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Author Topic: Writtin' Thread  (Read 16035 times)

jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #50 on: 19 Sep 2008, 01:43 »

I was watching you at the party.  Wolfish smile as you spotted your target and stubbed your cigarette out on the wall.  She never stood a chance, judgment impaired by the champagne fizzing in her mouth, showing too much leg to be sexy.  I watched you lead her outside, away from the entwining bodies and thumping bass.  I slipped out after you, taffeta skimming my thighs with barely a rustle.  I watched the familiar scene, frenzied gasps dying with the prick of the hypodermic needle.

I stepped into the clearing and you start slightly but soon recover.  Your explanation of too much champagne palpable but unnecessary.  I lit a cigarette and slid towards you, all wolfish smile and swinging hips.  You never stood a chance, judgment impaired by the line of my dress and the red of my lips. I drew you into the shadows, away from her prone body and into cool silence.  I inclined towards you, hair skimming your neck with barely a whisper.  Your shallow breathing ceased with the prick of the hypodermic needle.
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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.

ZJGent

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #51 on: 19 Sep 2008, 03:38 »

Jodie that piece of writing is gorgeous! I love the circular aspect of it - it makes it really tight and snippy. Just enough information but not too much and we are left intrigued and wanting more.

(read as: please write more stuff)

x Roddy
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[02:29] Danosaur: I'd Spektor your Regina.

jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #52 on: 19 Sep 2008, 04:26 »

Thanks Roddy! <3
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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.

imagist42

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #53 on: 19 Sep 2008, 09:00 »

I agree. Was very nice!
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Hopefully it goes without saying but you should always ask before sticking things in people's butts

est

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #54 on: 23 Sep 2008, 05:51 »

Ok, let's play.  I guess this is an exercise in being descriptive in first-person writing?  I dunno.
 

"So," I said, as we sat in that tiny room, the word falling from my mouth like a rock.  Across the unsteady trestle table she flinched back as if I'd thrown it, wide eyes hardening quickly to conceal the tumult within.

"So." she shot back.  She made it an arrow, red-rimmed eyes piercing through me, drawing breath from my lungs.  My hand moved then of it's own volition, a strange beast sliding across a marbled orange and white landscape toward its smaller image.  Her own hand took flight, a mouse whipping back into the cubby-hole safety of her lap as she barked "Dont!" her voice the peal of a hammer on stone, her features drawn and grim as her nervous hands clasped each other tight.

"Ok" I said roughly, letting out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding.  I nodded slowly, rose on unsteady legs and dragged myself out of the room, ignoring her ragged breaths, the glistening on her cheeks.  "Ok" I said to myself as I closed the door behind me, looking about numbly at a lounge room that was no longer mine.  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in an effort to calm myself, but through the door behind me I heard her start sobbing in earnest.  So I did too.
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #55 on: 23 Sep 2008, 23:25 »

Man Ben.  That was pretty much what breaking up with Loxley was like. THANKS FOR REMINDING ME

It was a good little story though.
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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.

Scrambled Egg Machine

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #56 on: 25 Sep 2008, 14:00 »

More of a continuation of my earlier stuff.

It's one in the morning, an ungodly hour for anyone to be awake, but I have third watch. I can see across no man's land, a crater pocked landscape illuminated by corpse light. The light of the flares is called such for two principle reasons: all it illuminates are corpses, and if you are exposed by its pale radiance, a PRA sniper will aerate your skull from whatever cramped hideout he occupies. A metallic pop and a shift in the intensity of the flarelight tells me that the mortar crew is still alive and awake, keeping their own watch. There are some faint noises, out of place here.
    "Kelso! Get up!" I whisper, hoping that my eyes deceive me. "What is it, Swing?"
    " Do you hear that?" Before Kelso can ask me what he's supposed to be hearing, my fear are confirmed. A horde of PRA cannon fodder has gone over the wire, charging at us with the mad abandon of a Banzai attack. I fire off three red flares in quick succession and raise up a racket to wake everyone up. The soldiers charging us have opened fire, raining down hot lead on us. I level my rifle at them, climbing up onto the firing step of the trench. I can see one of them in my sights, outdated Chinese and Russian cast-off gear and uniform, with a lethal intent. I can see his face in my sight, and squeeze off three rounds. He drops, and I'm sickened. He's only following orders, just like me.
     Suddenly, we're saved. The new, bulky presence on my right is a Heavy Assault trooper, firing twenty five millimeter cannon rounds into their charge, hefting an auto cannon with ease in his powered exoskeleton. His platoon has reinforced us where we need it most, but it will still be a long night, and dawn's six hours from now.
« Last Edit: 25 Sep 2008, 14:12 by Scrambled Egg Machine »
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Not so sure about these things anymore.

jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #57 on: 27 Sep 2008, 04:02 »

We mainline each other, leaving track marks on our hearts away from the prying eyes of the world.  They are finding ways to strip back our outer layers and peer into our insides, waiting for the moment they can spout their ‘I told you so’s and rehabilitate us.

We cling to our addiction with a desperate strength, and hope it destroys us before they do.






Mehhhh...I felt the need to write something, but couldn't seem to get anything out.
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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.

onewheelwizzard

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #58 on: 27 Sep 2008, 04:09 »

I used to have a lover who explained how she felt about me by saying that sometimes what she wanted was to actually be in my bloodstream.  It was pretty endearing the way she said it actually.
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also at one point mid-sex she asked me "what do you think about commercialism in art?"

Eris

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #59 on: 14 Oct 2008, 04:39 »

Murder on the Dancefloor

She extracted herself from the middle of the tangled mass of bodies, clothes strangely unruffled, and made her way across the room. Her hips swayed as she stalked through the people, keeping time with the beat of the music. His frown deepened as he watched every male follow her with their gaze as she walked past. Hell, their eyes were practically being dragged from their sockets out of sheer eagerness. He sighed impatiently as she smirked at the attention she was getting; she was going to be the death of him, he could tell. She stopped in front of him with her hand on her waist, the grin still on her face. He stayed where he was, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed against his chest. She cocked her head to one side and leant forward a little, making her black hair fall over one shoulder, feigning coyness.

“Why aren’t you dancing, Nate?” She asked innocently, not raising her voice over the noise as everyone else did. “Don’t you like the music?” His muttered curse caused her to smile wider, baring her teeth menacingly. “If you don’t like this scene, then why don’t you just leave already? I don’t need a babysitter.” Nate looked at her properly, glaring at her face rather than the floor, but stayed exactly where he was.

“Until you learn to be a bit more subtle I have to make sure you don’t blow our cover.” Nate growled. “So either stop being so reckless or deal with it, Andrea.” Her eyes tightened at his reply for a moment before her bravado returned. His eyes went back to the floor. “Hurry up and get something to eat already; you’re not the only hungry one here.” He grumbled, causing her to bark out a laugh.

“Oh come on, are you telling me you’re not drooling over those girls there? They are basically naked and shaking everything they can.” Andrea shook her hips like they did, sliding up closer to him in an attempt to get him to loosen up already. When she still didn’t move, she looked up at his face, a slight pleading in her features. ” You could have anyone here; let me have my fun.” Nate wrinkled his nose at the thought.

“Take them, with all the pills they’ve put in their systems? If I wanted the taste of chemicals in my mouth I’d drink a bottle of bleach.” He looked around impatiently and saw someone making their way over to the pair. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wondering what else could try and make his night even worse that it already was.

The man puffed out his chest as he asked Andrea if there was any problem, trying to make up for the fact that he was six inches shorter than her. Andrea had the act down perfectly, twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes; complaining that Nate was no fun, and she just wanted to dance. The pout was a nice touch; no man could resist her when she pouted those lips. The fool offered to dance with her immediately, just as she had intended. As they walked back across the room Andrea looked back at Nate, unimpressed at her meal. From the look of him it would be greasy and leave her hungry again in half an hour; typical fast food. This time the grin was on his face as she walked off, hopefully to find a dark secluded corner to eat this time.
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Quote from: Drunk Pete
MACHINS CON ESFU EPETE

Jace

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #60 on: 14 Oct 2008, 11:36 »

And of course it was at this moment, this one clear moment I would realize that I wanted to change.
I'll stop what I'm doing now, I will go out and be a part of this world. This, I know, will make me be the person I've always longed to be. I thought for so long this is what I've wanted, but I can now see how wrong I was. It took such a long time to realize that if I change my hair, and go out at night, I might find someone. Maybe we would have met on different terms, and this would have gone somewhere. We would be more than friends, I'd be holding you close right now, rather than sitting next to you. Maybe not. I'll never have known, if I had not locked myself into such a niche that I was so sure of, I might have you today. Or if all those years ago, I hadn't had that bad day. Then I'd be with her, things would have been nice. We were so alike, but I let it all just drift apart, because I couldn't be bothered to change. I've always wanted everyone else to change... I was the one who should have changed.

He said it aloud, a tear in his eye, though she couldn't hear him above the sound of gunfire and explosions. And then in an instant, he stood and walked outside, into the night sky where bullets flew and young men waged war on each other. She tried to call out and stop him, but realized she couldn't form the words. For after he stepped outside, their sanctuary of rubble collapsed upon her. She could hear the sounds of bullets penetrating flesh above all else, and she knew he was gone.

Perhaps if I'd given you a chance, neither of us would have died alone.
She whispered the words, they came out cold, as she drew her last breath, a single tear fell from her face.
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Rizzla: Man... I'm only interested in girls who've had penises.
Rizzla: Fuck
Rizzla: I mean girls who have penises.

jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #61 on: 18 Oct 2008, 03:32 »

Don't die fabulous thread!  We need you!


You told me you loved me and I
Told you I didn’t care and
That I was leaving.

I packed my things and waited
For you to stop me.

And found myself sitting on my
Suitcase alone listening
To you fuck in the next room.
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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 #62 on: 18 Oct 2008, 06:14 »

Here I am.
Depressed and weak and drunk.
Suddenly inside.
My head's a mess. Incoherent.
Throwing words out.
Explanations.
Searching.
Frantically.
Talking to people I think I hate.

It's been a while.
My first day alone.
Talking to people. The ones I love.
I don't know who.
It can't be.
It can't be me.

You've bad taste but you like me
You're sweet but the one I miss
the one I don't mind.
Is only you part of the time.

I do remember when we talked.
I don't remember why we changed.
I'm still lonely. Still alone.
I know the past but I try to look forward.
Honestly I've tried not lying.
But the words keep on coming

Never mind goodbyes,
we're in a place we can't survive,
trying over.
We can't be friends.
My mind changes and I blink.
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #63 on: 18 Oct 2008, 06:23 »

Oh hey more.  This is not very good, but it is one of the few things I have ever written that is based on my life.  It made me cry to write it because I guess I still am filled with guilt about the breakup!


“We have a deathless love” you told me, as you stared up at the ceiling, eyes following movement only you could see.  I sat by the window and said nothing, but I was peeling your soul apart with my mind, trying to find you.  It shouldn’t be like this, using familiarity and comfort as the thread that stitches our hearts together.  I see us stumbling, and feel the threads pulling and ripping but you just sew us up again.  Jabbing with the needle in your haste, trying not to let me pull away, keeping me as your constant shadow.

“We have a lifeless love” I told you, as I used scissors to cut the messy stitches from my heart, and left you with bloody thread dangling from your chest.  I freed myself from constant misery and in the process bound you to what I was escaping.  I left you to tangle in your heartstrings, lost after so long spent trying to avoid our bleak ending.
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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.

Jace

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #64 on: 18 Oct 2008, 06:34 »

There were countless eyes staring at me. But I felt like I was under the most extremes of pressure. Its just those eyes, bearing down on me, it feels like there is a hole being torn into me, like I am being stripped down to my soul. That passes though, and then we move on. I feel like I am taking advantage of her, because I'm so much more experienced. I don't mean to do this, but it happens naturally. When you've been doing this for a while you start to get a rhythm. You don't always mean to, but it happens and that's good. Thats how you want to live, being able to sink into that groove at any time.

So, here I am, falling into my natural patterns, slinking around, being coy with her, teasing, taunting a little, but not too much, because I try to be tasteful, I go close, but then pull away before she can reach me. I do this a couple times. Twice I feign toward her before going in for the kill. Then it happens, our eyes lock and she is right in front of me. She doesn't know what to do, this is her first time, but I've done this before, I know exactly what I'm doing when I get this close. I know how this game works. I quickly seal the deal and then she's gone. Just another in a long line of people I've fought. She was a fair opponent though. And damn did she have the cutest smile.
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Rizzla: Man... I'm only interested in girls who've had penises.
Rizzla: Fuck
Rizzla: I mean girls who have penises.

Eris

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #65 on: 21 Oct 2008, 01:36 »

Little Red

‘Rehabilitated’, they said. ‘Fit to return to society’. They packed her up, slapped a pot plant in her arms and kicked her out; leaving her to make her own way in the world. Too bad she didn’t know how the world worked any more.

She watered that ugly plant and looked around her apartment, making sure it was tidy. That woman was due any moment to make sure she was eating and washing (she was) and to see if there anything she wanted to talk about (there wasn’t).

Jeremy’s card on the bookshelf caught her attention. ‘Good on you, Red!’ it declared cheerfully in shaky writing. She ran her fingers through her short hair, making the ginger curls stick out even more haphazardly. It was an odd feeling, having hair; on more than one occasion she had thought about taking clippers to it, like they did, but that wouldn’t be a good indication of her ‘dealing’. The woman would click her tongue and write a comment in her notebook. Sure, normal people can shave their heads whenever they want, but we can’t let the nutters cut their hair, oh no!

She glared at the stupid plant as there was a knock on the door. The woman talked at her while she smiled unenthusiastically and slouched in her chair. She said what the woman wanted to hear, knowing better than to mention the whispers from the shadows, or the large dog that stalked her in her dreams on the rare occasion that she actually slept. She may be crazy, but she’s not stupid; those things would surely send her straight back there. She didn’t want to be that much of a failure.

Even as the woman’s shadow started shifting about, her mask of normalcy never slipped. She watched as it changed shape, taking that familiar canine form. As the woman stopped at the front door the shadow-dog grinned at her, showing her all his pointed teeth; his mouth stretched wide, taking up more of his face than should be possible.

It was only once the door was closed that she started hyperventilating. She sank into the lounge, trying to control the panic that was taking over her body. Finally breathing normally she reached over to the phone and dialled the woman’s work. The first three ‘helpers’ had ended badly, but maybe the fourth would actually help this time.
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Quote from: Drunk Pete
MACHINS CON ESFU EPETE

Tom

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #66 on: 21 Oct 2008, 02:34 »

Little Johnny sat in tha garden pickin the scabs on his arm, his Ma always told him not ta - he just did it anyways 'cause that's tha way o' kids ya know.."

"Yes I'm sure that's interesting." I glance at my watch, frustrated. The old sod has continued talk as such since the plane began to taxi.

"Soon as he'd good as remoov'd tha scab he bled rava prafewsally. His Ma came looking fa him hours leighter and thar was a smell-"

He breathes loudly through his nose and I can hear the migration of vast colonies of mucous and dirt, he spits it out onto the seat in front of him. Putrid old man.

"As a rememba it. Sickly 'n' sweet."

I can't keep him out of my head, try as I might. A great pity that my portable cassette deck is broken.

"A roux-ga-roux had gotten to him-"

"Sorry, a what?"

"A roux-ga-roux, we still have 'em cant seem to get rid of them at all. Vish-us munstas."

I'm feeling sleepy, the next seven hours might not be all that bad.
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Jimmy the Squid

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #67 on: 21 Oct 2008, 07:04 »

"No! C'mon baby please! Don't do this. I'm sorry! I'm really fucking sorry. I know it was my fault, you were right it's all my fault please don't go. No, please! Stay with me baby, please. You know it can be ok again, we can make it through this. I'll take you away from all of this, I promise! Just stay with me! We'll go somewhere warm just like you wanted, somewhere with a beach, you'd like that wouldn't you? Wouldn't you? Yeah, because remember you were saying you wanted to go on holiday? We'll take a really long holiday... Fuck work, it doesn't matter we can just go away for a week or two and I promise I'll make it up to you. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, please stay with me! Look at me baby, please just look at me! You know I can't lie to you, you know I'm telling the truth... No! No! Please please please please please stay with me, I'm sorry I'm really fucking sorry. No, c'mon stop it. Please stop it. Just stay with me, baby... Baby? Baby? No, don't do this, don't leave me! C'mon, you promised you wouldn't leave me! You promised, you fucking promised me! You promised me! C'mon baby, wake up...Wake up...please wake up...please wake up...please wake up...c'mon baby wake up...please...please...just stay with me...wake up...please wake up...please wake up...."
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #68 on: 21 Oct 2008, 20:14 »

Jimmy. Jesus fucking christ.  I almost cried.

Also, Han, I really liked your last one alot!
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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.

Eris

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #69 on: 21 Oct 2008, 20:17 »

Shitdamn, Jimmy.
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Quote from: Drunk Pete
MACHINS CON ESFU EPETE

Tom

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #70 on: 22 Oct 2008, 02:00 »

Awesomsauce
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #71 on: 24 Oct 2008, 04:11 »

I wanted to try and write something a little longer and with a little more substance.  I quite like what I came up with, there are parts I am not 100% happy with but I like it pretty well!
(actually now I look at it I realise it is not very long at all. ha fail)

American Dream

He would spend hours sitting in the dark, tapping away at his ancient typewriter.  “I’m writing the great American novel’ he told me.  I wondered how it could be a great American anything if he had never even been there (I asked him once and he stared at me and my words stopped halfway and hit the ground and the crash startled me), but I knew better than to question him.

I took up smoking when we started living together.  It seemed like the kind of thing that should be done, killing ourselves together.  I had heard passive smoking is just as bad (if not worse my mother always said but she was the kind of woman always in the kitchen always with a pie she was the great American mother but we had never even been there), and I considered double suicide more romantic than murder suicide.

He took up drinking to be like his heroes (great American heroes of course stacked in piles by his desk with covers creased and pages worn from constant worship) and I knew better than to question his decision.  Pretty bruises decorating my body there to remind me of (our great American romance great American love great American dream but we had never even been there) how little I mattered.

« Last Edit: 24 Oct 2008, 04:36 by jodizzle »
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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.

SonofZ3

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #72 on: 24 Oct 2008, 08:01 »

some things from my college notebook from honors Russian Lit (they don't have anything to do with Russian lit, its just what notebook it is)

Technology had failed us. "No Signal" the screen read. We could not see, so we sat in the dark classroom, listening to the waves crash around the hooves of two horses, alone on a cobblestone beach.

Seeing you in the greyness of pre-dawn
Clothed only in your beauty, but wearing
A towel around your damp hair, I, staring
Was sure that I was looking upon
An angel, who, descending through the gloom
Graced my mortal presence with her flawless
Perfection of form, leaving me speechless
To have met the divine, before my doom.
Or did I yet sleep, and did I yet dream?
Were you simply a vision of my still
Resting mind? No you moved with such will,
Such fluid grace. Lit gently by the gleam
Of a small makeup lamp, in my awed sight
You were there, Aphrodite by lamplight

I try to write poetry; lines about emotion, and fields of goldenrod in the evening, but all that fills my mind is the memory of you and I, kissing in a darkened kitchen, and I realize that no words can compare, and no lines can express the beauty I see when you are near.

The sounds and movements of the world are still
In the quiet calm of a late spring rain.
I find it hard for my thoughts to remain
In any one place, they wander at will.
But finally my thoughts on one subject stay
And all of that subject's aspects explore,
Your eyes and your touch, its you I adore.
The feel of your hand or the sound of your voice
The adjectives fail, theres really no choice
Of words I can say to describe the grace
As you move or the sparks that I chase
When you pass close to me, so beautiful.
If all of the world were shades of the night,
Then you are the morning of waking to light.

edit: missed a space between entries when i first posted.
« Last Edit: 24 Oct 2008, 08:04 by SonofZ3 »
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Tom

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #73 on: 24 Oct 2008, 15:49 »

It tears past me
I know it doesn't care for me
I'm just an obstacle
So cold, it bites to the bone
Why does it make me feel alone?

Everything inside is slow
pumping round the ice flow
I've been waiting here so long,
purple and orange with lips of blue
where are you?

It pushes past
I bend with every blast.
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schimmy

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #74 on: 24 Oct 2008, 16:23 »

We lie together, ignoring the crap that's on TV.
We never really watch it anyway.
You hesitate for a moment,
your hand where we're nervous.
I'm not sure if you meant it, if it was an accident,
or if you even noticed.

I don't really care and I try to act casual.
Maybe if I pretend I know what I'm doing, you'll do the same.
Every time we find excuses and run out of time
too scared of our youth and our inexperience and each other
to ever do anything serious.

All I'm aware of is you and me
and the rapidly decreasing time before I have to go
or you have to leave. Even though there's nowhere else,
we have to be there soon.
So for the moment, at least, we're not in love
but we're teenagers having fun
and let's pretend that's enough for us for now.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #75 on: 25 Oct 2008, 04:10 »

Hi writtin thread!  I am trying really hard to write more lately!  I apologise for filling you with my crap like a giant write whore, but it helps keep me motivated!  Anyway, Han was talkign about people in gabbly giving her three random words to use in a story and said that Roddy once gave her 'lemon, tax fraud and mountain' and she had never worked out a way to use them.  I thought I would give it a shot and this is what you get! (thanks Roddy!)




You were that kind of father.  You know the kind, always too busy making money (to give us a better life you said) to spend ‘quality time’ with your children.  I didn’t need your quality time; I got by just fine fucking boys on your bed while you were on your business trips.  ‘When life gives you lemons, fuck in your father’s room’ I used to tell the faceless strangers I invited into our home.  They would smile and nod and pretend to understand while they took off my underwear.  I marked the headboard with a nail file after each encounter, if you noticed you never mentioned it.

The ‘better life’ my brother bought with your money was mountains of cocaine.  He didn’t need your quality time, he got by just fine doing lines on the coffee table while you fucked your secretary in an overseas hotel room.  We buried him in the plot beside my mother; you hadn’t noticed him hemorrhaging on the lounge room floor.  If you noticed, you never mentioned it.

When the police finally caught up with you I toasted their vigilance.  The words ‘tax fraud’ were thrown around and you found yourself out of your depth.  When you were convicted I celebrated in your favourite bar and took home the kind of young business man you hated most.  ‘When life gives you lemons, fuck in your recently incarcerated father's room’ I told him as he lit my cigarette.  He smiled and nodded and didn’t understand
« Last Edit: 25 Oct 2008, 04:14 by jodizzle »
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you it be the mics taht are broked?
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #76 on: 25 Oct 2008, 13:22 »

Charlie woke up to get a coffee and in the gloam he could just make out the tiny little stone wheels and burnt out fire pits on the Kitchen table top. He chalked it up to his body-clock being all hay wire, this was his second night working the graveyard at Richie's. He opens the cupboard and feels around sleepily for some coffee. He finds the foil packet hopping for some real coffee but it's empty. He swears under he breath and stumbles off to shower, crunching something underfoot.

The taps squeak as he turns them on, the water isn't going to get any warmer than luke-warm, it's summer so it doesn't bother him. The pressure is so high that every droplet is like a hailstone. The sound it makes as it hits the floor and walls of the shower recess is loud enough to prevent him from hearing the stray cat on the lawn caterwaul as it gets mortally wounded by a thousand tiny spears and carved up while still barely alive.

He gets changed into his uniform and locks the door as he leaves not wanting to notice the tiny little fire pits are alight.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #77 on: 26 Oct 2008, 01:10 »

Jodie marry me or at least write me every now and again

This is fucking ace
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #78 on: 26 Oct 2008, 01:34 »

Thanks Roddy

(you owe me writtins)


(I havn't forgotten)
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you it be the mics taht are broked?
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #79 on: 26 Oct 2008, 04:28 »

Challenge: Tea, Skipping, Juggle

It was days like this that made me hate my job. I should have taken the hint when I woke this morning greeted by a hangover pounding behind my eyes and called in sick. I probably don't have any sick days left anyway.

I stood just inside the doorway of the dingy room and looked around, taking in the sparse furnishings and tried to not make comparisons to my own apartment. The windows were so completely covered in grime that the sunlight coming in through was heavy and tea-stained, sluggishly making its way through the air. The room was tinted in brown; I was walking in a sepia photo. Maybe on another day I  would have appreciated the effect.

The woman was laying on the threadbare carpet, in the middle of the small space. I examined the scene, eyes skipping over the knife in the victim's back, and decided to have a closer look; hoping the smell of death wouldn't be too much. Stepping around the large patch of blood I knelt next to her head and looked at her face, wondering about her last moments.

Her eyes reminded me of Emily's. Emily, the latest woman in the revolving door of my love life. She made the best pork chops I have ever tasted, but apparently my jaded cynicism was too much for her to bear. I wasn't that surprised; it was the same with all the others.

I have never been very confident in my ability to juggle my various lives - social life, work life, love life. I can never quite work out how to keep all three in the air; it always seems to end with one still moving while the others are left in the dust at my feet. My friends and lovers don't pay the rent, so my job is the single ball spinning from hand to hand as I go on with my days. I could be a better son, a better husband, a better friend, but instead I try and be a better detective. I'm not sure why.

I reached over and closed her staring eyes, muttering a small apology to the person she never was, and walked back outside; away from the sickly stink of regret.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #80 on: 26 Oct 2008, 05:16 »

Challenge: Tea, Skipping, Juggle


She was a gypsy girl, with wild red hair and bells on her fingers.  I climbed out my window and followed when she beckoned, tiny waif girl darting through the forest.  She disappeared into the shadows and I followed the sound of her tiny tinkling bells until I found her skipping stones on a pond.

“My name is Starlight” she told me, but I knew her name was Paige.  She led me into a world of dreams, I took off my shoes before I entered.  We drank tea from cups so tiny it was gone in a mouthful, and shared cakes barely big enough for one.  “We’re too big to be here” I told her, but she just smiled and took more tea.

She taught me how to juggle using pomegranates and we ate them after, making our mouths sticky and red.  She talked to the fishes and told me the secrets they whispered to her.  When it got dark she took me back to my world and boosted me up through my window.  I’d lost my shoes. “Goodbye Starlight” I whispered to her shadowy figure as she turned away.

“My name is Paige” she said.
« Last Edit: 26 Oct 2008, 20:33 by jodizzle »
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Quote from: Hannah in Meebly
you it be the mics taht are broked?
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But then again, I used to dress like the bastard child of a drug-addled punk and a shrubbery.

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #81 on: 26 Oct 2008, 19:28 »

She said to me, "It's hard to juggle multiple things at once."

"I know but-"

"-all you need is someone to share the burden," she said pouring me another cup of tea. "I've been thinking that-"

"-wait you want to get married?" I'm sitting in her kitchen, we're awash with brilliant shades of light from her stain glass window. The Maddona imposed upon her face.

"Yes, that is exactly what I'm suggesting. The way I see it you need to stay in Australia and we could both benefit financially and Claire adores you." She took another sip from her cup and paused for my response.

"But it'd be a marriage of convenience - we aren't even remotely in love! I'm not ready to be anyone's father let alone Claire's adoptive father!" I'm standing up and shouting, hot tea down my front. In addition, I've just got the attention of an elderly neighbour.

"Don't worry I'll get." She picks up a tea towel, she gets over and sits next to me drying my lap. I sit down again and she leans over and whispers: "Our friendship has been anything but platonic. A marriage of convenievce it is, no messy courting, we can skip it because for all intents and purposes," her hands now within my pants, "we are very much in love Ally."
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #82 on: 27 Oct 2008, 00:40 »


She sipped and sat and stared intently across the fine bone brim and out into the world beyond her own.  Beyond the heavy velvet drapes and beyond the half-closed wooden slat blinds (covered, she noticed, in a thin film of dust) small children ran and played in the streets and the yards among assorted discarded toys.  Now yelling and running with small plastic guns, now jumping rope and swinging to and fro on a front-yard swing set, now shuffling along in push-pedal cars, bumping and shouting and pushing about, a jumble of disparate activities glued with rambunction.

With eyes suddenly wide Eleanor put her cup down with a clank, her fingers barely disentangling themselves before the shakes started in earnest.  She sank to the carpet unsteadily, first to knees, then hands and knees, then finally laid onto her side and clutched at her knees, forehead pressed against them.  Curled tightly thus on the floor she held herself comparatively still, and by focusing on the feel of the plush wool rug on her cheek she tried to will herself not to slip away.

Eleanor knew it was a dream because she was no longer shuddering.  She was outside in a yard, sitting on a small stump.  The children ran around her, still caught up in their games.  She wanted more than anything to join them, the small girl with the tawny hair chasing the laughing dumpy boy with no shoes, but she was so tired.  In the yard across the low wooden fence from her an older boy juggled apples for three younger boys all of whom seemed barely able to wait to show off next.  She pushed at the stump, attempting to shove off and up but instead found herself falling backward, sky rolling over and over in her eyes then dimming grey with swirling clouds before fading to black.

The grass against her face felt like thick carpet when she woke, sun in her eyes, her head foggy and her mouth wet with sleepspit.  She rubbed at her face with still slightly shaking hands and then the grass really was carpet, the sun filtering through the window revealing dust motes as they danced gaily above the woolly pile.  She smashed her fist through those motes and screamed, hot fire exploding in her wrist as it struck the floor.  As she screamed again in pain rushed footsteps fell in the hall, growing louder until the door swung open, a woman sweeping in and down to hold her close and whisper in her ear.  "It's ok sweetie, I'm here, I'm here" the woman said as she rocked Eleanor to and fro in her arms.  The woman had kindly features and was soft and warm and smelled of jasmine, but Eleanor knew she was full of lies.  Eleanor was sick of the lies. 

"I want to die, mommy" Eleanor whispered and the rocking abruptly stopped.  "Don't say that sweetie please don't say that, things will get better, I promise"

"They won't mommy, I know it, this is how I am m m m m" Eleanor stuttered, her small frail body again starting to shake.

The woman held Eleanor close.  She knew there was nothing she could do for her when she was like this, so instead she simply cried.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #83 on: 27 Oct 2008, 02:31 »

Lin ran through the summersweet tea-fields and danced a butterfly to her father's house. The tannin draped iridescent over the Sylhet plantations made the air hot and thick and wet - and Lin was soon delirious. The cirrus clouds fought wraith wars and dissipated into cowardly absence. Lin's hard and tanned feet thrummed against the hard and cracked mud like the pistons of a steam train. Out in the effervescence of the valley centre, the petulant insects swooned over each other and ate at any moisture left in the topsoil. Up here, at the cup's pocked green lip, only occasional dragonflies disturbed the peace - nibbling at pockets of cool air and pirouetting madly up displaced zephyrs. At the bowl valley's rim, only Lin and dragonflies moved, and with mad haste borne of nothing else to do but enjoy.

Lin, for her part, was skipping so hard and so fast that sweat ran in rivulets down her thin grey tunic, collating her skin and the fabric in clammy wet patches. At the gate to her father's house she finally rested, saying a quick prayer of thanks to her Summer for his copious gifts. Inside, her father juggled the numbers that needed feeding to the business-suited wolves that bayed every month for his money blood. But Lin was too young to hear their ever-angrier call, and too blind to her father's failing health. In asking for dinner, she granted him only a reprieve from his shifting, faceless creditors and his ever-expanding financial nemesis. Still, her father knew real duty when asked for it, and brought down Lin's wooden bowl from the shelf. The duty from father to daughter, from parent to child, bent his shoulders none, and brought this angry summer back a gentle warmth.

---
Hair, Barbarism, Vigour ?
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #84 on: 27 Oct 2008, 04:13 »

I especially like the second paragraph Roddy.


Challenge: Hair, Barbarism, Vigour


No more apologies.  The pounding in my head only gets worse when I try to think of words to redeem myself to you.  I am sickened by the groveling shadow of myself I have become, struggling to make you love me with a vigour that disgusts and distresses me.  “Barbarism begins at home” you say.  I think it’s the line from a song but you say it like you created it. You say it like you mean it.

The day you cut my hair was the last straw.  You screamed at me for taking too long in the bathroom and dragged me into the kitchen by my throat.  Using the blunt and filthy kitchen scissors you severed the last remaining tether of my restraint.

I creep into your room while you sleep, stepping around the discarded whiskey bottles that litter the floor.  I see the spittle bubbling on your lips and give a grimace of disgust.  I press the pillow down firmly on your face and hold it there, unwavering, until you cease to struggle.

“Barbarism begins at home mother” I say.
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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.

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #85 on: 27 Oct 2008, 10:37 »

It was a strange town, the kind where you got stuck if you stayed too long with no money or ambition. During the day cars, bikes, and lorries would crawl along the baking tarmac, slowly covering everything in a fine dust that almost choked the life out of everyone, but not quite. Everything seems slow when the horizon stretches further than imagination in every direction, when the sun stops at its zenith to rain down crushing heat, when the only cloud in the sky is left fettered by the absence of wind. Every day gets longer.

Night, when it arrives, is a curfew for the quaint and the meek, an odd arrangement where the town is surrendered to barbarism. A new vigour fills the streets, now charged with humanity rather than petrol. The swell of people replaces the heat of day, a sweatier, smellier arrangement and the buzz and shouts of conversations and arguments are as disorienting as the rip and whine of engines. Eventually, as the lights spin and the sea of faces fade into one, the streets are empty and waiting for the dawn light to fill them up again. Every night gets longer.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #86 on: 28 Oct 2008, 05:45 »

Oh Danosaur, that is rad.

Ok writing everyday etc etc.  Even if it sucks I will still post them because then I am held accountable for writing everyday!  Jimmy so so so badly wanted someone to write a story, so here I am caving to his demands.  It is not very good!  But STRUMPET.




She was staring at me again, looking at me like I didn’t belong.  I certainly felt out of place, surrounded by kneeling figurines and crucified christs.  I could feel the giant suffering Jesus that hung behind me staring accusingly at the back of my head.  I think I was beginning to develop a headache from its gaze.  I caught your eye and you reached out and took my hand, a gesture I appreciated.  The sharp intake of breath I heard from your mother’s side of the room indicated she had also noticed.  Fuck.

I contemplated pulling away, breaking the connection that seemed to disagree with her so, but I decided against it.  We were grown adults, we hardly needed your mother’s permission to touch for god’s sake.  Except we clearly did, or I wouldn’t be suffering this humiliating tea ceremony of awkward murmurs and bitter stares.  I realized she was glaring at my chest in disapproval and I saw my top button had come undone.  Heaven forbid.

I heard her mutter something under her breath and I just couldn’t take it anymore.  “Pardon” I asked as politely as I could, “did you say something”.  I heard you sigh with exasperation beside me as your mother sat up a little straighter, pursed her lips, and spat out one word. “Strumpet”.

Dead silence.

My lips twitched as I struggled to hold back my smile.  I could feel your shoulders shaking as you tried to swallow your giggles.  Well, at least being in your unappeasable mother’s presence hadn’t completely destroyed your sense of humour.  Standing up I turned to the stern, seething woman who was gripping her crucifix necklace oh so tightly in her clenched fist.  “Oh sweetie” I said, “Jesus won’t protect you from catching gay.  You need some hardcore domestic cleaners to get that out”.

We left her to disinfect her house with prayer and supplication, and never mentioned we’d fucked in the bathroom.
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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.

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #87 on: 28 Oct 2008, 18:34 »

Note: I'm not sure how I feel about this peice...part of me says it is crap, part of me says it just needs editing, and another part of me says it's pretty OK...
__

   The room is stark and simple. A low hum emits over the entire building like a power-up. Voices and laughter drift around her, broken and distorted through swinging doors and thin walls. She has better things to do –aspires to more than this unprovocative slave labor. These mere fifteen minutes she gets away from the petty consumers are never enough, but she never over extends her freedom. The rewards are too precious. The wages are what keeps her coming back. The wages are what allows her that small bit of fun –the small bit of a semblance of that thing called a ‘life’, that she can find outside the walls of the gigantic supercenter.

   Outside of the stark little room, shelves tower around her. Bright packaging and dollar signs call out loudly to her –appeal to her but she walks past them with a sigh, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to afford it. Not right now anyway. Not with all of her debt.

   The sounds are different outside too. The voices are clear and concise now. The overheard TVs blather ads for products no one ever buys. It seems quiet near the ceiling. No radio, not over-head intercom. Near the floor it is a series of disembodied voices, precocious laughter, beeping, shrill alarms –noise, everywhere like a pollution.

   She steps back to her boxed cage, leaning heavily against the hard metal. The light flip clicks over and the keys tap. Open for business again.

   The consumer’s push through like cattle, but need no prodding. Whores for the colorful packaging and commercialism  America is known to be suckered in for. After awhile, they all start to sound like the bovine they resemble, mooing and hawing over prices and mislabeled merchandise.

   But she deals. It’ll be worth it in a couple of days, she thinks. Her bills will get paid, she’ll buy some new books. She’ll do something to set herself apart from the herd…well, maybe not this week, or even next week, but some day. Some day, she will be great and all of these faces will mean nothing to her. She’ll be able to quit this hum-drum cattle drive. She won’t need the corporation’s paycheck anymore. She’ll live better on someone else’s money. Someday.

   Eventually, the shift ends. The door is quieter now, most of the people are finally gone home and are nestled in bed. That’s where she’s headed at least. To get a few quiet hours out of the barn before coming back to another day of Retail Hell.
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #88 on: 30 Oct 2008, 05:10 »

Challenge: Hair, Vigour, Barbarism

She stood atop the building, hair flowing wildly behind her as the wind teased it. She surveyed the city, looking for the next person to inflict literary barbarism on another; longing for that situation so that she could fulfil her civic duty with vigour, disposing of the offender before rushing off to keep the street safe once more.

She was Lit. Lady, protector of word geeks everywhere.


*grumble* stupid challenge
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #89 on: 30 Oct 2008, 05:21 »

Gabbly challenge: Memories, Dark, Blossom

Cherry Blossom

The memories come swirling back to me, I try to block them out, but they rise to the surface like bubbles of poisonous gas rising to the surface of a pool. The bright sunlit day juxtaposes my dark mood, why is it that some die, while I live on. Why of all people should it have been them? They had so much left to give, so much that the world needed to be given. But what do I have? Nothing but these sour memories and tears. So many tears. I wonder to myself, is this how it will always be? Will I ever be able to so much as look at cherry blossom again without being forced to think these things?

Edit: and another quick one while I'm in the mood to write.

Challenge: Juggle, Skip, Tea.

That was it, she had had enough. She was serious this time. She was going to run away to join the circus. At the circus would people like her, at the circus they wouldn’t make her clean her room, at the circus no one ate their vegetables. And she would learn all sorts of wonderful things like how to do card tricks and juggle and breathe fire. She could already skip by herself, and she barely ever fell and grazed her knees, with talent like that they would surely love to teach her. Yes the circus was the only place for her, and she could not wait to get there and meet all her new friends. But … but she was very hungry.  Maybe she’d runaway and join the circus after tea.
« Last Edit: 30 Oct 2008, 05:36 by axerton »
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #90 on: 30 Oct 2008, 05:42 »

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.
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you it be the mics taht are broked?
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But then again, I used to dress like the bastard child of a drug-addled punk and a shrubbery.

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #91 on: 26 Nov 2008, 15:35 »

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
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #92 on: 26 Nov 2008, 16:10 »

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.
« Last Edit: 26 Nov 2008, 16:12 by Midnight Umbreon »
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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #93 on: 26 Nov 2008, 20:55 »

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.
« Last Edit: 26 Nov 2008, 21:01 by allison »
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jodizzle

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #94 on: 01 Dec 2008, 05:19 »

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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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #95 on: 01 Dec 2008, 11:48 »

Jodie, I love your stories. Especially ones like that. There's just something about the language that is amazing.
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peach

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #96 on: 01 Dec 2008, 12:22 »

i love short stories. i apologize if its a bit long
tell me what you think.
CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ONLY, PLEASE.


"The Y District"


Delainie, Florida was really a beautiful city. Not for any one reason in particular, it was a beautiful city in the same way most beautiful cities manage to get that title. It lived. The whole place lived, and even if the people who busied their lives away there didn't see it, it breathed even and calm breaths of life. It had it all, all the things that big cities had. The bustling downtown, the busy outskirts, the serene country just outside of that. It possessed the people all big cities need to be called big cities. The lawyer with the wife, two children, and red-headed mistress. The police man with a chiseled past and no patience for punks, the single working mother with the adoring big-eyed son. They were all there in fronds, and they were all what gave Delainie breath. The city was a lovely, blooming metropolis, and though far from a heaven, it was wonderful. Of course though, as it is with all people, the ones who lived there, they couldn't appreciate the city for it's beauty, since it was much easier to dislike it for it's flaws, as few and far between as they were.

There wasn't crime in Delainie, not really. Nothing like other cities. There wasn't a gang problem, there weren't many stores robbed, and the ones that were, were robbed without causalities. It wasn't a crime-free haven, but it was safe there, so crime wasn't Delainie's problem. No, it wasn't crime. The law-enforcement was nice, because there was no crime. There was the plump little mayor with his suit always slightly messy, which made people able relate to him of course, his dark grey mustache always puffed out in his excitement. His bald head, with the crown of hair the same color as his puffy mustache, always reflected the sun when he gave speeches. The people of Delainie loved him, because he was familiar, he was comforting, he was one of them. No, the law in Delainie wasn't the problem. It was actually so much more simple then that, more simple because it was so easy to avoid. So easy to just push out of mind, until one of your relatives turned up there dead from drug overdose.

The problem in Delainie was The Y District.

The Y District wasn't really a district as most would think of it, instead of being composed of a few buildings, a few roads, it consumed Delainie's east side, over one fourth of the city. It was just as thriving as the rest of Delainie, and just like the rest of the city breathed, so did The Y District. But, even though Delainie breathed slow, calm breaths, The Y took in deep gasps and exhaled them with the equal amount of force. It breathed like a dying animal that refused to let go, but that's where the similarities between The Y and something dying ended. It was, if anything, even more alive then the rest of the city. People there knew what they wanted, and they took it. It was simple as that. The whole district was a mess of bars, clubs, strip joints, and apartments. It was a thriving metropolis just like the rest of Delainie, but unlike the rest, it thrived completely on it's own. It was an alien place, a different town, and the people who lived there liked it that way. They liked twelve hookers to a pimp, three pimps to a boss, and one boss every five blocks. They liked falling to sleep to the sound of bass thudding, car alarms, and windows breaking. Well, most of them. The Y was where you came if that was the life you wanted, or if you wanted a break away from the life you had.

The District didn't act as a whole though, just like The Y was cut off from Delainie, a city divided, it was a district divided. There was your drug slum, complete with the dealers, the junkies, and the squatters. Your straight hooker section, equipped with clubs and all the pussy you could ever hope for, and finally your gay hooker section, equipped with a few more clubs then the straight, all the dick and fake pussy you could ever dream of. It was heaven for men cheating on their wives, wives cheating on their husbands. It was a safe haven for men in the closet, and women who couldn't get any on their own. The rest of Delainie wasn't heaven, but The Y District, it was.

That was what The Y was to Sasha. More then anything else, it was his heaven, and there was nothing he would trade for it. The only problem was, The Y wouldn't trade anything for him either. You breathed the air of that place long enough, you lived the life that it offered for so many years, and you became a prisoner to it. That's what Sasha was, he was a prisoner to The District. All though, unlike most prisoners, he loved it, and he breathed in The Y District of Delainie, Florida just as violently as it breathed in him. The smell of sex, alcohol, cheap make-up, and ocean got him through every day, and he was happy living life that was, because it was what he had pushed himself into. Life in The Y wasn't a cruel turn of fate for him, it was a life he choose, and one he had worked hard to perfect.

Sasha's name wasn't really Sasha at all, at least not according to his mother. According to her, and by law, Sasha's name was Shelton Roderick DeVay. Sasha sounded much better in his opinion. At the tender age of eleven, Shelton realized he was unhappy in the way most eleven year old boys living on a farm in the middle of no where in Kentucky shouldn't be unhappy. The house was square, white washed, with high windows. It was a nice house. The yard was fenced in with a white picket fence in the front, there were cows, ducks, chickens, four dogs, everything a young boy could want in the back. There was a pond on their land, a creek, other houses with other boys and even little girls. It was perfect, or would have been for most boys.

Shelton had no friends in his neighborly farmer's boy life. None of the boys wanted to be near him, which was fair enough, he didn't want to be near them either. The little girls had nothing to do with him either, which also suited him. If you laid eyes on him at eleven you couldn't see why all the children in the neighborhood would avoid him, there was no reason for it. He wasn't visually unpleasing, with dirty blonde hair cut evenly just above his shoulders to frame a round face, skin the color of a coffee with just enough creamer, and pale green eyes. He was an interesting boy too, his father had taught him a lot when he was younger, things that all young boys want to know. No, those weren't the reasons the children of the neighborhood avoided him, the only ones who /really/ knew the reasons, besides the children, were the strangers who passed through town.

While other little boys would run down to the creek on the DeVay land and catch craw fish, Shelton DeVay stood on the edge of the dirt road a mile from his house, and waited for strange cars to pass. Once they did, once they slowed down, and asked him what he was doing there, in the middle of nowhere, and once he told them, almost every time they would ask him to get in. Once Shelton DeVay got in these cars, they would drive off into a field somewhere nearby, and by his own freewill, Shelton DeVay, would have sex with the men who picked him up. You would think it would be an easy secret to keep, but Shelton never tried to keep it a secret. The fact that all the children his own age knew about him, it spiced up his boring farm life. He wanted them to know about him, and avoid him, because it made his life easier.

It was when he was almost 12 that Shelton realized the country wouldn't work for him. Waiting on his dirt road, a familiar truck stopped in front of him, and looking in, to the owner of the local feed store, he was confused. The man told him to get in, and he did. They drove to their field, and instead of having sex, the owner of the local feed store called him a faggot, beat the shit out of him, and left him there.

Two weeks later the same man returned after his wife ran out on him, to ask for a hand job.

It was then that he left, promising himself that he would never smell the stink of cows ever again, hitch-hiking with a stranger who came into town, paying him the only way he could. He had wandered till he was almost 14, then somehow ended up in The Y District of Delainie. It was heaven to him, because it was everything he had ever longed for in his life, put in one place. After three weeks on the streets he had enough to pay for a shitty apartment. After three months, he had enough to pay for a better one, and after three years, he had enough to pay for the nicest in the district, which was pretty damn nice, seeing as the rent was nearly twelve hundred dollars a month. But he could afford it, and more, because he had that many regulars, because he was that good.
 

Sasha, standing on a corner, his face lit with the neon of the street, looked nothing like Shelton. The only thing he had retained from his childhood was his skin tone, and his round face. His hair was lighter now, expensively done a paler blonde with undertones of brown, cut touching his collarbones with layers up to his crown, bangs to hitting the middle of his cheeks on both sides. His hair had a sharp, jagged feel to it because it was razored, no one edge cut flat. His eyes had darkened with age, and the pale green of youth had faded, becoming a dark vivid green, that looked black in the neon. The ratty farmers boy clothes had been replaced, black pants that looked more expensive then the club he was standing in front of, knee high fasten up black boots, a purposefully tattered, tight black shirt with an emblem on the front that had long ago lost it's meaning, an interesting looking dark red coat that hit him at the bottom of the thigh, thick, buckles here and there.

Occasionally people stopped, acknowledged him, and he ignored them, drawing on the cigarette he had between his index and  middle finger. He knew the people here, at 19 he had been here long enough just to know, and he didn't fuck trash.

A man in drag passed in front of him and he made a disgusted face, dropping the cigarette onto the cement and crushing it with a soft grinding sound under his boot. Men were men, and that was how it should be, or at least that was what he thought. The transvestites, drag-queens, cross-dressers that roamed the district were so fake to him, it made him sick to his stomach. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, cocking one eyebrow at the man who was grinning at him, crossing his arms over his chest slowly.

"It's more then you can afford old man."

"Oh, oh I have the money, believe you me," the man pulled a wad of what looked like twenties out of his pocket and Sasha cocked his mouth in a smirk.

"Funny, you don't look like you can afford fifty-seven a half-hour," the man's smile faded and turned into a look of surprise mixed with anger.

"You don't honestly charge that! You must not get to many customers, some whore you are!" It was Sasha's turn to be angry, his face twisting with rage as his body stance changed and he turned to face the man.

"I probably live in a nicer house then you, you god damn perv so why don't you fucking get lost before I facefuck you with my fist! I don't FUCK, TRASH." He jerked his fist back, it was intimidating looking, despite his height of only 5'6, mostly because his fingers were covered in rings, and the man backed up, giving Sasha one more disgusted look before he turned and disappeared around the nearby corner. Sasha sighed, blowing his hair out of his face before he leaned back against the wall. Okay, so he didn't charge that much, but the man still couldn't afford him, even with his wad of twenties.
« Last Edit: 01 Dec 2008, 13:35 by peach »
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Siibillam-Law

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #97 on: 01 Dec 2008, 16:59 »

Here's (one of) mine, folks



The Comedie of the Antichrist Superstar
Basil Baradaran

It was seven oh-six, December one-oh         
About a dozen and thirteen years ago
A woman and man got married that day
And swore semper fidelis, and love come what may

Sadly the wife cheated, had slept with a man
Who she didn’t know was the big guy, Satan
She carried his child but never did tell
And gave birth to him in a five-star hotel

The wife never told her husband the truth
For what she had done was considered uncouth
The child was baptised and they christened him Chris
But the priests seemed to treat him with wanton malice

The couple raised Chris without any clues
That he was a child of satanic hues
Like everyone else his existence was dry
He was an average boy with an average life

Until his first day in education
His mind underwent a transformation
His innocence died and a new Chris was born
It was people, he found, that made his mind so torn

But he made lots of friends and they had a good time
Worshipping Satan and committing wild crimes
They were usually nice and couldn’t guess why
They minds went corrupt when they went near that child

As Young Chris grew older, his mind changed once more
He turned almost saint-like, and never before
Had his friends or his parents see him so kind
So gentle with people, so nice all the time      

For years his moods switched like Jekyll and Hyde
It was like there was a war in his mind
While celestial forces from both sides of the cross
Fought to have Chris as a tool for their boss

But the darkness did win and it hid deep inside
Young Chris; it was waiting for the right time to rise…
At Foodstuffs the lad took a job for some cash
It was there that he met the girl Jennifer Nash

For days Chris and Jen spent their time together
Walking on beaches or rolling in heather
They did all the romantic clichés that they could            
And Chris felt something he had not understood
 
“Love?” asked his best friend, as they walked through the park
“Have you made her a song, carved your names in the bark?
“Have you names for each other? Like honey or pet?”
“Not just yet, my good friend,” laughed Chris, “not just yet!”

Chris arrived home to find Jen on his bed
She gave him a look and sweetly she said:
“Listen, I think we should talk about us
“It’s nothing to fret; I’m not causing a fuss

“I just want to know if what we have is real.”
To which Chris said: “nothing can stop what I feel!”
He and Jen hugged and they kissed for a while      
And when Jen left, Chris went to sleep with a smile

Less than a year passed and it was Chris’s birthday
When his father appeared in a large ring of flames
And Satan decided to tell Chris the truth
In uffish thought Chris stood quite bemused

But he had no time for he heard Satan tell      
“My boy, it is time! Serve the powers of Hell!
Chris was frozen in shock, old Lucifer said
“The time-bomb inside you has detonated!”

“The ineffable end! Armageddon!”
“The film or the nerd-fest?” queried his son
The Devil sighed deeply. “The end of the world.”
“You must bring it about! The flags must be unfurled!”

Demonic thoughts suddenly flashed in his brain
Of angels and monsters and fiery rain
The long-hidden evil had risen at last -
Chris was finally aware of his demonic past!

But a memory rushed back: the face of his Jen
He thought about her, he felt lost and then
Love took over and the evil was drowned
He glared at his father, who replied with a frown

“I cannot do it,” he said, angry and wild
“But you must!” ordered Satan. “’Cos you are my child!”
Chris stepped over his parents, (who had fainted in shock)
He leapt out the door and he ran down the block

Visions of Apocalypse flared in his head
As he ran his brain filled with terror and dread
He knew that the devil would find him straight away
That he could not escape the fate of that day

Meanwhile, far below, in the city of Dis
Satan strolled the floor and he said with a hiss:
“I can sense his damned thoughts! It’s that girl he adores!
“If I can have her brought here, then he’ll play by my laws!”

He asked that an agent be brought to his door
And a few minutes later in walked Valefor
“What do you want?” V asked, in an annoyed tone
”I want you to go out there and capture someone.”

Valefor looked wary and asked who and why
“You must bring me this girl that my boy fears will die      
“When Apocalypse comes, and he won’t do it till
“He knows that she’s safe,” and he sat down, quite ill

Too much love in this boy, it made his head hurt!
But once she is down here, Chris’s mind will convert
So he sent V away to capture young Jen
And he went to office to plan the world’s end

Two days later Chris had no word of his lass
She was not at home or at uni in class
Her phone was unanswered, Chris feared for her life
What was troubling her? What was causing this strife?


But Christopher’s questions were answered just when
His father appeared holding hostage his Jen
“If you want to see her,” Satan said to his son
“Then you’ll do as I say, you’ll do what must be done.”

“If our plan succeeds and we possess the world,
“Then on this new Earth you can live with your girl!”
Chris said “Heaven’s the sole place she can stay in;
“Because Jen is too pure to be kept in this sin!”

His father was shocked at the H-word Chris used
He said “kiss your mother with that mouth, do you?”
“You’ll never see Jen if you disobey me!
“Cos I’ll trap her forever in Purgatory!”

As Satan began to vanish in the air
Chris turned to the Lord in a desperate prayer
And he felt something change inside, deep in his heart
It was Heaven and God, and his soul split apart

And the clouds burst apart with a thunderous roar
And a ray of light flooded and blinded our four
(Valefor had captured Jen’s brother as well
For no real reason, he just thought What the hell)

A deep booming voice emerged from the cloud
You could say it was holy but was simply just loud
It cried: “Let them go, the boy’s heart has transformed!
“He belongs to us now! His beliefs have reformed!”

“He may be of your blood, but his soul is now ours!”
“No he’s not,” replied Satan, bluntly, to the cloud      
“Yes he is!” “No he’s not!” (And it went on like this:
An argument over who really owned Chris)      

The debates continued between both deities
The Lord shouting something at Mephistopheles
And the latter yelled back; it was going nowhere
But there appeared to be no stopping for the pair   

So Chris saw his chance which was staring at him
He snuck up, rescued his girl and her brother Tim
As they all ran away they could still hear the noise
Of the infernal quarrel of the celestial boys

“By the time the two stop it,” Chris laughed as he told
“The world could have ended and restarted ten-fold!”
As the Four Riders landed, clothed in anger and sin
Death asked Chris irately: “When do we come in?”



AMEN
 Thank God for that

Notes:
"nerd-fest" he mentions is the Armageddon Pulp Cultre Expo and the film is the one with Bruce Willis.
Foodstuffs I just invented


http:www.storywrite.com/siibillam for more
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Gilead

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #98 on: 01 Dec 2008, 17:16 »

Sometimes I write poems.

A Perfect Match
I want to date a girl I don’t love
We’ll go out
To fancy restaurants
Sit across from one another
And make awkward conversation

I will ask her about herself
And while she talks
I will not listen
Instead I’ll be thinking
About a book I read last week

Three months pass and we
Are tolerably happy together
I still don’t know what
She does at her job
Or what colour her eyes are
When I’m not looking at them

We get married after a year
A wonderful ceremony
A beautiful ring
While I read out my vows
I think about how
I have never fled a church
By leaping through a stained glass window

We have three children
I buy their affection with toys and gifts
And when they get older
I realize that they look nothing like me
I don’t mind too much

We grow old together
Sharing looks of quiet resentment
Over long evenings
In front of the television

‘The price is right’
She sneers quietly
In the box’s blue glow
I pretend not to notice
But silently agree

She dies at seventy
When they’re cutting the headstone
The masons ask me
What her maiden name was
I check my phone to recall
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tommydski

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Re: Writtin' Thread
« Reply #99 on: 01 Dec 2008, 17:40 »

Your drawings sure are amazing.
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