. He sits at the bar instead of behind it, sipping his drink slowly with his eyes closed, daydreaming of a far off land that probably doesn’t even exist. Several minutes go by and he’s already on his third drink, this time a whiskey sour, and he can’t help but wonder where we went wrong.
“Oy! Couple’ah colored shirts offed each other, eh?”
The bartender is so shocked by the sudden break of silence that he inhales the whiskey he was about to swallow and nearly chokes to death coughing and sputtering. He almost wishes he had choked to death. His father would have said that that was ironic, whatever that meant. He turns to face the loud transgressor, fully intending to tell him off for sneaking up on a fellow like that but thinks better of it once he realizes who, or perhaps more accurately: what, it is.
“Mighty sorry to have startled ya like that, chappy. I assumed you ‘eard me open up the door. I’ll ‘ave these two outta yer way in a jiffy, chief. Don’t you worry one bit” said the man in the silly accent.
Whether or not he is actually a man or not is unclear. Nobody knows who or what the Suits are, or where they come from. Nobody ever bothers to ask or even to spend much time thinking about it. It’s dangerous to get caught up in such things.
The bartender turns away from the well-dressed man: he’s hovering above the fresh corpses like turkey vultures circling over the head of someone lost in the desert, waiting for him to die. But these two are already dead and this man-thing is far too clean and proper to be a vulture anyway. He finishes his drink, picks up his bucket and mop, and turns back towards the mess. The Suit and the bodies are gone; the only evidence that they were ever here is a couple of dusty footprints in the drying blood and, of course, the blood itself.
He begins to mop.

-----------------------
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Also I would like to point out that the combination of Sailor Moon and faux-Kerouac / Sonic Youth spelling is perhaps the purest distillation of what this forum is that we have yet been presented with.

schimmy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #140 on: 25 Mar 2009, 14:20 »

I am the happiest child
and you are the loveliest thing.
In any bed we can find, you sleep.
You're at your best and I'm at my most.
You breathe so soft I can't sleep.
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Ballard

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #141 on: 07 Apr 2009, 23:35 »

First entry in a weekly column I'm doing for a friend's up-and-coming music blog. Does non-fiction count?
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SonofZ3

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #142 on: 08 Apr 2009, 18:31 »

To _______: Running in Winter

When the air is harsh, and my breath comes ragged and painful in the raw cold, I leave my body behind, and retreat to the warmth of my memories, where all is eclipsed by the thrill of your bare skin and your perfect sillhouette, outlined against the curtains in the half light of my mind. Missing You.
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I've gained nothing from Zen.
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