Happy Halloween,
Where thrills and terror are the theme!
Where even the tough become rather meek
at the sight of ghost and ghouls a plenty
and sugar filled palms will never be empty!
Come and share your killer of a thriller
where the dead walk again
and spiders hang from every pillar!
As you walk delight in the squeals
as they are tonight's appeal.
And though just a dream, it could all be so real!
So Happy Halloween is the cry of the night
as ghosts, ghouls, and goblins grin in delight!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Irresistible
You know, one thing that annoys me about these blogs is that you can't copy/paste anything in here (as far as I know. I'm a bit of a noob, so if I haven't figured it out yet, enlighten me.)
Anyway, remember that writing prompt, to write about cookies? I fixed that up a little and submitted it to my deviantart account. I'll just post a link because I'm to lazy to rewrite it here, haha.
http://lexical-phobia.deviantart.com/#/d31s3ye
Anyway, remember that writing prompt, to write about cookies? I fixed that up a little and submitted it to my deviantart account. I'll just post a link because I'm to lazy to rewrite it here, haha.
http://lexical-phobia.deviantart.com/#/d31s3ye
So, my dad grows giant pumpkins every year. They're usually pretty decent in size. This year, the frost killed all but one of his plants, so he only got one pumpkin, and it's not as large as they usually turn out.
But! My boyfriend and I have decided that we're going to blow it up! :D In the history of my dad's giant pumpkins, this has never occurred before, so I'm really looking forward to the experience!
And my dad is all for it! :)
But! My boyfriend and I have decided that we're going to blow it up! :D In the history of my dad's giant pumpkins, this has never occurred before, so I'm really looking forward to the experience!
And my dad is all for it! :)
Write in another language?
Just wondering, does anyone ever write their stories or poetry in another language? I used to write mines strictly in russian, cause I could use more heightened language, but now I'm forced to learn to write in Enlish :)))
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Fire and Ice
Words burn inside of my weak, weary lungs.
My cold, steel lips keep them trapped below.
It is because of you,
the way you smile,
the way you speak
that ignites the fire within me,
but my frozen exterior holds it all back.
The flames heating my blood,
boiling it as my strained heart
pumps the molten fluid through my veins.
A dirty mixture of steam and sweat
burst from my pores,
filling my nostrils with the smell
of my own charred flesh,
clouding my mind
with thoughts of you.
My fingers break
with each letter I write.
My words becoming as twisted
as the crumpled appendages,
that I once called my hands.
My written words are only a facade,
a pathetic attempt at conversation.
You'll never truly know my words,
unless you turn me inside out,
but my body has no zipper,
no buttons or clasps,
and my steel exterior,
impossible to tear.
For now, I shall remain,
with fire in my lungs,
and ice in my skin.
I am the first and last example
of spontaneous combustion,
but you'll never see it,
you will never know.
To you I am nothing more,
than a cold, quiet body,
keeping a proximity to you,
ever so safe, ever so far.
Straining to break the bonds,
that will hold me back for a lifetime.
My cold, steel lips keep them trapped below.
It is because of you,
the way you smile,
the way you speak
that ignites the fire within me,
but my frozen exterior holds it all back.
The flames heating my blood,
boiling it as my strained heart
pumps the molten fluid through my veins.
A dirty mixture of steam and sweat
burst from my pores,
filling my nostrils with the smell
of my own charred flesh,
clouding my mind
with thoughts of you.
My fingers break
with each letter I write.
My words becoming as twisted
as the crumpled appendages,
that I once called my hands.
My written words are only a facade,
a pathetic attempt at conversation.
You'll never truly know my words,
unless you turn me inside out,
but my body has no zipper,
no buttons or clasps,
and my steel exterior,
impossible to tear.
For now, I shall remain,
with fire in my lungs,
and ice in my skin.
I am the first and last example
of spontaneous combustion,
but you'll never see it,
you will never know.
To you I am nothing more,
than a cold, quiet body,
keeping a proximity to you,
ever so safe, ever so far.
Straining to break the bonds,
that will hold me back for a lifetime.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
10/27/10
Smudges,
from the time I pressed my nose to my window
looking at the world outside of me.
Paint,
from the time I decided to use it, and failed at best.
Dust,
from all the times I neglected to clean.
Stains,
from everyday of spilling of coffee on everything possible.
Scars,
from the time I broke my heart and it never quite healed.
from the time I pressed my nose to my window
looking at the world outside of me.
Paint,
from the time I decided to use it, and failed at best.
Dust,
from all the times I neglected to clean.
Stains,
from everyday of spilling of coffee on everything possible.
Scars,
from the time I broke my heart and it never quite healed.
Cloudy Days
I think there's a beauty in cloudy days rarely noticed. True, on a sunny day the sky is blue as water and the sun shines bright as a candle, but clouds havea different sort of beauty. They're paint strokes on a canvas that stretches into infinity. Every shape unique, and constantly shifting into something new. A painting always reinventing itself and never showing the same scene twice.
And on those really gray, drizzly days - look up. See that gray isn't just gray. There's white in there, and charcoal. Deep navy blue, and even the color of steel and iron, all swirled together.
And without cloudy days, we'd never see the setting sun's light splashing against the sky, lighting it up with red and purple and violet. So, yes, I think cloudy days are very beautiful.
And on those really gray, drizzly days - look up. See that gray isn't just gray. There's white in there, and charcoal. Deep navy blue, and even the color of steel and iron, all swirled together.
And without cloudy days, we'd never see the setting sun's light splashing against the sky, lighting it up with red and purple and violet. So, yes, I think cloudy days are very beautiful.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Fish Are Waiting
Early rising,
Dark outside,
Fish are waiting,
Time to drive.
To the river,
Off we go,
Fish are waiting,
Cold and slow.
Get the boat in,
Hit the gas,
Fish are waiting,
Hurry, fast!
Kill the engine,
Poles are set,
Fish are waiting,
Grab the net!
Got one tugging,
One my line,
Took my bait,
And now...
He's mine!
Dark outside,
Fish are waiting,
Time to drive.
To the river,
Off we go,
Fish are waiting,
Cold and slow.
Get the boat in,
Hit the gas,
Fish are waiting,
Hurry, fast!
Kill the engine,
Poles are set,
Fish are waiting,
Grab the net!
Got one tugging,
One my line,
Took my bait,
And now...
He's mine!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Nonlinearity
Anyone who's read or watched my works may eventually come to the conclusion that I'm a fan of non-linear narrative.
They'd be correct!
Now that I've noticed this trend, something I seem to keep doing, I have two choices: Stop doing it and work on something else, because it's obvious I like it too much for it to be healthy, or take it to such a great extreme that it actually works.
I'm not sure which of these to do yet, because as nonlinear as my most recent poem was, it wasn't nearly as nonlinear as it could have been.
However, I suppose my main purpose here is to discuss nonlinear stories that I've seen, and perhaps focus on them a bit.
The first I want to put the spotlight on is the film Memento, directed by Christopher Nolan. It's a film that starts at the ending and moves backwards, scene by scene.
Warning, though, beyond here are spoilers!
Beyond the conceit of the protagonist's anterograde amnesia, and the way that each scene is the scene directly before the scene you just saw, giving you the same sense of disorientation that the protagonist feels, there's another section of the film, a subplot that moves forward in time.
These two subplots eventually meet, at the end of the film. In other words, the end of the film is its middle. There's the climax, the most important scene of the film. The rest fools you into thinking the ending is the most important, but it's not. It's the middle where the real ending lies, the lynchpin of the entire story which everything revolves around.
It's a great cinematic device. However, the way the film is made, focusing almost entirely on the backwards narrative gimmick (and it is a gimmick) this particular conclusion is somewhat overshadowed. No, I don't mean it's not memorable, for it is, but the usage of the middle of a story as its true conclusion is overshadowed nevertheless.
Perhaps I just like that idea, of every scene in the film leading not towards the end but towards the middle. Memento doesn't lead there the way I mean, honestly. It gets there, and becomes a great twist, but the "earlier" sections are too thin and too minor -a subplot, really- to make the ending as central as it could be. I think an ending in the true middle of a story would make a fascinating solution.
Next story: The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya.
This one is a television series that is shown completely out of order. This occurs to the extent that in the first season, the first true story arc is shown interspersed with a number of various standalone events that happened later, and those aren't shown in their order either! Taking the second season into the chronological account (and you should, for the events of the second season take place between episodes of the first season!) you get, for the first season, an episode order of something like episodes number 25 (which is a student film the protagonists make, which makes no sense in and of itself but which is rife with foreshadowing and hints as to what the series is really about... and which is directed by the titular character, who does a very poor job of it), 1, 2, 7, 3, 10, 9, 11, 28, (the final episode chronologically!) 4, 27, 26, 5, and concluding with episode 6, which acts as the climax both to the first story arc and to the entire first season, revealing both the true severity of the situation as well as answering certain dangling questions and fears you may have had throughout the series.
The second season is not, however, shown on its own. Instead, what the creators did was air all the episodes in chronological order... including the entire second season, mixed into the first season in their proper chronological order.
So, you get the "first" episode of the second season, episode 8 chronologically, as episode 8 of the "new" season. They continue on with episodes 12-19 (which are in fact eight repetitions of the same episode with both minor differences, nearly the same script, and completely new animation, as the characters are stuck in a groundhog's day loop) and on through episodes 20-24, which is its own story arc and in fact explains the making of the student film which is shown as the first episode of the first season, and then continues on with the original episodes in chronological order.
There's also a movie, which shows the third major story-arc of the series. It's helpful to realize that this series is based on a series of 10 novels, the events in which are told in a different nonlinear order.
Partly thanks to the fact that the show's creators knew what was coming next, throughout the story events are alluded to in the first season that haven't been seen yet, references such as outfits or objects the characters possess in later chronological episodes being acquired in the second season. One example is a ridiculously conspicuous frog suit the characters have, that isn't acquired until an episode of the second season. As such, the final episode, which is, like, the ninth episode shown, acts as the capstone for both seasons, filled with nostalgia for them both. Which is weird.
Oh, I'm purposefully not spoiling anything for the show. You have to watch it for yourself, but be warned! The show is weirder than it lets on at first. But which order would I recommend the viewer watch it in...? Well, now that the second season is out, I have no clue! I'd honestly say watch the first season first, in original broadcast order, and then watch the second season in its normal order. Then, second time through, watch it all again in chronological order. Then watch the movie, which actually does take place after the series.
Honestly, the way the series is shown doesn't really need to be nonlinear. But the way that it is done is interesting to watch in its own right. Either way works, so the story isn't truly centered on its non-linearity. Ultimately, it isn't so much a gimmick as a practical joke. But the series is good enough to withstand it, no doubt!
Another example of non-linearity is in Pulp Fiction, by Quentin Tarantino. I doubt I need to explain much about that one!
For novels using this sort of approach, take Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Catch-22, and various other books. Perhaps I'm running out of steam. Maybe I'll continue detailing the ways various stories use their non-linearity later, but I'll get to my actual point:
Non-linearity needs to have a purpose to it. It has to reveal or show something that a straightforward telling of the story wouldn't. Perhaps the events mean more shown in a different order. Or perhaps the goal is to illustrate a point. Regardless, like everything else written down, it needs a reason.
Or maybe it can be done because it's just fun!
They'd be correct!
Now that I've noticed this trend, something I seem to keep doing, I have two choices: Stop doing it and work on something else, because it's obvious I like it too much for it to be healthy, or take it to such a great extreme that it actually works.
I'm not sure which of these to do yet, because as nonlinear as my most recent poem was, it wasn't nearly as nonlinear as it could have been.
However, I suppose my main purpose here is to discuss nonlinear stories that I've seen, and perhaps focus on them a bit.
The first I want to put the spotlight on is the film Memento, directed by Christopher Nolan. It's a film that starts at the ending and moves backwards, scene by scene.
Warning, though, beyond here are spoilers!
Beyond the conceit of the protagonist's anterograde amnesia, and the way that each scene is the scene directly before the scene you just saw, giving you the same sense of disorientation that the protagonist feels, there's another section of the film, a subplot that moves forward in time.
These two subplots eventually meet, at the end of the film. In other words, the end of the film is its middle. There's the climax, the most important scene of the film. The rest fools you into thinking the ending is the most important, but it's not. It's the middle where the real ending lies, the lynchpin of the entire story which everything revolves around.
It's a great cinematic device. However, the way the film is made, focusing almost entirely on the backwards narrative gimmick (and it is a gimmick) this particular conclusion is somewhat overshadowed. No, I don't mean it's not memorable, for it is, but the usage of the middle of a story as its true conclusion is overshadowed nevertheless.
Perhaps I just like that idea, of every scene in the film leading not towards the end but towards the middle. Memento doesn't lead there the way I mean, honestly. It gets there, and becomes a great twist, but the "earlier" sections are too thin and too minor -a subplot, really- to make the ending as central as it could be. I think an ending in the true middle of a story would make a fascinating solution.
Next story: The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya.
This one is a television series that is shown completely out of order. This occurs to the extent that in the first season, the first true story arc is shown interspersed with a number of various standalone events that happened later, and those aren't shown in their order either! Taking the second season into the chronological account (and you should, for the events of the second season take place between episodes of the first season!) you get, for the first season, an episode order of something like episodes number 25 (which is a student film the protagonists make, which makes no sense in and of itself but which is rife with foreshadowing and hints as to what the series is really about... and which is directed by the titular character, who does a very poor job of it), 1, 2, 7, 3, 10, 9, 11, 28, (the final episode chronologically!) 4, 27, 26, 5, and concluding with episode 6, which acts as the climax both to the first story arc and to the entire first season, revealing both the true severity of the situation as well as answering certain dangling questions and fears you may have had throughout the series.
The second season is not, however, shown on its own. Instead, what the creators did was air all the episodes in chronological order... including the entire second season, mixed into the first season in their proper chronological order.
So, you get the "first" episode of the second season, episode 8 chronologically, as episode 8 of the "new" season. They continue on with episodes 12-19 (which are in fact eight repetitions of the same episode with both minor differences, nearly the same script, and completely new animation, as the characters are stuck in a groundhog's day loop) and on through episodes 20-24, which is its own story arc and in fact explains the making of the student film which is shown as the first episode of the first season, and then continues on with the original episodes in chronological order.
There's also a movie, which shows the third major story-arc of the series. It's helpful to realize that this series is based on a series of 10 novels, the events in which are told in a different nonlinear order.
Partly thanks to the fact that the show's creators knew what was coming next, throughout the story events are alluded to in the first season that haven't been seen yet, references such as outfits or objects the characters possess in later chronological episodes being acquired in the second season. One example is a ridiculously conspicuous frog suit the characters have, that isn't acquired until an episode of the second season. As such, the final episode, which is, like, the ninth episode shown, acts as the capstone for both seasons, filled with nostalgia for them both. Which is weird.
Oh, I'm purposefully not spoiling anything for the show. You have to watch it for yourself, but be warned! The show is weirder than it lets on at first. But which order would I recommend the viewer watch it in...? Well, now that the second season is out, I have no clue! I'd honestly say watch the first season first, in original broadcast order, and then watch the second season in its normal order. Then, second time through, watch it all again in chronological order. Then watch the movie, which actually does take place after the series.
Honestly, the way the series is shown doesn't really need to be nonlinear. But the way that it is done is interesting to watch in its own right. Either way works, so the story isn't truly centered on its non-linearity. Ultimately, it isn't so much a gimmick as a practical joke. But the series is good enough to withstand it, no doubt!
Another example of non-linearity is in Pulp Fiction, by Quentin Tarantino. I doubt I need to explain much about that one!
For novels using this sort of approach, take Slaughterhouse Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Catch-22, and various other books. Perhaps I'm running out of steam. Maybe I'll continue detailing the ways various stories use their non-linearity later, but I'll get to my actual point:
Non-linearity needs to have a purpose to it. It has to reveal or show something that a straightforward telling of the story wouldn't. Perhaps the events mean more shown in a different order. Or perhaps the goal is to illustrate a point. Regardless, like everything else written down, it needs a reason.
Or maybe it can be done because it's just fun!
Lady Marlboro
I love to hold her paper thing gingers
and watch the fire play across her red hair.
Her kiss slips past my lips, and lingers,
drip to my lungs, and she smiles,
pretty face bare.
I have her every morning and every night
and pass her among my friends.
Her slither sends sin, seduced by godly light.
She's a cowboy killer, a means to ends.
I lover dearly,
my lady lust.
She kills me, nearly.
A daily must.
Her pardon and embrace ignite.
No matter how I leave her,
droppped on the curb,
rubbed in the grass,
she'll gladly take me back.
My loyal, lady love.
and watch the fire play across her red hair.
Her kiss slips past my lips, and lingers,
drip to my lungs, and she smiles,
pretty face bare.
I have her every morning and every night
and pass her among my friends.
Her slither sends sin, seduced by godly light.
She's a cowboy killer, a means to ends.
I lover dearly,
my lady lust.
She kills me, nearly.
A daily must.
Her pardon and embrace ignite.
No matter how I leave her,
droppped on the curb,
rubbed in the grass,
she'll gladly take me back.
My loyal, lady love.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Siaocl Ernxenpmit
Tihs is a siaocl ernxenpmit. Nhtonig gundorrbkniaeg or peoitc, but arelady you may nocite taht you can raed erhtinvyg on tihs pgae. Taht's baucese the biarn lkoos at eevry prat of a wrod, so as lnog as the frsit and lsat ltetres are rhigt you can all raed tihs pcltrefey. Nveer too ltae to laren sinmohteg new! Jsut out of cioustiry, paesle rpnosed tohse who psosses the aliitby to ttaasnlre my cveler ltitle rdilde.
Joacb Wlseey Peolwl
Joacb Wlseey Peolwl
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
My first attempt at Lyricism
Ok, so here goes, I know its not the best, but Ive been listening to a lot of hip hop and rap, and figured id give it a shot to the beat i was hearing at the time. Bear with me :-)
These raps I hear
Flow like tides through my ear
The ebb and the flow
With the highs and the low
They glide to and fro
As the stories they show
Help the picture unfold
The lyrical maker
spreads songs on the paper
he makes with his words
the ideas absurd
but his passion is one
that cant be undone
and the beat is the throb
to the hip hop mob
You listen and nod
it turns into a bob
and your body a-sway
as your hear starts to pray
Looking up to the sky
your soul starts to fly
feelin so high
that ya might hafta cry
The tears as they run
down cheeks in the sun
They hit smilin lips
above a chin that tips
way up to the sku
to greet with smiles
the guy
oh way up high
and thank with a sigh
for all that is nigh
Cheesy and overly poetic i think, but i kinda like it.
Thanks for readin it
These raps I hear
Flow like tides through my ear
The ebb and the flow
With the highs and the low
They glide to and fro
As the stories they show
Help the picture unfold
The lyrical maker
spreads songs on the paper
he makes with his words
the ideas absurd
but his passion is one
that cant be undone
and the beat is the throb
to the hip hop mob
You listen and nod
it turns into a bob
and your body a-sway
as your hear starts to pray
Looking up to the sky
your soul starts to fly
feelin so high
that ya might hafta cry
The tears as they run
down cheeks in the sun
They hit smilin lips
above a chin that tips
way up to the sku
to greet with smiles
the guy
oh way up high
and thank with a sigh
for all that is nigh
Cheesy and overly poetic i think, but i kinda like it.
Thanks for readin it
Turtle's Struggle
At the bottom
of a hill,
there is a small
turtle.
The turtle hides
in her shell
and peeks out
slowly.
Her muscles shake, the legs
come out.
"What a steep hill,"
she thinks,
"but I can
handle it."
She takes a step
forward and
retreats.
She stays inside
for a long time.
It's dark
in the shell,
and the sun beckons,
so she peeks out
again.
Muscles still shaking,
she takes a few
more steps.
It seems easier
somehow.
But her feet slip
on the gravel
and she tumbles.
Head aching, she
looks back
up the hill.
"Was the top always
that far away?"
The heart breaks
as she hides inside
a glass shell.
Yet there are voices
that sound like
cheers
somewhere in the distance.
Kind words
leak in
and the turtle
musters a little more
courage.
"One more time."
She slowly
lifts her head
up, and takes a
small step.
~~~
a little clarification
footnote
1. an explanatory or documenting note or comment at the bottom of a page, referring to a specific part of the text on the page.
2. a minor or tangential comment or event added or subordinated to a main statement or more important event.
"Authors may use a footnote to provide comments or extra information. Using a footnote allows authors to talk about matters ... without detracting from the primary focus of the text."
The footnote should not have detracted from the actual content of the poem at all. I only meant to ask for specific constructive criticism. Any unnecessary information was an error on my part. I took a risk of making myself vulnerable. It's a mistake that I am going to have to learn from. It's a lesson I'm going to have to deal with. It's an experience that I hope will make me stronger.
I am a writer. And these words that you read are my heart. What you see here are the fragments of my identity as I am crawling on my knees attempting to find that small light at the end of a long uphill tunnel.
You, who understand who you are. You, who are at peace with yourself. You, who can stand on your own. You, who do not falter. You don't know how much I admire you.
And for you, with your kind words and encouragement. I just want to say thank you.
of a hill,
there is a small
turtle.
The turtle hides
in her shell
and peeks out
slowly.
Her muscles shake, the legs
come out.
"What a steep hill,"
she thinks,
"but I can
handle it."
She takes a step
forward and
retreats.
She stays inside
for a long time.
It's dark
in the shell,
and the sun beckons,
so she peeks out
again.
Muscles still shaking,
she takes a few
more steps.
It seems easier
somehow.
But her feet slip
on the gravel
and she tumbles.
Head aching, she
looks back
up the hill.
"Was the top always
that far away?"
The heart breaks
as she hides inside
a glass shell.
Yet there are voices
that sound like
cheers
somewhere in the distance.
Kind words
leak in
and the turtle
musters a little more
courage.
"One more time."
She slowly
lifts her head
up, and takes a
small step.
~~~
a little clarification
footnote
1. an explanatory or documenting note or comment at the bottom of a page, referring to a specific part of the text on the page.
2. a minor or tangential comment or event added or subordinated to a main statement or more important event.
"Authors may use a footnote to provide comments or extra information. Using a footnote allows authors to talk about matters ... without detracting from the primary focus of the text."
The footnote should not have detracted from the actual content of the poem at all. I only meant to ask for specific constructive criticism. Any unnecessary information was an error on my part. I took a risk of making myself vulnerable. It's a mistake that I am going to have to learn from. It's a lesson I'm going to have to deal with. It's an experience that I hope will make me stronger.
I am a writer. And these words that you read are my heart. What you see here are the fragments of my identity as I am crawling on my knees attempting to find that small light at the end of a long uphill tunnel.
You, who understand who you are. You, who are at peace with yourself. You, who can stand on your own. You, who do not falter. You don't know how much I admire you.
And for you, with your kind words and encouragement. I just want to say thank you.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Who i am!
who i am
i am who i am why would i want to change that...
i love me just the way i am...
and if u dont like me then hey honestly u just lost a really good friend...
i dont change for no one but myself...
and right now im comforable with who i am so i guess all the changes i made are done...!
Monday, October 18, 2010
Friday, October 15, 2010
10/15/10
Just a fun poem I wrote about how frustrating rules can be sometimes. Ironically it kind of rhymes. Hope you like it.
Some, spend hours on one line
bending it to perfection.
And all I do with mine,
is bring it to my satisfaction.
The best is written in a rush,
with no moment of hesitation.
I'd rather never analyze,
if it fits - someone's expectation.
No foreconceit, no meter, rhyming,
no scheme, no preparation.
I only do what I desire,
the rest- lets leave unmentioned.
(it's up to your interpetation)
Some, spend hours on one line
bending it to perfection.
And all I do with mine,
is bring it to my satisfaction.
The best is written in a rush,
with no moment of hesitation.
I'd rather never analyze,
if it fits - someone's expectation.
No foreconceit, no meter, rhyming,
no scheme, no preparation.
I only do what I desire,
the rest- lets leave unmentioned.
(it's up to your interpetation)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
this again?
I cannot escape my past
It just keeps coming back
It's just another test
I suppose I'll do my best
It just keeps coming back
It's just another test
I suppose I'll do my best
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Beware of Crows
Crows are not among my favorite animals. I thought I'd write a piece of prose relating my opinion of them:
Today, I'd like to tell you about the most dangerous, the most fiendish, the most abominable of all creatures on Earth. I speak of crows, of course. Horrible beasts with mocking, croaking cries. Always watching us with their beady little eyes, plotting humanity's destruction. Hearts as black as pitch, minds as sharp as razors.
Beware of crows! Beware of their guile and their malice! Beware of their relentless plot to overthrow humanity! They perch on their roosts, hatching the downfall of mankind. They freely feed on the food we carelessly leave for them to sustain themselves with. They torment us with their maddening cries whenever we have the "audacity" to invade their territory. They watch in amusement as we go about our business, little suspecting the diabolical plans they have in store for us.
Sinister beasts, are crows. Sadistic, evil, bestial fiends. Beware of crows! Beware! Beware! BEWARE!!!
Today, I'd like to tell you about the most dangerous, the most fiendish, the most abominable of all creatures on Earth. I speak of crows, of course. Horrible beasts with mocking, croaking cries. Always watching us with their beady little eyes, plotting humanity's destruction. Hearts as black as pitch, minds as sharp as razors.
Beware of crows! Beware of their guile and their malice! Beware of their relentless plot to overthrow humanity! They perch on their roosts, hatching the downfall of mankind. They freely feed on the food we carelessly leave for them to sustain themselves with. They torment us with their maddening cries whenever we have the "audacity" to invade their territory. They watch in amusement as we go about our business, little suspecting the diabolical plans they have in store for us.
Sinister beasts, are crows. Sadistic, evil, bestial fiends. Beware of crows! Beware! Beware! BEWARE!!!
Monday, October 11, 2010
5 Questions
Who is He?
What have they done to Him?
Where is His majesty?
When did they forget?
Why has His name become an exclamation point?
What have they done to Him?
Where is His majesty?
When did they forget?
Why has His name become an exclamation point?
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Snow Fortress
The Snow Fortress
I went into the snow
to write a little verse
gain some inspiration
from the oh so frosty ... ?
purse?
nurse?
curse?
hearse?
ah screw it
from the oh so frosty earth
that didn't rhyme as well
but good enough right?
...
It was far too cold for writing. It had stopped snowing but had grown far colder. There is a certain fulfilled warmness you feel when the air is filled with falling flakes. But an absence creates an abhorent vacuum that sucks the warmth out of a man.
I had sat down in a drift to write but the damp biting in my toes distracted the mind from such literary seekings. Instead I started to pack and shovel snow to distract myself from the pain. Soon a fort began to take shape.
My footly digits completely forgotten, I worked until my fort was waist high. Finally sitting down inside it exhausted I reflected on past events and intntions. On how they had morphed and changed to create this end.
I thought on this for a while and came to this conclusion: When you've got a fort made entirely out of snow you don't really need inspired poetry or toes. You write prose.
Green Dot kind of Night 10/10/10
Tonight I learned an awful lot
About what it means to be a Green Dot
The stuff that is left unsaid truth’s untold
The things the Go Green brochure should add in bold
I will tell you a story it is unfortunately true
It highlights the stuff that can happen to you
It will show you a place I never was shown
College parties at their worst- a nightmare I had previously not known
A girl enters this place where there is plenty of beer
The lights are dim there’s so much alcohol here
She takes a beer and chugs it down in haste
4 more later she forgets how much she hates the taste
She is stumbling now and here vision is hazy
She sees her best friend and wants to try something crazy
Then she and some guys decide to make out hard core
In walks the Green Dot – to stop this madness before
Damn! Too late as judgments and cruelty pass behind her back
While at her expense dumb, crude jokes they crack
A camera pulled out records this sight
Of a girl gone wild, on this wild night
As she ruins the image she tried to once create
These stupid guys, with her try to fornicate
She is so gone unaware of her own name
If this carries on her night will end in shame
New guy approaches Green Dot thinks “oh shit”
He is an old friend I know and this assbag won’t quit
So Green Dot interferes and to Drunk Girl’s dismay
Makes assbag "ex friend man" angry and takes her away
My once friend screams “you stupid C*** bitch!”
I fucking hate your guts – what the hell fucking witch?
He is pissed that I am here to make sure this girl is safe
Sorry assbag that I stopped you from getting to second base!
To all those girls or guys- who go the extra mile
Making all parties fun, safe and worthwhile
As shit goes down in college party style
Though you occasionally end up in social exile;
My message to you is simply be there
Where others know you’re around cuz you care
And in regards to being a Green Dot,
It is far better I find to be Green than not.
About what it means to be a Green Dot
The stuff that is left unsaid truth’s untold
The things the Go Green brochure should add in bold
I will tell you a story it is unfortunately true
It highlights the stuff that can happen to you
It will show you a place I never was shown
College parties at their worst- a nightmare I had previously not known
A girl enters this place where there is plenty of beer
The lights are dim there’s so much alcohol here
She takes a beer and chugs it down in haste
4 more later she forgets how much she hates the taste
She is stumbling now and here vision is hazy
She sees her best friend and wants to try something crazy
Then she and some guys decide to make out hard core
In walks the Green Dot – to stop this madness before
Damn! Too late as judgments and cruelty pass behind her back
While at her expense dumb, crude jokes they crack
A camera pulled out records this sight
Of a girl gone wild, on this wild night
As she ruins the image she tried to once create
These stupid guys, with her try to fornicate
She is so gone unaware of her own name
If this carries on her night will end in shame
New guy approaches Green Dot thinks “oh shit”
He is an old friend I know and this assbag won’t quit
So Green Dot interferes and to Drunk Girl’s dismay
Makes assbag "ex friend man" angry and takes her away
My once friend screams “you stupid C*** bitch!”
I fucking hate your guts – what the hell fucking witch?
He is pissed that I am here to make sure this girl is safe
Sorry assbag that I stopped you from getting to second base!
To all those girls or guys- who go the extra mile
Making all parties fun, safe and worthwhile
As shit goes down in college party style
Though you occasionally end up in social exile;
My message to you is simply be there
Where others know you’re around cuz you care
And in regards to being a Green Dot,
It is far better I find to be Green than not.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Belated Hockey Game- An Ode to Thee
I arrived here at the Roost anticipating gross high calorie food
I had just been told I dont have to work so I am in a great mood.
I walk in with my friend Morgan and to our surprise
the ice had upon it some hot Hockey playin guys!!! (WOOT!)
We ordered up some food and ate it in haste
with the exception of the ice cream- Mango Pinapple in taste.
We proceeded to the rink and to our dismay
the ice had been cleared-translation- Hot boys have gone away!
We sat in seats on the left, three rows down
and immeadiately Morgan's face made a frown.
"What the crap is that smell?" she wondered disgusted
Our Eastern Eagles we once loved and trusted
Wreaking anal havoc in the room where players prepare
have disturbed our well being whilst befouling the air
Lip balm in hand we inhale and we wait
for the next game which should start soon-God forbid they start late!
To our despair an hour later we sit un entertained
my facebook account open while Morgan sat pained
Hark! I hear a noise, my Lord, could it be?
A game finally about to start- it that a referee?
Heck yes- about time hot guys enter the ice
I love Fridays and hot males so this is nice.
I had just been told I dont have to work so I am in a great mood.
I walk in with my friend Morgan and to our surprise
the ice had upon it some hot Hockey playin guys!!! (WOOT!)
We ordered up some food and ate it in haste
with the exception of the ice cream- Mango Pinapple in taste.
We proceeded to the rink and to our dismay
the ice had been cleared-translation- Hot boys have gone away!
We sat in seats on the left, three rows down
and immeadiately Morgan's face made a frown.
"What the crap is that smell?" she wondered disgusted
Our Eastern Eagles we once loved and trusted
Wreaking anal havoc in the room where players prepare
have disturbed our well being whilst befouling the air
Lip balm in hand we inhale and we wait
for the next game which should start soon-God forbid they start late!
To our despair an hour later we sit un entertained
my facebook account open while Morgan sat pained
Hark! I hear a noise, my Lord, could it be?
A game finally about to start- it that a referee?
Heck yes- about time hot guys enter the ice
I love Fridays and hot males so this is nice.
Birthday
Okay so... Today is the birthday of three of my characters. (Yes, I give birthdays to most if not all of my characters. I can't help it.) They're triplets! I decided I should write a story about one of them, since I love writing about him. Towards the end, I changed the POV to another character because...I wasn't sure how to end it.
---
The haze of sleep slowly fades away, leaving a dull throbbing pounding right between my eyes. The rhythm of rain threatens to lull me back to my dreams, but I get up anyway, groaning, waving my arm around aimlessly until I find my thick rimmed glasses. I squint behind them and stare at the wet window beside me, that dull gray glow of rainy days lighting up my room.
"Fitting," I mumble, something resembling a smile forming on my lips. My body jerks as my Blackberry suddenly starts playing Fury Sparks. "Hello?" I cautiously answer, my voice at least an octave higher than it should be.
"Hey, Frey." Ah. Mike. "Are you busy today?"
I pause a moment before replying, "Not really. Why?"
"Wanna come over? We were thinking of continuing our game."
"Sure, that's fine."
"Great. See you in a while."
"Okay."
I lay in bed for a while longer before getting up to get dressed. As I fix my tie, I hear a knock on my door.
"Frey?"
I open it, Loki standing there trying to smile. "Oh, you're going out?"
"Yeah, to a friend's house."
"Will you be home tonight?"
"I'm not sure." He runs a hand through his blonde hair and rocks back and forth on his heels as he watches me grab my keys. He watches after me as I walk past him, opening his mouth to say something but the words die out. I walk down the large hallways, small chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, large bouquets of roses in fancy vases gathering dust. I tune out the maids who stop as I pass them, the butler who says the same thing every year on this day, Sven in the living room cell phone in hand sweet talking his latest victim. His mouth is curled into a suave smile but his eyes dart at me nervously as I pass him by.
The rain lets up a bit as I begin driving, eventually stopping when I reach Mike's house. There's a light on on the second floor where his room is. Reaching the doorway, I linger back a little with my finger hovering over the doorbell.
The door opens just a crack. I take a step back as that head full of red hair appears from behind the door.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
Mike's head disappears and the door swings open, a bucket full of white and blue confetti flittering down from above.
"Happy birthday, Frey!"
~~~
He stood there with his eyes and mouth wide open as Liam and Josh dragged him inside, confetti making a mess everywhere. In the kitchen, Frey visibly jerked when he saw the cake Liam made and his mouth drew taut, his eyebrows knit.
"H-how did you know?" he asked quietly, a tremor to his voice.
"Loki told Chester," I replied. His glasses seemed to fog up a little and a tear streaked his cheek, followed by another and another.
"Frey," Liam said, hovering over him, "what's wrong?"
Removing his glasses, Frey wiped his eyes with his free hand as we gathered around him. He looked up at each of us, giving a faint smile, his eyes so clear and blue.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
---
The haze of sleep slowly fades away, leaving a dull throbbing pounding right between my eyes. The rhythm of rain threatens to lull me back to my dreams, but I get up anyway, groaning, waving my arm around aimlessly until I find my thick rimmed glasses. I squint behind them and stare at the wet window beside me, that dull gray glow of rainy days lighting up my room.
"Fitting," I mumble, something resembling a smile forming on my lips. My body jerks as my Blackberry suddenly starts playing Fury Sparks. "Hello?" I cautiously answer, my voice at least an octave higher than it should be.
"Hey, Frey." Ah. Mike. "Are you busy today?"
I pause a moment before replying, "Not really. Why?"
"Wanna come over? We were thinking of continuing our game."
"Sure, that's fine."
"Great. See you in a while."
"Okay."
I lay in bed for a while longer before getting up to get dressed. As I fix my tie, I hear a knock on my door.
"Frey?"
I open it, Loki standing there trying to smile. "Oh, you're going out?"
"Yeah, to a friend's house."
"Will you be home tonight?"
"I'm not sure." He runs a hand through his blonde hair and rocks back and forth on his heels as he watches me grab my keys. He watches after me as I walk past him, opening his mouth to say something but the words die out. I walk down the large hallways, small chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, large bouquets of roses in fancy vases gathering dust. I tune out the maids who stop as I pass them, the butler who says the same thing every year on this day, Sven in the living room cell phone in hand sweet talking his latest victim. His mouth is curled into a suave smile but his eyes dart at me nervously as I pass him by.
The rain lets up a bit as I begin driving, eventually stopping when I reach Mike's house. There's a light on on the second floor where his room is. Reaching the doorway, I linger back a little with my finger hovering over the doorbell.
The door opens just a crack. I take a step back as that head full of red hair appears from behind the door.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
Mike's head disappears and the door swings open, a bucket full of white and blue confetti flittering down from above.
"Happy birthday, Frey!"
~~~
He stood there with his eyes and mouth wide open as Liam and Josh dragged him inside, confetti making a mess everywhere. In the kitchen, Frey visibly jerked when he saw the cake Liam made and his mouth drew taut, his eyebrows knit.
"H-how did you know?" he asked quietly, a tremor to his voice.
"Loki told Chester," I replied. His glasses seemed to fog up a little and a tear streaked his cheek, followed by another and another.
"Frey," Liam said, hovering over him, "what's wrong?"
Removing his glasses, Frey wiped his eyes with his free hand as we gathered around him. He looked up at each of us, giving a faint smile, his eyes so clear and blue.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Walking From Class
So I was walking back from class today and I started composing a poem in my head that I really liked. I didn't get a chance to write it down, but I remember parts of it... and it's times like these that I wish I had something that could record the creative thoughts in my head. Especially for when I dream, because all my best ideas for stories come from dreams. And it makes me wonder, if I had something that could capture what was going on in my head, how much more detail from whatever I was imagining could I incorporate into my writing? I lose all sorts of bits of interesting information at work because I have no place to write it down, and it's so frustrating. But at the same time, I think a device that could record your thoughts like that would be a bad idea.
Please tell me I'm not the only one that thinks about this kind of thing?
Please tell me I'm not the only one that thinks about this kind of thing?
muuuusica!
florence and the machines is ridiculously amazing....you should check this lady out:) her voice is amazing!
A dissection of my very being
I know it may seem like the egotistical thing to do, but I got the urge to convey onto you, and whoever else it my concern as to who I am and why I feel I am that person. Best part about it all is if anyone should take offense to any of this, I'd hope its me and only me. Unless by some sheer dumb luck (which I wouldn't sell myself short of) these words describe to a T the persona of someone else, who may or may not enjoy the bluntness I have of myself.
Where to start? Well I suppose this is a creative writing blog, and well, I'm a creative writing major, it's what I do best out of the few things I figure I can do well, and being brutally honest is riding right behind. I can never pinpoint what inspired me to write, but my best idea is the fact that I can get my words out, without actually speaking them. I seldom speak aloud to people I'm not fully comfortable with, and confronting someone new in the efforts of wanting to become friendly is about as rare as an uncooked steak. Not to classify myself as a closed book, because to some people I'm in essence an open book with a limitless amount of pages all flipping at once, quite frankly, I never shut up and only about one-third of what I say holds any relevancy to anything. That being said I don't keep the door shut, barring outsiders away from who I am, but I sure as hell won't walk out and open that door for you. I just like to keep it unlocked and let you do the legwork. Selfish you might think, but then you have to realize it's more about comfort zone, and when it comes to breaking that comfort zone, I'll gladly keep my feet on the ground, thank you very much.
It's been said millions of times by millions of people "I lead a very dull life" and for them, sure it's probably true, or maybe their being just humble. I'm about 20 miles short of humble, I just won't let you know that unless I think it's needed to be said. What do I do all day that makes me dull? Glad you asked! During the school year I wake up, I shower, shave and walk to class. Maybe I'll get some homework done in between classes, or walk home for a quick lunch, but its not like I have a tendency to make plans for something exciting. When I get home from class, I'll make a snack or just a plain glass of water and sit down at my computer. Yes, I'm aware 99% of Americans do the same, but Facebook aside I spend my time with the limitless and near pointless satisfaction of video games, while one could dive into the difference of video and computer games, I hardly care enough on that subject to begin explaining that sometimes I'm playing a video game and the other times a computer game, it's all the same to me. So in essence I spend my time slaying the theoretical, pixelated dragons that have somehow managed to consume my life (although I suppose they did so through the use of exploiting my somewhat anti-social tendencies, go figure). No, I don't wish dragons were real, ever, and no, I don't want to be that knight in shining armor, because quite frankly I have the courage of our dear cowardly lion from "Alice in Wonderland" except I'm not about to find my courage anywhere.
I wouldn't exactly classify this as self-loathing, for I don't hate what I have become at all, I want to make that clear. I guess you could say that I've just accepted what life has thrown at me and I have managed to make it some sort of working collaboration of self. I could make more general un-fun and uncreative cliches about who I am, I mean I'm pretty sure I wear my heart on my sleeve, but then again who doesn't, really? I'm beginning to think that this is more of a piece written for me than about me, as it brings upon that self realization, and if I can't realize and embrace who I am, than what does one do? The dullness of my life I suppose is an interpretation of how I see what I do, but you know what? I wouldn't trade who I am for all the "joy" and "happiness" that I'm theoretically missing out on, for lets just face it, I'm quite content with who I am.
I could have been imaginative and write a poem that compacted all of who I am into a rhyme scheme that could be misread and give off the wrong tone, or hell, even a story, but I'll be honest, I hate dialogue, I hate writing it and I hate reading it, so if you ever see me use dialogue excessively, or correctly at that matter, you might as well bake a cake and celebrate because I doubt it'll happen often. About reading dialogue, I just don't read in general, call me crazy but I feel that if I spend my time reading and studying the works of others than I feel my own writing loses every sense of self I put into it, and using devices that others use kills the originality for me, not saying I'll never end up using similar devices as someone, but at least I can know in my mind that is was by random chance that it's there.
I suppose I'll end this wall of text, because instead of making my after school snack, I sat down to write this, and well my desire for food has finally outweighed my desire to add more to this already wall of text. Enjoy the insight, take it for what it's worth.
Where to start? Well I suppose this is a creative writing blog, and well, I'm a creative writing major, it's what I do best out of the few things I figure I can do well, and being brutally honest is riding right behind. I can never pinpoint what inspired me to write, but my best idea is the fact that I can get my words out, without actually speaking them. I seldom speak aloud to people I'm not fully comfortable with, and confronting someone new in the efforts of wanting to become friendly is about as rare as an uncooked steak. Not to classify myself as a closed book, because to some people I'm in essence an open book with a limitless amount of pages all flipping at once, quite frankly, I never shut up and only about one-third of what I say holds any relevancy to anything. That being said I don't keep the door shut, barring outsiders away from who I am, but I sure as hell won't walk out and open that door for you. I just like to keep it unlocked and let you do the legwork. Selfish you might think, but then you have to realize it's more about comfort zone, and when it comes to breaking that comfort zone, I'll gladly keep my feet on the ground, thank you very much.
It's been said millions of times by millions of people "I lead a very dull life" and for them, sure it's probably true, or maybe their being just humble. I'm about 20 miles short of humble, I just won't let you know that unless I think it's needed to be said. What do I do all day that makes me dull? Glad you asked! During the school year I wake up, I shower, shave and walk to class. Maybe I'll get some homework done in between classes, or walk home for a quick lunch, but its not like I have a tendency to make plans for something exciting. When I get home from class, I'll make a snack or just a plain glass of water and sit down at my computer. Yes, I'm aware 99% of Americans do the same, but Facebook aside I spend my time with the limitless and near pointless satisfaction of video games, while one could dive into the difference of video and computer games, I hardly care enough on that subject to begin explaining that sometimes I'm playing a video game and the other times a computer game, it's all the same to me. So in essence I spend my time slaying the theoretical, pixelated dragons that have somehow managed to consume my life (although I suppose they did so through the use of exploiting my somewhat anti-social tendencies, go figure). No, I don't wish dragons were real, ever, and no, I don't want to be that knight in shining armor, because quite frankly I have the courage of our dear cowardly lion from "Alice in Wonderland" except I'm not about to find my courage anywhere.
I wouldn't exactly classify this as self-loathing, for I don't hate what I have become at all, I want to make that clear. I guess you could say that I've just accepted what life has thrown at me and I have managed to make it some sort of working collaboration of self. I could make more general un-fun and uncreative cliches about who I am, I mean I'm pretty sure I wear my heart on my sleeve, but then again who doesn't, really? I'm beginning to think that this is more of a piece written for me than about me, as it brings upon that self realization, and if I can't realize and embrace who I am, than what does one do? The dullness of my life I suppose is an interpretation of how I see what I do, but you know what? I wouldn't trade who I am for all the "joy" and "happiness" that I'm theoretically missing out on, for lets just face it, I'm quite content with who I am.
I could have been imaginative and write a poem that compacted all of who I am into a rhyme scheme that could be misread and give off the wrong tone, or hell, even a story, but I'll be honest, I hate dialogue, I hate writing it and I hate reading it, so if you ever see me use dialogue excessively, or correctly at that matter, you might as well bake a cake and celebrate because I doubt it'll happen often. About reading dialogue, I just don't read in general, call me crazy but I feel that if I spend my time reading and studying the works of others than I feel my own writing loses every sense of self I put into it, and using devices that others use kills the originality for me, not saying I'll never end up using similar devices as someone, but at least I can know in my mind that is was by random chance that it's there.
I suppose I'll end this wall of text, because instead of making my after school snack, I sat down to write this, and well my desire for food has finally outweighed my desire to add more to this already wall of text. Enjoy the insight, take it for what it's worth.
It's People! It's People!
Just as a side note. Don't type this on your iPod like I did... I ended up losing my original post of this. Thank you, this has been a public service announcement.
So, after discovering that my first two hour class was canceled, I have time to take you to a place of wonder and excitement or just a funny description of a few things of events from last Tuesday.
-Chris
Being outside again wasn't much of a break after being in the cyber cafe or dungeon as it's known by its inhabitants, myself included. Some of us referred to it as the bunker, seeing as no signal seems to get punched in or out through the concrete and mash up of music and slayed gamers. What awaited me on the stairs of the PUB, was a gathering of souls waiting for the ride home.
Being outside didn't do anything for me as some people stared at me, not understanding that I didn't have to push my way forward and instead choose to exercise the virtue of patience. Some of the people were patient as myself, though not warranting any stares, others talkative and using the gift of gab, while others still stood impatiently, tapping their feet and looking cross.
As all happiness was being sucked out of the moment a glimmer of hope shown through. One of our comrades of creativity was passing by and after a brief reassurance that the bus ahead wasn't the only one ahead that would return back into town, a few funny, possibly even witty remarks came to mind. As the bus door opened, the learning souls ahead of us rushed forth into the breach and I mustered as much sarcasm as it required to make the following remark:
"Look at it. I think I see fins. It's like sardines being stuffed into a can." Needless to say, a description of what that looks like isn't completely necessary. Though once I started, I couldn't stop the flow of ideas coming to my brain, and our creative comrade was there to enjoy my silly comments.
"It's turning into an over sized clown car." The description was perfect, seeing as there wasn't an end in sight to the amount of people who were getting onto the bus, but I was more than set with the sardine image in my mind. Then a more than fitting line came to me, but I only said it loud enough for our ally of pen to hear me, and possibly those around us as well.
"It's people! It's people! You have to tell them, Soilant Green is people!" Needless to say, if you know where this line came from it's kinda funny... in a weird way. This was the beginning of a good end to the day and conversation with the another member of our creative writing league as I shall so call us.
So, after discovering that my first two hour class was canceled, I have time to take you to a place of wonder and excitement or just a funny description of a few things of events from last Tuesday.
-Chris
Being outside again wasn't much of a break after being in the cyber cafe or dungeon as it's known by its inhabitants, myself included. Some of us referred to it as the bunker, seeing as no signal seems to get punched in or out through the concrete and mash up of music and slayed gamers. What awaited me on the stairs of the PUB, was a gathering of souls waiting for the ride home.
Being outside didn't do anything for me as some people stared at me, not understanding that I didn't have to push my way forward and instead choose to exercise the virtue of patience. Some of the people were patient as myself, though not warranting any stares, others talkative and using the gift of gab, while others still stood impatiently, tapping their feet and looking cross.
As all happiness was being sucked out of the moment a glimmer of hope shown through. One of our comrades of creativity was passing by and after a brief reassurance that the bus ahead wasn't the only one ahead that would return back into town, a few funny, possibly even witty remarks came to mind. As the bus door opened, the learning souls ahead of us rushed forth into the breach and I mustered as much sarcasm as it required to make the following remark:
"Look at it. I think I see fins. It's like sardines being stuffed into a can." Needless to say, a description of what that looks like isn't completely necessary. Though once I started, I couldn't stop the flow of ideas coming to my brain, and our creative comrade was there to enjoy my silly comments.
"It's turning into an over sized clown car." The description was perfect, seeing as there wasn't an end in sight to the amount of people who were getting onto the bus, but I was more than set with the sardine image in my mind. Then a more than fitting line came to me, but I only said it loud enough for our ally of pen to hear me, and possibly those around us as well.
"It's people! It's people! You have to tell them, Soilant Green is people!" Needless to say, if you know where this line came from it's kinda funny... in a weird way. This was the beginning of a good end to the day and conversation with the another member of our creative writing league as I shall so call us.
WAR
I always wondered why they called it war. I thought to myself,"Perhaps it's an acronym" So i figured out what i think it stands for....then i wrote a poem/rhyme/song to it. Brief but grim i guess
We Are Right!
All before us are wrong
Respect our power,
our glory,
our might,
For tomorrow your world will be gone.
The variation i like is Fear instead of respect. The only reason for that being that fear seems to be the predominate tool when trying to conquer a people rather than respect.
-Aj
We Are Right!
All before us are wrong
Respect our power,
our glory,
our might,
For tomorrow your world will be gone.
The variation i like is Fear instead of respect. The only reason for that being that fear seems to be the predominate tool when trying to conquer a people rather than respect.
-Aj
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I Left My Heart In California
Cheney is such a beautiful place, and Washington is great
But a part of me, will always be
A Cali girl at heart.
I'm glad I'm gone, that I'm not there
My dreams are big, grander than that small place
I want to live, to see the world
And California is only a tiny scrap of it.
I'm determined to see the world, to experience life
But in the end, wherever I am
I'll always be
A Cali girl at heart.
But a part of me, will always be
A Cali girl at heart.
I'm glad I'm gone, that I'm not there
My dreams are big, grander than that small place
I want to live, to see the world
And California is only a tiny scrap of it.
I'm determined to see the world, to experience life
But in the end, wherever I am
I'll always be
A Cali girl at heart.
Just Rambling
Alright this is annoying!
I've been craving time to roleplay. I had ideas for setting and a somewhat plot and all this stupid stuff and I just seem to be missing any real inspiration to actually write this whole thing out. After going over my notes I came to the conclusion it would most likely suck and not last long, but then again they never do...
Blah okay, done rambling.
I've been craving time to roleplay. I had ideas for setting and a somewhat plot and all this stupid stuff and I just seem to be missing any real inspiration to actually write this whole thing out. After going over my notes I came to the conclusion it would most likely suck and not last long, but then again they never do...
Blah okay, done rambling.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
An Inspirational Walk Home
Not sure where it came from, but the first four lines popped into my head while I was walking home today, so i decided to put it to paper and see what I came up with when I got home.
An Unseen Cry
If only you knew,
by looking in those eyes.
The despair they contain,
from hope and longing.
They have but one desire,
that deus ex machina
you call your love,
and the hope it brings.
But you couldn't tell.
You sat and stared,
those eyes telling the story,
a deafening cry.
The cry falls short,
never reaching your eyes
as you look right through.
If only you knew.
college kids
So I hardly have anything in my fridge and I was starving this morning! I put some cottage cheese in a bowl and added some salsa for zest, it looks disgusting but it's not so bad...maybe even a little healthy, i'm not sure haha but hey i have to eat.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Observation of a Water Drop
A tree branch quavers in the wind. Pebble-shaped droplets gather along the dipping curve of a leaf, rolling merrily toward its tip. They merge into a larger pebble and roll over the leaf’s edge. The drop clings to the surface above it. A tiny thread of water stretches between it and the leaf.
The thread breaks.
The drop tumbles through the air, jiggling slightly as kinetic force arcs through its body. Sunlight curves off its surface, creating the faintest hint of a rainbow. A thousand images pass through the drop: the trunk of the tree, the branches above it, a man walking his Dalmatian, a girl speeding past on roller skates, a bee flitting below the drop, a bird humming above.
The drop strikes the puddle beneath it, exploding outwards into a dozen shattered pieces. The water gathers inwards and rises up, ejecting a single perfect sphere. It becomes a perfect dotted “i”. The liquid tower collapses and the sphere vanishes. The remnants of ripples bounce off the puddle’s boundaries and fade away.
The thread breaks.
The drop tumbles through the air, jiggling slightly as kinetic force arcs through its body. Sunlight curves off its surface, creating the faintest hint of a rainbow. A thousand images pass through the drop: the trunk of the tree, the branches above it, a man walking his Dalmatian, a girl speeding past on roller skates, a bee flitting below the drop, a bird humming above.
The drop strikes the puddle beneath it, exploding outwards into a dozen shattered pieces. The water gathers inwards and rises up, ejecting a single perfect sphere. It becomes a perfect dotted “i”. The liquid tower collapses and the sphere vanishes. The remnants of ripples bounce off the puddle’s boundaries and fade away.
Peace of Destuction
Hey, all! This is Chris and I'm just doing a slightly random post from my iPod, I hope it's not too bad.
The ground trembled.
"That couldn't have been another one!" As if in response to his statement a ball of flame crashed through the ceiling, showering glass and splintered wood everywhere. The fire seemed to explode coating everything it touched.
"Sir, we just lost another one. No shoot or beacon," the radio operator reported.
"Have we lost contact with everyone inside the building?"
"No sir! But it seems we can only contact the civilans and two of the remaining troopers who were the guard!"
The radio crackled. The fact that the flame engulfed electronics made a sound was a miracle but the miracle meant nothing if nobody was on the other end.
"Did you here that Jonesie? What the hell was that?" He looked out the window and he didn't like what he saw.
The ground trembled.
"That couldn't have been another one!" As if in response to his statement a ball of flame crashed through the ceiling, showering glass and splintered wood everywhere. The fire seemed to explode coating everything it touched.
"Sir, we just lost another one. No shoot or beacon," the radio operator reported.
"Have we lost contact with everyone inside the building?"
"No sir! But it seems we can only contact the civilans and two of the remaining troopers who were the guard!"
The radio crackled. The fact that the flame engulfed electronics made a sound was a miracle but the miracle meant nothing if nobody was on the other end.
"Did you here that Jonesie? What the hell was that?" He looked out the window and he didn't like what he saw.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
A Cup On Your Head
What to do with a cup on your head
You could choose to balance it just so
Walking quite steady or rocking instead
Tip it to one side by leaning to and fro
Fill it up with rain, if it were to rain soon
Ward off the sun from baking your brain
Use it to send signals up to the moon
Or capture echoes off of a moving train
It could be a reflector giving out light
The best kind of hat on a windy day
A place to store stuff just out of sight
The horn of a unicorn in a quaint play
Oh how silly, we will look to everyone
Perhaps cause to not wear a cup at all
But then, what is a life, if not part of fun
Besides who’d question all of that gall
Friday, October 1, 2010
A start, an end, an indecision.
It was a dark, starless night and the last hint of light was slowly leaving as the moon tucked itself in behind the violet clouds. The entire landscape turned to black. Across the wide, vast, black terrain the silhouette of a small cliff thrust outward from the inexplicably flat ground.
On top of the cliff, the outline of what looked to be a man slowly formed in the night. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but through the rigid shadowing of his frame one could sense he wasn't a weak man either. A glint from his hip catches the last trickle of moonlight before it vanishes, so bright that it seemed to reflect out across the surrounding area, signaling to anyone in that barren wasteland that they were not alone.
A small dirt road led up the back of the lone cliff and off in the distance the sound of truck tires were conversing with the dust and stones littering the road as a small pickup truck navigated its way through the darkness with nothing but dim headlights looking out ahead.
The man on the cliff turns, but one could barely tell that a movement even occurred in the jet black night, as the truck struggles its way up the back road its dim headlights catch first the face of the man. He is a rugged man, nicks and scars litter his face like a minefield displaying his past in a dormant yet violent interpretation.
The truck pulls up and comes to a slow stop, and without word the man slowly makes his way to the vehicle, walking with a gait that insisted heavy wear and pain in his left knee. As he moved to the passenger side of the truck, the dull lights catch the outline of a small heap on the ground next to where the man was standing and the light reflects back from a pooling of dark liquid on the ground, but its still to dark to tell what the shadowy mound is.
A quiet click resounds out over the silent grumbling of the engine across the vast expanse as the man turns to the driver and nods. Without saying a word, the driver turns the truck around and just as he had carefully navigated the way up, he went down. As the lights crossed the heap for the last time, a glint reflected back in the same way light would reflect from sunglasses staring into the sun. It was at this very moment that the man and his driver realized what they were getting into, and the repercussions that would follow them across the dark night and into the hazy dawn that awaited them just over horizon.
On top of the cliff, the outline of what looked to be a man slowly formed in the night. He wasn't a particularly tall man, but through the rigid shadowing of his frame one could sense he wasn't a weak man either. A glint from his hip catches the last trickle of moonlight before it vanishes, so bright that it seemed to reflect out across the surrounding area, signaling to anyone in that barren wasteland that they were not alone.
A small dirt road led up the back of the lone cliff and off in the distance the sound of truck tires were conversing with the dust and stones littering the road as a small pickup truck navigated its way through the darkness with nothing but dim headlights looking out ahead.
The man on the cliff turns, but one could barely tell that a movement even occurred in the jet black night, as the truck struggles its way up the back road its dim headlights catch first the face of the man. He is a rugged man, nicks and scars litter his face like a minefield displaying his past in a dormant yet violent interpretation.
The truck pulls up and comes to a slow stop, and without word the man slowly makes his way to the vehicle, walking with a gait that insisted heavy wear and pain in his left knee. As he moved to the passenger side of the truck, the dull lights catch the outline of a small heap on the ground next to where the man was standing and the light reflects back from a pooling of dark liquid on the ground, but its still to dark to tell what the shadowy mound is.
A quiet click resounds out over the silent grumbling of the engine across the vast expanse as the man turns to the driver and nods. Without saying a word, the driver turns the truck around and just as he had carefully navigated the way up, he went down. As the lights crossed the heap for the last time, a glint reflected back in the same way light would reflect from sunglasses staring into the sun. It was at this very moment that the man and his driver realized what they were getting into, and the repercussions that would follow them across the dark night and into the hazy dawn that awaited them just over horizon.
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