wb :

Recommended reading!

It's a singularly powerful work, and reading it is made easier with this site. "Werther" is a collection of letters sent by the main character to the reader, and this site will send you an e-mail in the order of the book. Be sure to enter your real name, as Werther will often address you in his letters.

Site is here:

http://www.the-sorrows-of-young-werther.com/index2.html

Anyone aspiring to write descriptive prose should read this at least once.

Labels: other

Seriously, for the longest time, i've been trying to figure out what 'yesitsapun' is supposed to mean..

Enlightenment?

-sits under bo tree-

Labels: other

Gotta love that poetic form.

Roses are #FF0000, violets are #0000FF;
4|| m1 b453 4R3 b3|0N9 70 j00!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
In Soviet Russia, poem writes you!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I forgot what comes next, and Poland too!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
Being a ninja, I have just killed you!

Violets are blue, Roses are red;
But I like the colour of babies dead!

Roses are red, violets are blue;
I didn't expect the Spaniards too!

Röses äre red, viölets äre blüe;
My fävöürite bänd is Mötley Crüe!

Labels: poetry

The silence, it only needs to remain
Unsaid, amber-yellow streetlamps, broken by red
Green fairy lights, dancing on your skin, an ice-ring
Murderous kiss, with no where left to run to. Nothing
Left, but small red numbers, ticking your fare,
Minutes, cents, ten cents a minute, half a minute
But you don't care (just watch the road, mister). Nothing
Left, but half-drowned static muted wires, same radio stations,
Your life, in one single chair. Cigarettes, side pockets, stealing
Five seconds to breathe. You've seen them all, once, twice, even
More, watched them trash breathe slide over each other drunken in
The back seats, watched the women cry, weeping on a shoulder
Glued to crumbling dead leather and dead jade chains. What about you,
Little angel? Sing your Hosannas and pray pray pray but
Your priests and gods don't hear you anymore, above the din of
Chinese pop, love lost, love found, sex on the back seat. But
After the perfume stops smelling like a funeral (your funeral),
Rub the salt from the deltas around your eyes
Ask yourself who you go home to, even the night
Stops, for worker ants like you.


// I don't like Christmas, but I like taxi drivers. Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye, I still think just one planet's sufficient...

// Incidentally, off to Bangkok (NO STUPID FREUDIAN JOKES, PLSKTHXBAI), 14th to 19th ish, any souvenirs for y'all? Would gladly appreciate hawt swiss boys if any of you can bring back any.

Labels: poetry

Every good story needs a good setting.

Having a common setting would be a unifying factor in the many writings and poems that we create.

Does anyone wish to cooperate in creating a setting that we could use for future (or past, if you'd like) stories?

-Terence.

Labels: other

Labels: poetry

Labels: poetry

Short stories, anyone? As suggested by Cheng and Adam. Don't like 'em much myself. But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and revive this dead blog o_O

Labels: other

Labels: poetry

my room-
filled with
magazines- newsweek, popular science;
books, both old
and new- boccaccio, dante,
to goethe, then gabriel garcia marquez,
asimov, nietzsche,

and the bed; beside it,
music through the ages- bach, bach, williams,
the heart asks pleasure first,
danse macabre beside canto alla vita,
but we're all living in amerika anyway.

then the computer.
chock full of useful junk,
useless thoughts,
games and games, and
my link to the other world out there.
my other link to the world out there.

but in my room,
what is really mine

but these words?

Labels: poetry

Directions

Red light green light angry red and orange lights blaring in a traffic jam. Don't walk, walk, no u-turns, slow traffic, 70, end of school zone. They say it's like clockwork, I say it's more like music, with a conductor armed with a giant whip. Tempo is king, if it's your time, it's your time. It's cleverly strewn together; sometimes dancing with fluid graceful headlights, sometimes a moving paradox like 'expressway'. This is the river where the blood of a city flows. It scares me, because a road is a place of mortal peril: always looking for toes out of line to smash-crush-destroy in a spectacular story spanning news agencies. I saw it coming. A road is the place where individuality goes to die, replaced by - they say it's clockwork, I say it's more like music.

So this is it: the smooth new cigarette between tired lips, the metallic click of the lighter, the ghostly, wispy sigh of a tragic collision of karma. This is how it ends; after the rain, the park probably wouldn't burn if I dropped my cigarette on purpose. A civic minded shoe smothers the fire, a first step of a long journey on a completely different path towards the sunset. Maybe the giant 'The End' appears only when you reach it. Lately, I've let myself go, checked my teeth and tie in the rear view mirror too many times. Sultry was the name of your smile, and the showbiz was too much for you to take. Dead-end, no-go, because we've reached the metaphorical place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Where do we go from here?

I'll be walking, running if I have to. I'll be fine, with a briefcase full of manuscripts in one hand, unimpressive scars in the other, and the wind rubbing shoulders (please stay in Lane 1). And when we (inevitably) reach the same crossroads again, please wave hello, because green men get very bored with their thankless cycle.




P.S. Sorry for spamming.

Labels: prose

to think that I would fear the hand of fate!-
and I, instead of faithfully awaiting
death, who then in turn replaces life;

still seek escape from prisons of the soul!-
but as they say, just is the fate of fools; and
death, who then in turn replaces life,

will see to it that I shall meet my end!-
in time; but no-one can withstand sweet
death, who then in turn replaces life.

so am i but another hypocrite!-
but these deceiving eyes of mine will cheat not
death, who then in turn replaces life!

In the room, the women come and go,
But no more is Michelangelo.

Labels: poetry

I was bored.


It happened again, while they stood at his door.
The neighbours were smart, they already knew, and
Turned up the sounds to drown out the silence
Drew their curtains across dusty windows,
Shut their gates, locked and barred. He
Always, always had a smile like sunshine but
A tongue that cut too deep like how his hands would, sometimes.
She wouldn't stand for it, clothes cluttered in musty boxes,
Strewn across the coridoor, five years worth of them.
She stamped her feet, palms crashing across an unshaven face, his spit
Biting her eyes, running down her cheeks,
Like how it used to, between her legs.
What could/would/should they do, other than play along,
Throwing her set of keys on his living room floor,
Next to her/her? earrings from the night before.
His last sight of her will be her torn sundress,
Dior, he spent a whole fucking month's pay on that, but
Frankly my dear, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't love her
Like she couldn't love him, a four-letter word he swore never to
Say. He knew she'd say yes, if he'd run after some fleeting silhouette
Chasing dead butterflies. But
That could be done tomorrow, after he skirts around the
Broken glass, dead telephones, Dior dresses sunbeam smiles
Varnish on a funeral pyre, stepping and bleeding from
Her set of keys on his living room floor.

Labels: poetry

Sleep

It's on days like this that I sit down and think about it. It comes in waves; I think about how long it's been since I've had a real heart to heart with Someone: pouring emotional truths, stir at low heat until we're simmering and made of glass. It's difficult to share a secret. I'm one of those that don't cry when it rains, because when it does, there's so much more to think about.

I love seeing the city geometry dissolve like this. Not much of a loss anyway, it was Them that outlawed sleep long ago: to Them, I'm just part of the dissolving city geometry, and in the cover of rain, I might close my eyes a bit. Life is good after all - I never expected much - and everyone's trying their best. What the rain didn't cover, the frosty window did, maybe windows have a purpose after all. I can see myself differently now, and I'm different from everyone else. It's the twenty-first century, the age of the preposition.

I like to watch people sleep. It's as if they've built windows around themselves, a sanctuary from hot-off-the-press and moral-of-the-story. Inside, they're looking at themselves differently, at peace and dreaming, searching for that emotional truth. I also hate it when people wake up. When they stop sleeping, it's only/always the P.R.O. talking. Maybe it's rude to want. Maybe etiquette has outlawed silence too.

Do you remember the morning? You were sleeping on that uncomfortable bench, and you asked me to join you. The uncomfortable bench prodded at my back, but I didn't notice. Because I was in your cube of windows, two dreamers, reaching for emotional truths, until we were made of glass. You stirred, mumbled something about being happy, curled up into a ball and continued sleeping.

You stocked up on midnight oil - I miss the dinners, I miss walking past mall after mall, two drifters in a sea of sensibility and stocks. I miss keeping each others' secrets, I knowing what you know, you knowing what I know, talking over coffee and under moon, while angry shapes with headlights cram in two straight lines to nowhere. I miss feeling sad when the androgynous voice on the train puts an end to the conversation, watching you until you dissolve into the geometric crowd. I miss the feeling that the moment right now, even in silence, is worth more than sleep, and telling myself that "so what if I'm tired tomorrow, because it's completely worth it"

Because every single time it was.

Labels: prose

just to clarify some terms writers often use and which are woefully misinterpreted.

Word or Phrase:

"was/is inspired by"

Meaning:

"Would not be outdone by, and therefore copied"

More to come.


sixtimesnine productions.

Labels: other

Haiku Love Song, by ryan d.

A short, poignant vignette about love in a field under the night sky. RonHermione. Rated T for mild adult themes.

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Song-based prose based on Damien Rice's "The Blower's Daughter". Was aiming for semi-melancholy, bordering on vague angst. Pardon the atrocious syntax. For those unfamiliar with the song, the lyrics are in italics.
------------

I watch her standing by the sea, just slightly beyond the borders of dried, sand-abraded grass, swaying in time with the crash of the dark-blue glass-waves embracing the shore, embracing the sparkling spirals of quartz and shell and the aged rocky-cliff faces of the limestone towers.

I taste the cold sea-spray on the tip of my tongue, but I am not sure if it is the dead salt on the white-foam crests, or the remembrance of a memory of the taste of my own tears.

She is still as beautiful as ever. I know that. She always has been, and always will be, standing by the ocean while her hair fans out, caressed by the zephyr breeze. Yet I wonder if she still sings, sings for me.

Did I say that I loathe you?

I stand beyond the borders of the sand-abraded grass. Beyond the gold light of her hair, the soft crying call of a voice.

I can't take my eyes off of you.

I feel the same path on my gaunt cheeks being cleared, by the same acid tang of the same substance that flows from the oceans into the heart. The heat of summers long forgotten and the catch of autumn air burn my skin ochre and red and blood-deep as it always has; maybe if I close my eyes I will stop the rivers from flowing back into the sea.

I feel the soft crush of sand beneath the soles of worn leather shoes, the border grows ever closer, and the sand-abraded grass brush past unfeelingly against calloused, torn fingers.

I can't take my mind off of you.
I can't take my mind off of you.

I want to touch
You.
Again.

The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial.

I can catch the scent of calla lilies and soft vanilla. I wonder if her skin still tastes the same. I wonder if she still thinks of me, like I think of her. I wonder.

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

The sky turns pale sepia, like an old photograph, stained with rings of old, cold coffee. I want to reach out for the gentle slope of her shoulder, like I used to, but I am afraid that if I do she will disappear like the fragments in a dream.

Fragments that flow with my tears to the sea.

I can't take my eyes off of you. Most of the time.

But I know she knows.
I know she knows that I know.
And I know that I
can't take my mind off of you.

Did I say that I wanted to
Leave it all behind?

But now she stands facing the dark mirror of the sea and she is her own river pouring the waterfalls of her heart back into the ocean where they become my own lake of sorrows.

In the distance of two feet, in the distance of years long past and an aching void left in repayment, we've both forgotten the breeze. The kiss of the wind atop the same limestone cliffs we used to overlook. The breath of our faces close together, in sweet silent bliss.

She is beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You have always been beautiful.

No more promises, I can promise you no more.

No love, no glory.
No hero in her sky.

Just like you said it would be.

Not one of my better pieces, so, R&R!

Cheers!
Bern

Labels: prose

“For who art thou mourning?” the western wind whispered
To me while I sat on the rolling green grass;
And day took its wings, and then nightfall had landed,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last;

The spring and the summer, the river rebirthing
Was parched from the toils of the land it had passed;
But there in the river was blood that was flowing,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The autumn and winter, Demeter’s lamenting
Was warmed by the cold that the streetlights did cast;
And there on the trees, not a flower was blooming,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The forests of green, and the rivers of azure
Had faded to memory, a faraway lust;
And all was just grey, where I once saw the colour,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

And streetlights were burning in somber resplendence,
The blinding bright beams, and my limbs they held fast;
And there sat my body, in bitter despondence,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

For Death and for Dying my heart then was bleeding,
The garden of green in a city of dust;
The last of the life in dystopia undying,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

Imperator Sancti, you know of my weeping,
O tell me; I know not the beautiful past;
And say why before me was just a grey ceiling
When I saw the answer, the answer at last?

Labels: poetry

Getting there would take a while, when you're running your paws off. It's a cycle, from dawn to yawn, bed to bed, kiss and tell. With fluctuation comes monotony, it's in anomaly and concerted variation that breakthroughs come forth. Saving the world, climbing Babel high enough to hear the choir is a lovely idea, but as you climb higher and higher, you'll find that the ladder sinks beneath your feet, maybe faster than you climb, you'll also find the sweet tinkly laughter of the stars, and the delight of Mars as he nonchalantly goes in Virgo's court.

How does it feel, way up there? Up in space, where no-one hears your cape flutter. Maybe up there where things are as cold as you are, you'll find home. Maybe it's because you're so high, because no-one hears your song, you can sing all you want without the underestimated danger of interpretation. Idiot; when you've seen the planets' singing,

can't you see them fade into silence?

I can see that it's just another discrepancy. You want results, you want games, you want your childhood, you want up, you want out. I'll just have to swallow my ambition and lose my head remembering the echo of your guitar. Nothing to worry about, even up there, even if frostbite pinches your face like a butcher at a slab of pork, you'll pull through. Because you're strong, because you're a big damn hero.

Labels: prose

Three by three they come intent on walking,
And three by three they go away again.
And in pairs keeping up their chattering
To hide their tortuous sleeplessness; their pain.
Talking to hide their agony; in vain.
Fighting for an unimportant label,
And trying till their death to catch a train,
And they dance around an upturned table.

"I'm different," they all keep insisting
Till all of them enter the human drain.
Then on and on all of them keep swirling
Nameless entities that we can't sustain -
Some leave to try philosophies arcane.
Towards a dreary future they scramble,
Going through rituals over and again,
And they dance around an upturned table.

On the sea of life their heads are bobbing,
Necks crane to look at outliers; disdain
Evident on soggy faces frowning,
Though in their hearts all of them still maintain
A little spark of what once was humane
A little child with innocent babble -
But they all reek of maturity feigned,
And they dance around an upturned table.

PRINCE, save them from a straight and narrow lane,
They're locked in their own straitjacket - mental.
They're manufactured one and all the same,
And they dance around an upturned table.

-- comments plz. written over 02-03 Oct 2005 --

Labels: poetry

The spring of life whence came Demeter’s child
Brought warmth and joy to all the barren land;
Where flowers blossommed in the weather mild,
The beauteous fruits of Nature’s loving hand-
The overture to Life’s symphony grand-
But now is grey where green once made its home;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The summer, warmth and beauty undefiled
When Hades, cold and lifeless, sought her hand;
No more the youthful innocence so mild,
The solemn silence where the trees now stand-
The empty plains, without a foe or friend-
Out of the land the happiness has flown;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

In autumn was Persephone beguiled
By six small seeds, by scheming underhand;
As woe upon woe in her heart was piled,
The falling blossoms yearning for the land-
The age-old round, beginning and the end-
The schemer for his sins will now atone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The winter cold as Hades’ heart defiled
A bleeding wound which time could never mend;
Where frozen sheets of snow the earth once tiled,
The haunting wail as life comes to an end-
The death upon which rebirth does depend-
Now all is warm where wind once chilled the bone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

//I know the rhymes sound ridiculously contrived. I was writing with twice the number of lines and half the number of rhymes, and this was the best I could do without consulting a thesaurus or similar tool -_- It definitely has loads room for improvement! Suggestions plz.

Labels: poetry

i vote that this month's project be ballades. cool things. shall write/post one asap.

http://www.noggs.dsl.pipex.com/vf/ballade.htm

Labels: other

A raindrop-
Ripples in a lake,
Drowned by the downpour

01: INTREUX

the spring that lightens steps upon the soil;
the sun that brightens faces wrought in toil;
the unawareness of the mortal coil,

will soon give way to summer’s scathing eye;
will feel the fury of the vengeful sky;
will parch the earth and turn the rivers dry,

till autumn brings its blissful tranquil touch;
till cherry blossoms fall in their deluge;
till sunrays slip away before your clutch,

when finally, winter waits upon the world;
when nature, weary, from her toils untold;
when wasted, life retreats beneath the cold.

so goes the age-old story of the earth;
the treasured tale of death, and then rebirth.

Labels: poetry

Structuralism, or maybe.

Crystalline pink,
the fire chills me to the bone.
I start to mumble,
talking to my imaginary friend.
He wants nothing more,
but,
to kill me.

'If language is a construct of the mind,
are emotions, then, a construct of the heart?
What about the soul?
How do souls touch each other,
with tangible, harsh fingers?
Is that what bodies are for?
When we tingle, touch,
caress,
stroke, grind, hurt,
smash,
is it Us, or is it our souls?'

My friend replies vaguely,
nodding, shrugging, or a combination of both.
He's got no body,
you see.
It's hard for souls to communicate,
without being able to hurt,
without being able to touch,
they mumble something,
hear everything,
but,
are nothing.

-Terence.

Labels: poetry

I have seen where it grows, the moon, whirling across its celestial ballroom. A forgiving circle, the world's coin. Sometimes I see your face, pockmarked and overflowing with youth. You never tell me what's written on the other side of your face; I ask why and you say the answer's written in the clouds, but the pendulum sweeps them away before I read them. IT HITS ME

You can only see what you want to. I say a song, you say a badge; I say a boy, you say a king; I say a smile, you say a gun, then you shoot the world into a million pieces, knowing full well that I'd cut myself picking them up. I apologize for the red on the wrapping paper, after all we wouldn't know it was brittle otherwise, now would we?

No matter how well we comb our hair, what they see is always a reflection of what you think you are. Is that what you're worth? Searching for destiny in the news, a tiny column at the corner. Constellations are a child's sketch, Barney-esque imagination, the bastard child of fools too busy to be concerned with what really matters. In the end, they're just stars, just like any other celestial object. Like the moon. It hits me again: you have no other side. In my eyes, you're just a paper moon.

Labels: prose

Written in 04, for a school assignment.
-----------

Hey there Mr. Bartender, couldn't help but notice your pretty fingers grasping that cocktail mix. I like the way you move, man, that old velvet vest sparking dust and cobweb-like filigree string in the neon red lights arcing through brightly glowing cigarette smoke like a London fog. Watch your stoic, silent face smile at the ladies at the greased bar, reflected off the tainted varnish worn thin from years of mug-sliding, swipe-wiping and coin-scratching. Whip and toss the decanter behind your back and twirl like a ballerina, then serve with a dash of loneliness and uncertain tastebuds. Garnish with a re-used pink paper umbrella from the broken trashbins outside the lights sounds smells and dance-floor sex. You're so used to this, and so unsure of everything and anything else. Were you like them once, rubbing up to strangers on strobe-lit dance floors to get your fill of physical contact in the midst of cheese-techno trance mixes from the half-drugged DJs on the turntables. The same Van Dyk, Tiesto, Kosheen tracks mixed to hell and back.


Did you go to hell and back and decide that here was worse. In the humid stale heat of 3.00 AMs repeated here daily take off that vest and run fingers through hair that'll smell permanently of cigarette smoke, rum and kahlua, and Absolut Loss.* Rub the sweat from your eyes and smile at the lonely lady across the bar with her overly made-up face, and tell her everything will be ok.


I know you hear stories from them, and you know everyone's stories, whether you like it or not, because you're a bartender, and that's your job. Give them their poison when taking away the bottom of the glass bottle will lose them in disreality, and let's see how far you've come. Sneak that shot of vodka before you leave and walk in rain-lit alleys that smell of dead trash and the renmants of technicolour noise. And feel comforted by it, when you fall into beds of disused linen sheets and pray for this to be over. But I know I'll always see you there at the bar with a smile ready for the next dude that's just broken up with his girlfriend, or the next chick that's just broken up with her boyfriend, but never with a smile for yourself. A matter of mere expediency.


You've come a long way, baby. You've come a long way.






Cheers!

Bern.

Labels: prose

I think this may be the last haiku you'll see from me in awhile. I'm going to go read up and study some technique (as well as my CTs. heh.) ... so. Tell me what you think. (this was submitted for the Expressions publication btw. You may see it on paper in the near future!)


passers-by
heads bowed down by the weight of
raindrops




- adam

Labels: poetry

Something I wrote when strived to, well, see if I could make anyone cry with one of those soppy love stories you get in emails and see on blogs. Inspired by a tragic love life. I also warn you, it's two and a half pages of size 12 Times New Roman. Be prepared to read.

***

Every day of his life he could remember, Peter had known he loved her. He loved her long black hair, the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled, her elegance when she walked, the eloquence when she talked… She was perfect. He would dream of her at night, too, holding his pillow and longing for it to be her. Oh how he wished… But Peter had a problem. Sarah, the love of his life, was not his to love. Whenever he met her, she was smiled and waved. It didn’t mean anything though, for Sarah had a boyfriend, whom she loved with all her heart.

As children, the two would spend their weekends together; building sandcastles at the beach, sliding down slides and climbing trees, running around in the sun for no reason as kids do. She had saved his life once, too. She had taken swimming courses since she was five years old, and when Peter had slipped off a log he was balancing on and fell into the river, she jumped in and rescued him. Their parents had come running (or so he had heard) when she screamed to them, finding him unconscious, and he woke up in hospital a few hours later. He had become very close to her after that, but by the time he recognized what his feelings were, it was too late.

Peter would walk to school every day. He would always arrive just in time to see Sarah and her boyfriend sharing a kiss before leaving for their classes in the morning. If he was early, he would see them walking to school ahead of him, his arm around her shoulder as she leaned into him dreamily. Whenever Sarah wasn’t with her boyfriend, he was all she would talk about. She would tell Peter about what they were going to do on Saturday, and how he was going to buy her that top she had wanted for ever, or how they were going to get married in Hawaii as soon as they got enough money. It tore his heart, but Peter simply smiled at her and answered,
“I’m happy for you.”

And he was. His heart wept, knowing she could never be his, but it made him smile, despite the tears, to think she was getting all the love she deserved, and more. Love was not selfish; he knew this better than anyone.

One night, Sarah and Robert were walking home together from a fun night at the movies, and decided to take a quick detour through an alleyway. Robert smiled and grabbed her suddenly, pinning her against the wall as she gasped, but he just kissed her deeply. She grinned and closed her eyes, murmuring his name, but just as she was beginning to enjoy it, Robert suddenly pulled off her. Opening her, the first thing she saw was the barrel of a gun as someone held it to her forehead, another of them holding her beloved.
“Give me all your money, or I’ll shoot you and take it anyway,” came the icy voice.

Meanwhile, Robert bowed his head forward and snapped it back as the thug dropping him and clutching a bleeding nose. He jumped on the back of the one with the gun and tried to wrestle it off him, screaming,
“Run Sarah!”
Her legs were shaking, but somehow she stumbled away, running blindly through the darkness. There were gunshots behind her, but she just ran and ran and ran until she was at home and threw herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing heavily.

She didn’t hear from Robert until his name came up on the news. He had been murdered, with six gunshot wounds to the chest. As soon as Peter heard of this, he ran flat out to Sarah’s house and didn’t stop until he was standing outside her bedroom door, catching his breath. He opened it quietly and saw her crying in bed. Closing the door behind him, he put his arms tentatively around her as she looked up at him, her eyes red and watery. Without a word, she embraced him.

Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours when she spoke next, her voice shaky and weak from the long hours of crying.
“I can’t live without him Peter.”
“Yes you can…” he whispered back. “You have to. Don’t live for him anymore…. Live for yourself… live for me. Please Sarah…”
The look she gave him was so full of sorrow, loss and suffering, his voice trailed off. She seemed to be saying, “You can’t help me now,” as she shook her head at him and lay her head on his lap. Any other time, he would have treasured the moment, but presently he had a lot on his mind to worry about.

The evening wore on. As it became too dark to see, weariness overtook them from the long events of the day, and the two of them gradually fell asleep, holding one another. The night was cold, so they snuggled closer for warmth in their subconscious, and a smile crept across Peter’s face.

He was dreaming. Sarah was lying in his arms, just as she was in the real world, but it was early morning. They were both awake, though everything seemed dreamy because of the hour. Peter gave her a loving squeeze as she looked up into his eyes. She smiled sadly as she brushed his cheek with her thumb softly, shifting closer to him, and said,
“This can never be.”
He looked questioningly at her, but she had vanished.

His eyes opened, and the bed beside him was empty. The note on the pillow read,
“Goodbye Peter.”
He didn’t spare a moment as he bolted out of bed and ran as fast as he could, leaving the door of the house wide open behind him. He knew where she was. It just a matter of whether he could get there in time to stop her…

The early morning was freezing, the dew numbing his bare feet, but he barely noticed. He stumbled through the brush, ignoring the scratches from the thorns and branches, until he came to the river he had fallen in all those years ago. His eyes raced across it, looking for any sign of her, his head spinning. Putting his fatigue to the back of his mind, he ran alongside the creek until he saw her white shirt and black hair floating almost peacefully in the currents.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dove into the water, the iciness stinging every inch of his skin, but he continued to battle against the flow until he gripped her arm and tugged her to the surface. Gasping for breath, he dragged her onto the ground nearby and checked her heartbeat with shaking hands. It was slow, but existent. Rolling her onto her side, he pat her back forcefully until she coughed out the water weakly and gasped in a breath. Rolling onto her back, she looked up at him.
“You shouldn’t have come… just let me go Peter.”
“Never. We have to get you some help…”
She shook her head at him, her skin a faint blue, before she passed out.

Wasting no further time, he eased his arm under her legs and back and lifted her gently from the ground. Despite the fact his arms were shaking, he would not drop his burden, and so it was he made his way carefully but hastily back to the town.

***

The first thing Sarah heard was a man talking.“She doesn’t look like she’s going to make it…”
She heard a voice she recognized… it sounded so familiar, so… sad.
“She has to... She will… Don’t you dare say otherwise.”
“What I say isn’t going to change anything. If her body doesn’t start fighting back soon, she’s going to-”
“Don’t you dare say it!”
There was a silence, before one pair of footsteps trailed away and a door closed.
Her eyelids felt heavy, but she forced them open with a groan.
“Sarah! You’re awake!” That voice… It was Peter… oh no, that meant…
“God damnit Peter, I said let me die...” it hurt to speak; her voice burned with every syllable.
“Just rest. You need to regain your strength…” She shook her head at him mercilessly. There were tears behind his eyes, but he was refusing to let them fall. He looked like a mess- his hair was dirty and he was covered in tiny cuts, but somehow, he looked handsome…

Her breathing was becoming strained, her chest feeling heavier with every passing moment. It was when she started to cough but could not gasp in a following breath she realized she was going to die. Sarah looked at the boy who loved her so dearly for the very last time and managed amongst sobs two final words.
“Goodbye Peter.”

She went into code blue.

Peter was ushered from the room as doctors rushed in and tried to resuscitate her, but the life would not return to her body. After a few minutes, there was silence in the room, and one by one they all filed out, avoiding his gaze. The one at the end just put a hand on his shoulder and whispered
“I’m sorry.”

Peter seemed to see for the first time. Fearing what lay inside the room, he took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. All that was in the room was his soulmate, lying peacefully in the white sheets. He wanted to wake her, to do anything to make her get up and scold him for worrying, to do anything, but she did not.

He knelt before the bed, his body shaking violently as he tried to choke back a sob without success. At last, the tears flowed, and he cried and cried and cried, raising his shaking hands to close her eyes, curling his fingers in her soft black hair, still littered with leaves and twigs.

“Why Jesus, why?” he asked the crucifix on the wall, but the wooden face gave no condolence and simply stared sadly at him. He turned away and pulled himself to his feet, standing over her and brushing her forehead softly. If only he'd been a little faster, or if only he hadn't fallen asleep... Leaning over, he kissed her, for the first and last time, and whispered to unhearing ears,
“I love you.”

He was never heard from again.

***

Labels: prose

This night-
a room,
a chair

Labels: poetry

Labels: poetry

I was bored one day, and so decided to write an alliterative sonnet.
There were two versions of the last line, and I couldn't decide on which to use.
Additionally, I vote that September should be the Month of the Sonnet. XD
-------
learn to love the cruel lash of fate,
the slithering snake whose wounds will not abate;
the scars which smoulder still upon your skin,
the lance that lodges in your life within.

learn contentment, to your soul deny
the foolish thought that you might fate defy;
the flame of hope that favour falls with you;
the cold that winter brings you life anew.

yet;

learn to hate the hour of your death,
the winds that wail and whimper your last breath;
the wire that wraps upon your broken neck;
the highest hell that ‘waits the heretick.

so learn to live and laugh and life enjoy;
or dead and dying you yourself deny.
//or death and dying to yourself deny.

Labels: poetry

hey... we should have a regular "project of the *unspecified period of time*" feature. like the haiku thing (which only cheng and i have tried so far :P)... say someone comes up with a general topic and we all produce pieces on it in the *unspecified period of time*. this is for poor sods like myself who can't think of anything to contribute on. sigh.

Labels: other

i once found me on a bluff,
overlooking the sea so rough;
where i saw an eb’ny sail,
from whence came a deathly wail.

and on that morbid ship i saw,
a sight which left me rapt in awe;
for on that vessel clothed so dire
did i see my funeral pyre.

turning then i saw before me,
sheets of ice enshrin’d the sea;
where no life was wont to dwell,
where only ocean currents swell.

turning back to ship, i heard
my name; a second time; a third;
i saw the wooden pyre blaze
outshining even the sun’s rays.

and yet those rays of gold; upon
the icy cloak didst break the dawn;
and yet the flames did ever rage,
a fruitless war to ever wage.

and so did sea and ship and soul
upon that bluff myself console;
for now i knew i had to go,
away from land and life to row.

“cast your body”, did i reckon
the ocean to me did thus beckon;
“immolation”, whispered tongues,
the flames their soulful song thus sung.

so my soul to west didst turn,
even as the fires burned;
so my soul from land did fly,
underneath the azure sky.

and as the ship approached the bay,
so did the current make it sway;
and as it neared the shore i knew
i had to pay my mortal due.

and thus my heart is now in ag’ny,
for the sea cries out to me;
yet i cannot the wail forget;
glory’s spell enthralls me yet.

to live in cold or die in fire;
shall my lifeblood stain my pyre?
or shall i live for life alone,
shall my soul the ice entomb?

Labels: poetry

responding to adam's call. i intend to do better ones with more time; this came out in a minute or two.

NOSTALGIA
Two times five was ten;
But what is math to us now?
dy by dx.

comments plz!

Labels: poetry

Ah! the silence, darkness, peacefulness that comes with night
No more noise, no brightness, foolishness- the daytime's plight.
Night bequeaths to dreamers, grievers life impossible in day.
Her cold embrace comforts, stills the pain our hearts display.

Night! the cursed maiden, still is grieven for the world
You comfort! But you weep, and we sleep within your hold.
Glory past! Twilight years. All our fears, our dreams are made.
What we were, we will be, we will see in your dark shade.

Fair maid of the evening! Weeping beside mankind's bed
What you can do, doing, giving hope to lifes long dead
Nurt'ring, tender loving dreams beginning, hopes at dawn
Then to daylight relinquishing, so they may be born.

And for this selfless gift, we fear! We hate the darkness
Wishing for the daylight! That we might see for ourselves.
Then our dreams disappear, and we live in day again.
Live in daylight, sunlight, living light and day and pain.

Weary then, at the end, of the day we will return
To your bosom, your heart, And our memories in turn
Fade to black. And our dreams, and our hopes wil be beginning
In the night. In the dark. And our dreams, begin to sing.

Labels: poetry

another attempt at poetry. Please critique. And since it's poetry and I myself have a particularly negative view towards poetry, you have greater license to flame.


Evening at the Institution by Adam

Just dark enough to send the

building of voices bounding the hard walls,

wordless spirits,

behind the trickle of pond's water.

Crossed the shadows of fronds waving

at the retort from a drain grille echoing to the open sky

orange firmament cracked with the reds, the purples

apocalyptic above the swaying of shadowed boughs.

Miasma under bluesky encroached with apocalypse

orange footsteps, fronds waving beneath

the voices whispering beneath the

hum of the generator,

someone approaches

my solace.

Labels: poetry

K, there's a writer's blog gmail account.
yesitsapun@gmail.com, password writersblog
There's a tagboard under the same name, details can be found in the email inbox.
Any long reviews and responses to works can be sent to the email.

Labels: admin

Just a few things. #1 : we need a tagboard. will somebody do it?

#2 i'd like to see more comments on the pieces of writing we post up. Especially the people who're contributors: your resposibility is not just to write, but to give criticism. Even if you can't find anything profound to say it would be good just to state your opinion, whether you thought it was good, etc. Feedback is good in itself.


p.s. We're all currently busy with tests, but expect to see some stuff soon.

Labels: admin

'Yea, for e'en as we speak, the world doth collapse, shaking the very timbers and foundations of existence.

On this day of fiery damnation and hellfire, only the truly faithful shall be saved. The Ark of Salvation shall stop, sprinkling only the believers with the cleansing power of Our Master, soaking and staining their lily-white garments with red, salty blood.

On this Day of days, yea, Son of Man, ye shalt be put on the rack, and called up for the Reckoning. Gehenna shall begin on the face of this very earth, and only the Blessed and the Chosen shall be spared the Reaper.

Rise, my Brethren, raise your plowshares and your rakes, turn them upon your fellows, just as Cain did unto Abel, so Man shall reap Man, sowing the ground with the Blood of the Sacrifice. Torch the humble dwellings of filth and poverty - they shall be purified by the touch of the fire, to become offerings which are pleasing unto the Master.

Slit the throats of the dozen cursed knaves, who corpulently sit. Nay, their blood shalt not water the earth, nor their flesh feed the soil; they have shamed their Birthright, shamed their Family, and are thus, to be cast out of the Divine Cycle. The ripping of their souls will provide no delight, no respite form the torture of Mortality.

Remember well, my Brethren. For as ye wilt reap, so shalt ye sow - the smallest child, the sweetest babe, all these are pleasing unto the Master, and it is thy sacred duty to satiate His needs, that He might render unto you, the things that are due you.

Remember this, and weep.'

- Excerpt from The Book of Nazal

Labels: prose

lol. Since I failed at finishing my month, I might as well post some of them here.

In the morning, we file down onto the astroturf and arrange in neat rows for flag-raising ceremony. We mumble through the national anthem, the pledge, groan through the announcements, and subsequently file back. We're a little weathered and a little jaded from the last nine years of this. It is meant to inspire pride and confidence; we are simply too tired, too accustomed to the morning calisthenics to twitch even an eyebrow. We are a cynical generation, wind-tossed, battered, white mice for each new experiment. We long for sincerity. No solutions will do, only something to fight for.

-adam

plz comment. Thanks. Any comment at all really, I'd just like to gauge response.

Labels: drabble, prose

"leaaaavin' aawwn a jet plaaane, don't know wheeeen ahh'll be baaack again..."

Fritz muttered as he pressed "next" on his music player.

That old song had been in the player's hard disk for seven years now. It had been one of those which came pre-loaded on the Sony Walkman, those you couldn't delete or copy to your computer. Everytime he selected "Random Play All", it would inevitably hit that song sooner or later.

It had been a song from his parent's generation; and even the other pre-loaded songs had become classics over the span of a decade. Rock, punk, metal, emo, all went out of vogue at some point. The classics of yesteryear lay mostly forgotten in museums and private collections, enjoyed by an outdated minority.

The next song filled his ears as the old player strained to bring to memory what lines of code governed its behaviour.

The more I fill it, the slower it becomes, he mused.

The player had been a gift from his parents, on his 18th birthday when he had finally come of age. A parting gift, something to remind him of the reason he existed in the first place. A memory of his nurturers, his caretakers, something to keep with him once he broke every other tie with them.

In his century, children were considered independent of their parents once they reached 18 years of age. Conversely, parents were not obliged to take care of them after that age. In that century, one usually saw the child break every bond and strike it out on his own; a few stayed for another year or so, and even fewer took care of their parents for the rest of their lives. Keepsakes like the venerable player were not uncommon.

"to be more like me and be less like you..."

His ears caught those lines, words his parents had listened to a whole generation before him. He looked at the scuffed black player, the sweet irony glistening on the thought like sweat on a lawyer whose conscience hounded his dreams.

He shrugged. The world had no place for such thoughts.

He changed the song again, the song of the Volga Boatmen. Something old and eternal, something to stay with him as he went back to work on that temperate afternoon in the gray city under a dying sun.

Labels: prose

All I remember was the earth yelling at the top of her lungs. I doubled over, felt the biting ozone give way to... what? There was nothing. No, there was light, pretty, unbearable light, attractive like the glow of an angler fish's beckon, only turned on to full. My win - what the fuck happened to my wings? I was walking, leather straps in my hand and destiny in my gut, both too big for me to handle. I remember a loud, fiery sigh, his flesh burning me, simplicity, irresistability, dadaist. No, it was a whinny.

BANG. FATHER!

Eyelids parting, revealing Scene 1: INT. DAY, a temple, hangover gnawing at my skull. I rub my head... no tired locks. My hair's all gone... where? I hear tok tok tok tok ding ding ding ding, stench of iron and sweat inescapable. It's the turn of the century, the age of repression, where the hurried naked feet try and find release from the wheel.

BANG. MOKSHA!

My eyes are getting used to the light. I'm too tired, there are so many people. I can see green, yellow, blue, red, purple, and a lot of golden thread. Everyone's looking at him and screaming his name, the next thing you know he might be crowd-sailing. Backstage passes into the puppetshow in heaven. There are so many people. My job is to dangle the Carrots of Prosperity, Knowledge and Sex in front of their oversensitive, detestable noses.

BANG. 1/3!

All I can think of is that man. I need to get him back. "What is your name?" he says. No. He saith.

"Have you got a name for me?" I answer. He looks at me funny. I know my name. My name is

My name is Icarus.

Labels: prose

As the brook swelled with icemelt in the springtime, as the trees bloomed with their first flowers, so did his heart burst with the joy he felt.

With newfound energy, his weary heart soared above the grey world below into the blue-gold glory of the open sky. He felt not even the wings that held him aloft, seeing only the vast expanse of freedom stretched out before him. That burden- weariness- fell from his shoulders and tumbled towards the earth.

Earth! It held no meaning now for a soul thus freed! The chains of gravity, the shackles of existence, all snapped in that instant of liberation. Liberation! The feeling flowed through his blood, thick as honey, smooth as quicksilver, chilling him with its fiery embrace. Oh, how could the heart long for anything other than sweet, sweet liberation!

He soared above the world, free from the petty concerns of the rabble.

He flew, flew, for what seemed like eternity-

-TWO HOURS, read the display.

He blinked.

-TWO HOURS, it read. No mistake about it.

He blinked again.

His aches and cares met him as Death does life- slowly, inexorably, suddenly. They crept up on him, snuck their roots and tendrils into the edges of his consciousness, took hold of his mind and chained it to the earth. They broke into his thoughts as a flood, carrying away all the visions and leaving in their place a brood of monsters, clawing at his mind, eager to trap and roast the struggling bird.

He blinked for the third time.

"That'll be two hundred creds, sir."

He turned towards the voice, saw someone standing at the edge to something. A cell. He took off the helmet.
Realization had taken its own time today.

He paid the brainjack's owner, and went on his way.

He would have to stop soon. He was getting hooked, and the world never waited for the dreamers, the simulation-addicts. That indescribable pleasure, that momentary release, would have to come from elsewhere.

Perhaps he would just give it up. Stop smelling the roses, for the thorns pricked him. Stop loving- if he never loved, he never would have cried.

Pleasure had been the ruin of too many a good man. He wasn't going to let himself succumb. He would be the last man, if the whole world went mad.

Labels: prose

Haha adam flamed this already but I think it's not dead yet. Time to make it deader. If I get universal criticism I'll discontinue it as a poem and write it as prose instead.

The thin black line

The thin black line, marking the start
Of the race; each man running
Different lengths, different courses
The end point remains the same

The thin black line, on textbooks
Drawn in by their owners, for study
To what end? When will the study
Or the line, ever draw to a close?

The thin black line, a scrawl laden on top
Bearing witness to the law, crime,
Failures, successes, losses, profit
Hopes, fears, the line goes on

The thin black line, marking the end
The finish, the race run, the distance
Measured, and found wanting
Counted, and found short

(A start to a never ending poem)

Labels: poetry

Does this count?

No it's not the line from the noble start of Red vs Blue. Incidentally redvsblue.com was recently featured in the ST. First season is definitely worth checking out, but you know the series is in decline when the highlight of the second season was a robot making a spanish music video.

Why are we here? (a student's lament)

Why are we here? Not why are we typing at our computer in the middle of the night, but why are we here, on earth, in school. School, where we spend approximately 12 of our waking and 2 of our sleeping hours every weekday. Looking at it that way, we spend more time at school then at home. Shouldn't it then become our home? No. No, because one is a place we go to willingly, while the other is one we have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of bed by the alarm clock to face. Because at one we can relax and feel comfortable, while at the other we devote ourselves to a wide, government approved plethora of subjects and topics, 90% of which we will never use in the future, but 100% of which affects your ability to choose that future. Do not damn the lawyer who cannot do math. Perhaps the most disgusting thing is that one life extends its dirty tendrils into the other, school making its presence plainly felt in the house by the sheer amounts of homework students have to contend with every day.

Glance into the past, and take a peek into the future. 6 years to a major exam, then 4, then 2, and then every year. And what comes after that? Working nine to five every day, with work taken home as well, if the worker wants to excel and make something of himself, that he may rise higher and do more overtime. Sounds familiar? When does it end?

Perhaps never.

-JX

Labels: prose

Modern society is worrying.

It's so much easier, so much more cathartic to just give up and shut yourself out and rant about it outside its fortress of steel walls and glass domes. Many people do that. I know many people who do that.

They label themselves. "Freak". "Born loser". "Boliao". It's fashionable to label yourself, stigmatise yourself, discriminate against yourself. Heck, self-deprecation isn't the exception now, it's the norm. People swear at themselves like there's no tomorrow. They trip up for no apparent reason, because it's the in-thing. They look normal but no, no one's normal any more. Nothing is normal.

Not even ranting. Ranting nowadays is about a mass of angsty self-contradictory phrases thrown together like, I don't know, flour, sugar and eggs?

I'm ranting now. I should stop.

Labels: prose

The world is changing. The Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, the Golden Ages, all those are things of the past. We don't need no creative thought, no smart asses, no rebellious self-important bastards.

We don't need no fucked up brats in society. We need good, loyal, dependable workers. Stuff that comes out of schools nowadays just don't make the grade. Too much creativity and you get a bunch of artists, advertisers and anarchists. Society is more fast-paced than ever. Slow down and the guy behind you runs you over and keeps going. No time for rest or relaxation, and your recreation is going to come from working. The world is going to eat you. Rebel, and you are like the shipwrecked sailor screaming against the relentless ocean. You sail on the stormy seas, or smash yourself on the rocks. There are no safe harbours, and even the strongest ship sinks someday. Learn to love the lash of the whip, or walk the plank. Any sounds and thoughts are drowned out by the roar of the hungry sea and the beat of the drums: one-two, one-two, row, row, row.

The sharks are hungry, so keep rowing or feed them.
Your choice.

Labels: prose

you know what? it's okay, i don't care if you told me or not. questions, questions, all these questions, where/how/who are you areyouokay est-cequetum'aimes don'tyouknowiloveyouso

like the whirring of a shaver as it vibrates, or the death grunt of a bee, like radio static sshhiivveerriinngg sshhiivveerriinngg

IT WILL SHAKE YOU

answers answers written across your brow. Every faux angst leaves a line somewhere (between your eyes) (above your nose) (every time you frown). So obvious, so telling except

i don't recognise your face anymore. you're overdeveloped and underdeveloped, I detest you. however pretty you get, your heart will always be that rotting, miniscule lump of flesh beating to your whim and fancy [badup ba badup dup badup ba badup dup] the sound of crash collisions.

i met someone who said that the heart that beats for others is the happiest, and that makes all the difference, a complete stranger has the capacity to care. you're just all about yourself, number 2 for a year, superstar for an hour, yourself for a minute. you're trapped in your own little box of medals and badges, I label you Tin Man, the Faceless Being who Means Well.

get back here, i miss you so.

Labels: prose

See title. I don't think we're getting enough criticism, so if you have time, and you damn well should, try and at least say something about what the rest of us have posted. Especially if you haven't been posting.

cheers,
adam

Labels: other

Most writers predict mankind to be a nova - consuming itself in a blaze of jaded nihilism and fuck-the-world.

Most writers paint worlds that have been devastated and ruined by the pushing press of people, shitting and squatting in their own filth.

Most writers depict our future to be one where death's hounds roam the streets, whilst Death sits pretty in ivory towers of netcreds.

Most writers create hardass characters with claws for hands, bullets for words, and a tough cybernetic substitute for a personality.

Most writers..

Most writers...

Like me.

Labels: prose

They said that it was for the suicidal. They said you'd have to be crazy to play it - stark raving mad. They said (the ones who'd survived the trip, tapping their noses knowingly) that it was the greatest thrill a person could, right before you were dead. Crushed insect at the bottom of some metal canyon in an expanse of city, and nobody would glance twice. He was headed straight for it anyway, shake heads and move on. Nothing to see here.

It was all that. The socio-psychologists were having a field-decade, giving talks and writing articles about this hyper-counter-culture. Nihilism, they called it - super stars for a day, then wasted.

Bander was a nihilist. It wasn't obvious; he had eye-bags, below eyes greying slightly from the use of stims, black hair, spiked punk-style. He had a reinforced, two-millimeter steel plate beneath the skin of his forehead, and the bridge of his nose was entirely a chrome rod protruding from the bit of his face between his eyes. That wasn't it, and neither were the black leather jacket and jeans he sported. He stood loosely, but completely still.

The greying eyes peered downwards through the transparent window at Earth below. He'd seen some pictures in the museums about how it used to look: vast and green-blue, topped with an icing of swirling white clouds. No such luck this side of the millenium. The swirling currents looked closer to silver, on a backdrop of almost uniform grey.

Practiced of experience and sheer instinct to survive, the eyes swept the clouds, taking note of the movements. He knew the grey cloud-cover wasn't actually uniform; the silver currents pulled at the clouds, swirling them into incomprehensibly complex vortexes and eddies, pushed one way or another by incoming streams.
Humanity had given up the surface a century ago, battered by the endless sonic boom of a hundred million aircraft, personal craft, liners and military jets tearing across the sky at once.

Bander took stock once more, visualising the descent silently. In five minutes the adequacy of his preparation would be at the greatest stake.

Labels: prose

For those of you who appreciate satire, check out 'Yes Minister' and 'Yes Prime Minister' edited by jonathan lynn and anthony jay. While not really a work of high literature, certainly well worth a read just for the sheer hilariousness. Hilarity. Whatever.

adam

Labels: other

i got two cents once.
i didn't even ask for them.
someone just put them in my hand
and said, "there you go, sonny boy".

i looked at the coins.
two shiny pieces of metal
reflecting the sun into my eyes,
blinding me at times, when i wasn't careful.

so i put them into my pocket.
there, i knew i wouldn't lose them.
even though i was one of the forgetful ones
i savoured the feeling of them jangling in my pocket.

knowing that in a few days,
i would forget all about them.
lost in the wash, left on the table,
out of sight, out of mind, out of luck.

one day, i met someone.
and i thought he might need
those two cents more than me.
so i searched for the shiny coins.

i couldn't find them at all.
i looked in my pocket, my wallet
until i found one, pitted and tarnished.
it didn't reflect the sun as well anymore.
so i fished out my own cent
added it to the old one
and gave him two cents.

Labels: poetry

we're all waging a war against a hypothetical 'self', against verbose french-sounding labels, against the fantasy of a daydreaming mind. middle-class, altruistic, asian, ambitious, dry clean only. they want a smile, you want the world, simple conflict of interest. does orange have to rhyme with door-hinge, does it always have to be i ____ you, you ____ me? very soon you'll find that life is but an exercise in vocabulary.

i'll continue pretending i know what you're talking about, and you'll be there to balance the equation, like a witty-conscientious-responsible-diligent-godfearing-leader. testimonial? no thanks. i want to be remembered. till then, take a number. have a seat. have a cookie. multiply, divide, convert to euros and yen, and tabulate this thing called Love that you boast of. would you like some fries with that?

Labels: prose

"Why is the sky blue?"
A little girl once asked me.
Well, I didn't know the answer,
And I told her thus.

She held it for a moment, her little head in thought.
"But you must!", came her reply.
"You're a grownup. You know everything."
And I chuckled.

How could I bear to tell her
That I do not know what I know?
And so today a little girl
Still thinks it's painted blue.

Labels: poetry

so you think that you got it on? doors open, hair tied up, yellow brick road all the way? there's beauty in uncertainty, imperfection, complication. the world has no place for rigid bricklaying. we live in a whirlwind of colour and contour, just a passing cloud underneath the rainbow. follow your asymptotal life in your little shack, that's all you're gonna get.

alternatively

one could learn to open the windows and trade mildew for briny breeze. embrace distortion. new smiles, new handshakes. the delicious pain of a fresh puncture. brilliant exchange, the glisten of teeth. testing wet paint signs for yourself. the downfall of the powerful.

let the jazz take over. this is the real utopia.

Labels: prose

Morning

The humid dawn
oozed
like soft, half-baked clay,
through the hands of a
soft, half-assed sculptor.

It squeezed,
like spiders,
into every nook, cranny
and
hole.

-Terence.

fuck hot humid mornings.

Labels: poetry

http://hboff.bungie.org/viewtopic.php?p=26821
This is a contest to write something Halo-based, in 117 words. Thought I'd go for it.

1: Faith
++RECORDING RETRIEVED
++SGT A. JOHNSON, TIME: UNKNOWN
++AUDIO TRANSCRIPT BEGINNING

Faith!

To some of you, it is a mere word, to be uttered when a man pleases! To some of you, it is nothing more than something airy-fairy no sane soldier possesses! And to the rest of you who ain’t listening to me, you’d better pray that God loves you!

We fight the Covenant! We fight billions of alien bastards, with a few popguns and toy cars!

What keeps us fighting? We are real MEN of the UNSC! We will not let any obstacle put us down! We will not let a playground bully smash our noses into the sand! We have something in our hearts the Covenant and their Prophets can never hope to understand!

Faith!

2: Redeployment

Two plasma mortars whizzed by the Pelican’s nose as it swerved left, narrowly missing a tower which decided to join the party. Fate decided to toss a couple of Banshees into the bargain, which left the Pelican’s cargo extremely unhappy.
“HQ to Charlie 213, you read?”
“HQ to Charlie 213, redeploy twenty miles south-south-east of your position, over!”

“… WHAT?!”

Static cut off Sergeant Jiffy’s witty reply. Perhaps it was for the better, as south-south-east happened to be back the way they came, past the Banshees and Wraith emplacements, and a Scarab which just came into view.
“It’s your call, Sarge.”
“We’re going in. The worst we can do is falter. Earth needs us now, more than ever.”

Labels: prose

Easy to get lost in the night time; that feeling that settles in around nine thirty and won't let go, like an oversized mosquito that latches on, withdrawing your lifeblood, leaving you sleepy, anaemic. Dizzy.

Easy to let go with a yawn, falling into the heap of songs and lyrics and la la la; it seems like a good idea at the time. You've maybe (an inkling might suggest) had a bit too much of this fluff for the previous decade; but for the moment (and I stress, for the moment) everything is smiling and hazy, floating awkward-like in a bathing-pool of temporary memories.

After that I'll go splash some cold water on my face, remind myself not to think about the silly stuff, and go to sleep. Good night.


- adam

Labels: prose

crap i can't post this yet. does anybody know how to make sure blogger doesn't automatically delete any white spaces to the left of your text? it's screwing me up.

adam

p.s. tell you what, just msn me and i'll send you a txt file if you're interested in reading it. it IS a poem, so feel free to flame away.

Labels: other

Hey all, here's a list of more stuff we could have in the blog.

1. Tagboard. Whats a forum without a quick method to give comments?
2. Regularaly updated list of writing competitions that we can submit to.
3. Perhaps we want to think about peer scoring and rubrics and stuff? Or just free floating comments?
4. Links to each individual's blogs if they have them and other writing-connected sites.

You think?

-xXx

Labels: admin

Still laughing? Good.
1. Please identify yourself if you post, so we can all direct comments to you in real life if we so choose. Providing your email is up to you.

2. Anything goes, but please try and avoid anything that will screw the rest of the bloggers over. Such as: defamatory stuff. Personal attacks. Pornography.

3. Be very, very, very, very careful about poetry. In all likelihood you will be flamed until you have no self-esteem left. And then I'll flame you some more, until i'm satisfied. And I might still flame you on weekends when I'm bored. However, if you feel that you're good you shouldn't hold back.

4. This isn't a feel-good blog. If you don't like having your writing criticised, don't come here because I am very set on all of us doing just that. And you are expected to give honest criticism too. The aim of this blog is to help people improve on writing, so: no personal attacks, and please, please be constructive.

5. Members are not forced to write anything, but you are heavily encouraged to post regularly, especially if you DO write regularly. If you have any good reason for not posting regularly, you could email/msn me just so I know.

That's all for now. Again, if interested please contact me.

Labels: admin

Hi. Welcome to writer's blog (haha.)
(really. Haha. it's a pun.)

This is a blog for people who like to write (or try to) so we can have a place to post stuff, get feedback, have discussions, and flame each other viciously.

If you'd like to become a member, please contact Adam

-adam

Labels: admin