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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 5, 2009 19:57:54 GMT
That's some good stuff jadeface! Is it just me l did they all have a sort common themes of sewing, fabrics and hands? Maybe i'm tottaly wrong but i thought it worth asking, hehe. I've written a bit of prose myself but it's too long and wearisome for this forum, hehe.
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Post by jadeface on Feb 5, 2009 20:24:02 GMT
Yeah I guess they do I'm really interested in fabrics and stuff recently - I haven't actually DONE any of it though, so I guess that's why my writing makes a lot of references. I've sort of been 'stuck' for a while and restricted with my University work etc - although fingers cross I get a place on a course in London, I have an interview in two weeks. Excited and scared . Oh post it or post a preview
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 5, 2009 20:51:10 GMT
Hope it goes well for you! Well, ok, i guess i can post some previews of pieces SnapsI see... the smooth, polished marble surface ahead of me split in an indistinct way by the transparent disruption of my, already somewhat poor, vision. The split moves as i do, as though relative to me in some way, some unplaceable yet powerfully affecting phenomenon splitting the marble at different stages along its length. My eyes are confused by the effect, trying to focus on the single object of the marble bench while still unconsciously convinced by the smoothly broken glass that it is looking at two distinct objects. This gives a sort of double vision, resulting in two splits and further confusing matters This is a little piece i'm still to finish with 5 paragraphs each based around one of the major senses.The Secret Life Of…This is the story of a man. It is also the story of a bus, a pickle, some mayonnaise and a few personalities that would put the cast of “Shameless” to, well, shame. But mostly it’s the story of a man. It was the “Year of Our Lord” 1982 and the smell of revolution was in the air. A random tornado tore through central Basingstoke, killing 53 people and doing over £60,000 worth of damage. The sale of bananas dropped to an all time low, forcing thousands of Chiquita employees out of work. International chalk shortages forced primary school teachers to use the ground down teeth of their pupils as a substitute. Margaret Thatcher survived yet another year in office. I’m not entirely sure if any of these things actually happened , in fact I’m almost certain none of them did, but they might have and you’d be hard pressed to find anyone who could definitely prove this one way or the other. In the midst of this, possibly but probably not the most exciting Summer in British history, a man who was innocently undertaking the, usually simple, task of getting on the bus and was finding it to be considerably more complicated than expected. It is here that our story begins in earnest. We join our “hero” as he regales an enraptured audience with his tales of adventure and derring-do. “…Suffice to say that my intentions when embarking upon such an expedition were entirely noble, though I must confess a certain amount of trepidation at the prospect of so little in the way of compensation despite the abject adversity I would undoubtedly be obligated to overcome. And so it was with a heavy heart that I -” “So, where did you want to go again mate?” “Oh, umm… Edinburgh.” “That’ll be £28 please.” And so it was with a heavy heart that our hero paid his bus fare and set off on his noble and righteous quest. However, it was not long before the adversity he had spoken of reared its ugly head. “Oi, what the hell are these?” “Your payment sir. Now don’t spend it all in one shop.” “But these are stamps! What am I supposed to do with these?” “Oh, you may keep the change, my good man. Get yourself something nice.” And so it was with an even heavier heart, as well as some persuasive insistence from the driver, that the bus fare is paid for with actual money. After some 20 minutes have passed our man finally settles on a seat at the back of the bus, sitting, with all the finely tuned survival instincts of a lemming who just can’t wait to see what’s at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, next to the only passenger with a swastika tattooed on his shaven head and muscles like a row of basketballs glued together. “Awroight, mate?” asked a voice that suggested that, should things prove otherwise, it would quite happily take it’s next drink of British Tea from a mug with eye sockets. Now it just so happens that our man’s new friend was returning home from a successful BNP fund-raising bake sale so was in something of a good mood. However, this was soon to evaporate in the face of this determined lemming as he pelted towards the canyon, sans parachute. “Excuse me, sorry to be a most terrible fuss but I believe that your phrasing when inquiring as to my well-being was most unorthodox.” There followed a moment of stunned silence of the sort that begs to be filled by any sound loud enough to drown out the inevitable continuation of our mans speech. Alas, as is the decreed fate of any who would use words like “unorthodox” in everyday speech, it was not to be. “Also, and I beg you stop me if you think me the most awful cad for saying so, but this term “mate” puzzles me somewhat. It would appear that it is an indication of your desire to engage in an act of copulation with me, but, flattered as I am by your proposal, I’m afraid I must decline.” Smiling that smile of the guilelessly innocent as it watches it’s painful doom fast approaching, he watched with apparent fascination as the man-mountain opened his mouth with all the speed and gravity of the formation of a mountain range. “Oh dear, you could certainly use some bridge work there, my good fellow. Here, let me recommend an excellent orthodontist who can sort that out for you.” The human troll, who had been in the process of raising a massive, fleshy boulder that would, upon closer inspection, have proven to be a fist, froze mid-manoeuvre. After some rummaging around in a seemingly endless number of pockets, our man finally settled on a small handful of cardboard business cards of varying shapes and designs, or least variations on the shape and design of rectangular cardboard. He looked back up, proudly flourishing one of the cards, smelling curiously of mint and mayonnaise, and proceeded to tuck it in between the knuckles of the ogres still raised fist. “He’s most excellent, I assure you, quite the gentleman with ones pearly whites.” There is an unwritten universal law which states that all hard men, no matter how strong or utterly nuts they may be, are always, without exception, morbidly terrified of their “dear old mum”. It just so happens, by one of those exceptional twists of fate that prove beyond any doubt that God does have a sense of humour, that the particular hard man in question had a mother who was a retired dental hygienist. As a stickler for good old fashioned dental care, she regularly chastised her three sons Ronnie, Dave and Sylvia (She’d had her heart set on Sylvia and, 30 years on, no-one, least of all the long suffering Sylvia, had yet plucked up the courage to say anything) with that old mantra of the perpetually neurotic “Cleanliness (of teeth) is next to Godliness (of teeth)”. My attempt at comedy Prayers Of SolacePrelude The comforting smell of smouldering censers, the dim light cast by wall mounted candles onto dark stoned, pseudo-Gothic architecture, the endless echoing drone of daily hymns and prayer. All so familiar and, in their own singular way, quite beautiful. Only a monastery could ever be home to such a uniquely delicate atmosphere, one of faith so strong so as to have gone quite beyond the supposed passion of the “fire brand preacher” and become a matter of course, a doctrine by which to live ones everyday life. These are people who do nothing, not sleep, eat or even think without first consulting their Almighty, believing so fully in His wisdom that they would do nothing short of take their own lives at His behest. I would defy any atheist not to crumble when faced with this level devotion, being people who would not risk their lives even for a concept they know, and can easily prove, to be true. The air is thick with peace of mind and spiritual devotion, an almost tangible haze soothing the souls of all who breath it. However, this testament to the divine, as with all such things, would not have existed, nor could it continue to exist, without its dark foundations. It is here, in the Abbey of St. Francis, that can be found the darkest foundations in Christendom. Foundations built from the very bread and wine of its most devoted followers. It is here that the “prayers of solace” have not stopped since they began 500 years ago. This will serve as my confession before the Lord God. I live now only in the hope that it will serve as a warning to others who have the power to end this nightmare and, perhaps, absolve me of some small measure of the sins I have allowed to be committed in His name and my own. Though some sins, I fear, may well be unforgivable. I am as far beyond hope, now, as I fear I may be of redemption. It will be my last act as a brother of the Abbey of St. Francis to ensure that the sacrifices of those who have given their lives in the name of True Divine Justice do not go in vain. There are those here who have given themselves whole-heartedly over to the ways of darkness and evil, committing their atrocities in the name of God Himself. This is something I will not, can not, allow. I will send them to the judgement of the Merciful Lord and they shall answer for their actions in the courts of Heaven. Now I gladly condemn my own soul to torture and eternal absolution so that no longer will the pure and innocent be permitted to suffer. Goodbye, my brothers, I shall meet thee again in the fires of Hell itself. The prelude to a novel with about 2 chapters fully complete so far
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Post by jadeface on Feb 5, 2009 21:00:36 GMT
Hahaha 'The secret life of' kept making me laugh so it obviously works the ways you describe people is what makes it funny 'smelling curiously of mint an mayonnaise'! I really like all of it though! It's cool that all three you've posted are actually really different to each other. It's very descriptive and I like that. I'd love to write a book, but I wrote more short bursts - I know I am capable of writing something longer but I'm not sure it's 'me'? At least not yet! I want to hand make books though with all my writing in, paint and sew and decorate it all into themes etc. So maybe i'll do that first and see if that takes me anywhere.
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 6, 2009 14:44:14 GMT
Thanks , gald you like them. Writing anything longer than a short story is very difficult, it's taken me ages to get as much done as i have on some of these. I like your idea though, it sounds as they it could work quite nicely
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Post by jay on Feb 6, 2009 14:57:27 GMT
i have so much crap on my laptop that i've started and never finished. snippets of fiction that i want to continue but i'm so full of 'meh' that i can't be bothered any more. i also long to write short stories about my two most favourite fictional characters ever, ghost and steve from the poppy z. brite books. swoon. i wrote a couple of little things about them but they suck, hard, so have something i wrote called 'agnus dei' that is also crap but not AS crap.
agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi dona nobis pacem
no mass is ever held in latin, anymore. at least, not in brooklyn, new york. you always maintained that it's crooklyn, and you've been here so long that you've rubbed into the walls and the sidewalks and people can taste you in the air. it doesn't matter that you weren't born here. hardly anyone is a brooklyn native, anymore. you never had faith. never had faith in anything, least of all yourself. you were two people; a little person inside of a bigger person shell. you prided yourself on the fact that no one ever knew the little person. it was fucked up. fucked up. your dreams were fucked up and brooklyn became crooklyn; that dirty rotten place where everyone runs back into the dark like cockroaches whenever something bright and beautiful comes toward them.
and then something called 'long way to go'...
you don't know, but you figure it's similar to how your coffee looks in the morning when you add cream. just as off-white runs down the back of your spoon and hits the black; it's that colour. caramel. or maybe it's something like the sugar bowl, filled with tiny grains of demerara. that's it. maybe it's that soft mocha colour, with gold shimmering somewhere in the depths, that you only see when you're studiously not looking. maybe love doesn't have a colour, maybe you're just infatuated with the contrast of the milkwhite of your skin against the tan of another's.
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Post by jadeface on Feb 6, 2009 19:16:07 GMT
I really like both of those! Don't say it's crap I think they're both nice ideas and I really like the descriptions in the last one, I could really imagine all the colours and textures made my mouth water a little. Tasty.
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 7, 2009 18:38:44 GMT
Those are great jay! The second one is really evocative, your description of the colours and contrasts between them is just so... mmmmm... y'know? Hehe, can't even think of the right word to describe but it's good. Also, i really like the unusual narrative perspective you took for both of them, it's very effective. Do you often write like that?
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Post by jay on Feb 8, 2009 22:07:29 GMT
yeah, mostly i write in 2nd person... i don't know why.. i just find it easier. as well as writing in the present tense, i guess. i have a very long thing (unfinished, of course!) that i wrote a while back in 2nd person, present tense... it's probably too long to post here.
eta: i pressed reply and i'd forgotten to say thank you. sooo thank you!! xx
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 9, 2009 0:59:47 GMT
;D If you think it's too long for the thread, PM it to me. I'll definitely appreciate if your work shown here is anything to go by.
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Post by jay on Feb 9, 2009 1:51:28 GMT
actually fuck it. this is a writing thread. it can handle some length. er, that sounded dirty somehow. the characters are called a and b because i don't know what to name them, and besides... in this universe, i doubt anyone is important enough for names anyway.
it's the little things that get to a. like when he rests his head on his pillow at night and tries not to listen, tries to block out all of his senses, threads of memories still slip through the cracks of his consciousness. he remembers reading -- reading! what a luxury now, what he wouldn't give to read a good book now and wasn't it so fucking frustrating that he'd taken books for granted before now, now that he couldn't read them at all. he remembers reading about the sense of smell, the olfactory system. supposedly smell was the strongest of the senses; one that was linked most strongly with memory and emotion. yeah, that sounds about right. little things slip through, like the scent of lavender on his pillowcase. he doesn't even know how it got on there -- who has lavender in a situation as fucked up as this? or maybe, just maybe, the situation is fucked up because of the lavender. the chicken before the egg, or something like that.
it's the soft cloying scent of the lavender that weaves its way through him when he rests his head on his pillow at night and tries to build the wall again. it sticks to the back of his throat and it chokes him with sweet lilac fingers and it's a constant reminder of how things were different. how he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, and not have to answer to anyone. lavender conjures the image of bathwater in a ceramic tub, sat in the middle of a room. the FUCKING fdfghjkKITCHEn, maybe. he can't remember too much of the situation. he can remember the water pooling around his ankles, his knees drawn up to his chin and torrents of the stuff running through his hair and over his shoulders, again and again. he's smaller in this memory, so much smaller, perhaps a child. and there's singing. teamed with the scent of the lavender thick in his nostrils, it's nothing short of painful. a woman's voice; weary yet beautiful, louder than the swissssh of the water but quieter than the noises outside in his reality. he desperately wants to listen. he strains to hear the words, but they never come. it's just a melody, twisted and distant. he sleeps, then, tears catching in the smudge of his lashes before they get a chance to track down his cheeks, the word 'mother' never leaving his lips as more than a whisper.
---
"i dreamt of her last night, you know," he says to nobody in particular. the sunlight makes him squint his eyes smaller, so he can hardly see. the hat he's wearing does absolutely nothing in the way of shade, but it does keep his hair from sticking to his forehead, and he's thankful for that. he sucks in a breath, sharp in the otherwise stagnant silence of the workyard, and instantly regrets it. dust propells its way into his throat, into his lungs and soon he's coughing. his nails scrabble against the wall that his palm thumped at moments before; searching for any kind of purchase, leverage that could possibly force some oxygen into his bloodstream and stop him from fucking choking. black spots dance across his vision for a few seconds and he rests his head against the bricks, sighing and not even caring about the saliva clinging to his lower lip.
"be careful, eh?" comes a voice from behind him, to his left. he opens his eyes and sees the rustred of the wall, then the dark stain of a huge shadow. not so much huge, but tall. a doesn't turn, just leans, leans and waits for the pressure of a palm on his shoulder. a moment later and it arrives, damp and uncomfortably hot against his already warm skin. it's called stalling. he knows this. he doesn't know much of anything anymore, but he knows things of importance, and this is stalling. buying time. catching a breath before it starts again. "you should know better. the dust, it's-- well, you know."
"i was gonna sing," his voice sounds more confident than he thought it would, especially after a brief bout of choking and coughing all over himself. he brings a hand up, swipes his thumb over his bottom lip and finds it comes away slick and red. not saliva, then. he laps at it thoughtfully when he turns and savours the sharp tang. the tall one with the sweaty hand steps back a bit, and sunlight slices into a's eyes, feeling more like he's been clubbed in the back of the head than re-introduced to the light. "fuck-" he chokes out, and it's the last thing he says before he brings his hand to his throat and tries to swallow the worry that's threatening to consume him whole.
---
the darkness lasts for two and a half days, and it's possibly the best sleep a's had since he arrived here. he doesn't know exactly when that was. when he comes to, the tall one is sitting next to his cot, pen scratching restlessly at a page. "dreamt of who?" the tall one says, looking up a few moments later. a blinks and doesn't respond, doesn't think he can respond just yet. the tall one's eyes are huge, impossibly dark: two black craters in a white moon of a face. a thinks of deer; soft and innocent, seconds before becoming nothing but scraps of red among the gravel.
"my mother." the tall one is scratching at the paper again, the slight twitch of his lips the only indication that he heard what a had said. "who are you?" his voice is gravelly around the words, but he feels rested, still honeyslow with sleep. it doesn't hurt as much as it did before the coughing.
"name's b," he says, and finally looks up again. a blinks again, swallows the scratchiness in his throat, and it tastes like the earth. he has so many more things to ask, but he doesn't think he can find the breath the form the words. b's lips twitch once more, further now, into something that resembles a smile. a would smile back, if not for two things. if he had enough strength, and if b didn't look so fucking predatory. so he takes to nodding and pressing his lips into a thin line. "they couldn't find anything wrong with you. probably psychosomatic, they said. d'you miss her, then?" a's brows knit into a frown of confusion, and then iron out as he realises what b meant.
"i must do. she's all i can think about, most nights." he has no problem admitting this, even to a virtual stranger. he's not himself. he doesn't know exactly when he was himself, or even who he was. he's a virtual stranger to himself, now, so it probably made no difference who he spoke to or what he said. "lavender, you know. on the pillowcases." b nods once, a sombre indication of understanding, his face plain and thoughtful at the same time.
"they do it on purpose. i think, maybe we're more receptive if we're miserable. you well enough for church?"
---
b's not been to church for three days. he tells a this on the way there, but he suspects that a isn't listening. a is just staring blankly ahead, his face slightly tilted to the crushed velvet of the sky. it's midnight; he can hear the bells. finally, a registers, and turns to b, mouth twisted in some form of protest. b merely shakes his head, and a falls silent before he even gets a chance to speak. "we have to. if we don't, we could miss something." a lowers his head and watches the ground instead, kicking up stones every so often and bringing a cloud of red dust along with him. b tuts and begins to say something about the state of a's shoes, but then the church comes into view.
the church looks threatening in its position on the top of the hill. huddled to the edge; it appears to want to leap from it, if seen from a distance. the moon is hiding behind the belltower this evening, a notes. he feels a strong sense of foreboding as he and b climb the hill, avoiding the chipped bricks that tumble down at them from the decaying annex to the side of the main church building. it's not big, holding perhaps two hundred people at most, but it looms. b allows himself a chuckle as they push open the wooden door. "never saw the point in this," he mumbles, and a manages a lopsided smile, not sure if he means church itself or the usage of the entrance in the front wall. the building only has two fully intact walls. the front, and the rear. the sides are wide yawning mouths, littered with jagged stone teeth in random places. still, rules are rules, and the front door is to be used. tradition does not prevail. the church is not used as a congregation of people to worship some mysterious deity, to marry a couple foolish in love, nor to bury a dead man. it is a mere meeting ground. midnight, every night. and b has missed three meetings. a has missed two, though he was in the infirmary. b hasn't revealed his excuse yet. they take a pew toward the back, a's eyes wandering to the sky he can see through the gaps in the roofing every so often.
"comrades!" comes a fierce voice from the front of the church, and everyone raises to their feet. a is a little unsteady, weak with hunger. he leans on b, and b glances at him for a moment, debating whether they should sit back down or not. the thought leaves his head when c begins speaking. "as you are probably well aware, we are in for a summer with heat of brutal proportions. two days ago, we observed the hottest day as yet. we lost three comrades and almost a fourth. i cannot stress to you the importance that you keep working." b scoffs at that, and a looks up, eyes widening.
"shut up," he mouths, and b's eyes roll. a looks around nervously, sees that no one has noticed (no one important, anyway) and settles again. he can feel the muscle of b's arm tensing and untensing as c continues and wonders how he managed to be paired with such a fool. and if not a fool, worse: a rebel.
"it will get hotter. your water rations will be increased for the next few weeks, to compensate." a bubble of disruption begins to swell among the crowd, and c raises a hand to slam upon the altar. the crowd is silent as dust plumes around his fingers, and a's throat instinctively tightens. he feels his pulse throbbing in his temple, his thumb, his windpipe. he clears his throat and swallows, tastes metallic bittersweet. "food rations will follow, if targets are met. this week's targets..." and a tunes out the rest of c's speech. it's normally the same thing. his monotonous tone obviously strikes the same chord within b, who is still tensing along with shuffling his feet from side to side. maybe they'll clear three blocks this week, maybe they'll clear five. it never matters. they can never rebuild the city, a knows. even if they got close, c and the surveyors would not keep their promises. they had no intention of it. a could see that in their eyes whenever he was close enough, could hear it in the condescending tone of their voices whenever he was bothered enough to listen. but the rest of the comrades kept absorbing their lies, doing their work, dropping like flies. three this week, and by the calendar he'd spied in the infirmary, it was only wednesday. he could've been the fourth. it made him sag slightly heavier against b's arm with the realisation.
---
even at night, the sky glowed with a sickly redness. a reckoned it was the dust; still swirling high into the atmosphere from the collapsing buildings. the heat didn't help matters much, and now, summer raged for a full six months with a ferocity no one could comprehend. the winters were just as awful, and a couldn't decide which he would prefer. he could taste the thickness of the air on his tongue, the electricity from above pressing heavily on those below. it would never storm. it never stormed. it just built up; layer upon layer of unbearable tension until winter arrived with icy fingers to hold it down. right now, a could want nothing more. in winter, they would move to places which still had four intact walls, and keep close for warmth. right now, he just longed for the snow; for cool wetness to spread over his tongue and calm the raging fire in his throat. "why're you still here?" he mutters, peering out from under his hat. even though he doesn't need the shade; it's relatively dark, despite the dark red spreading through the sky between the moon and the streetlamps. it goes back to the four year old mentality: i can't see you, so you can't see me. he likes to hide beneath his hat and wish the world away.
b shrugs, lifts the cigarette to his mouth for a final drag before he moves his thumb and forefinger to the tip, clipping it out. he pockets the extinguished remains and exhales, squinting through the smoke. a begins to cough again. "sorry. what d'you think of c, then? him and his poxy targets. i'd like to give him a fucking target, right on the-"
a cuts him a glare and purses his lips, hissing. b purses his own lips, in a rudimentary pout. "don't give me that. you know what'll happen if they hear you."
"what will, eh? what will, a? what'll they do to me that's worse than this?" b's voice is fast and sharp, a stark contrast to a's lazy drawl. a only speaks like that because he thinks like that; creeping syllables slow and dark like molasses, and he absently wonders if b thinks in machine-gun staccato or just doesn't bother to think at all. most probably the latter, a decides upon, when he takes into account the content of his words. words that shouldn't be uttered, not here, not where they are relatively still in public. words that a shouldn't even fucking listen to, because he's never questioned anything before now, and now he is, and it scares him more than running out of oxygen under the sun in the middle of the workyard.
he just stares and tries to convey his feelings through that rather than stumbling through words, which fail him at the best of times. he hopes his eyes are expressive enough for b to see the myriad of emotions in them, uncertainty a favourite judging by the taste at the back of his throat. it works for a while, b stays silent and a just stares at him, and they stay like that for at least three minutes before a blinks in rapid succession and huffs quietly. "what?"
"what?" b parrots, making a wonder if he'd hit back when suddenly smacked in the face.
"go on. you've obviously been thinking. what about?" something's wrong in the equation, a realises, a moment too late. he began to say the words as their beginnings were forming in his mind, and that was wrong. he should've waited. he wants to reach out into the stale air with his dirty fingers and grab them, shove them back in his mouth and swallow their slimy betrayal down before b has a chance to formulate an answer.
b just smirks, and then shrugs, a soft nonchalant shift a only saw because of how closely he was watching. "the question is, what aren't i thinking about?" a huffs louder then, brings his arms to fold at his chest and hardens his stare. there really wasn't any time for cryptics and intelligent string-a-longs. things a couldn't grasp; wouldn't want to grasp. b relents, relaxes against the bark of the tree and casts his gaze up into its branches. a's eyes immediately follow, and he can sense b's eyes on his bared throat. his heart hammers there, trapped against his windpipe, nervous. a trick, and he fell for it, and that was the beginning of the end, surely. the start of the downfall. he'd been gullible to look up into the sky after b, no idea what he was looking for, he had just blindly followed. didn't that set the tone? he doesn't look down again, just keeps looking up, like he was meant to, until he senses b right next to him; right in his personal space, his peripheral edges tingling, hairs on his arms raising. he suspects he's over-imagining things, but the roar of blood in his ears is deafening, and b's voice is silent. he looks down again, and the crackling tension dissipates suddenly. b is smiling. or just baring his teeth.
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Post by Rhiflect on Feb 9, 2009 17:53:20 GMT
I really like it, and I think their names being simply a and b makes it all the more ethereal and unnatural, it certainly suits the piece!
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Post by jay on Feb 9, 2009 21:41:00 GMT
thank you!!
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Post by jadeface on Feb 9, 2009 22:47:51 GMT
Jay I really like your writing - I said it the last time but I love your descriptions, it's really detailed. I have only read the first one so far, my head is pounding so I'll save it for a time when I can concentrate on properly. In the meantime, a bit of copy and paste as I found a few more bits. If I list you, I'll have to cross you out.
i think it's quite colourful, but maybe a little off. soft to the touch, coarse on the eyes. a rough scratch and a delicious bite. scream at the time, make up your mind. spread importance into categories, eliminate me; illuminate me. hi, i'm doing this backwards, but i am your process of elimination. so i think that means you can't pick me. i'm not one to bend the rules, because twisting and twirling already hurts. so, what have we here? if your eyes were glued, you'd have to make the right choice. not choose the beauty over voice. crunch on that, but it's smoother than you think. frozen silk will probably be quite good for you. i hope it softens your insides. Pennies and popcorn.i can hear every beat, every breath, every bomb. a shell, onto my heart, a shell, inside my chest. hatching many beats, thud thud thud. giving me life. the babies of my heart, they're growing more each and every day. eyes, glassy and so delicate, i wouldn't want to touch. just to absorb everything from this moment, and write a book inside my head. a journey, spent in a safe place, where everything else is nullified, and i am so protected. a small second to take back a tear, and drive it home. and words which i cannot speak, because i hope my own eyes tell the story. it feels like i never had to question the colour of everything. because nothing is blue to me except the sky. nothing is blue to me except the sky. no NOTHING is blue to me except the sky. (sometimes I write fragmented and MENTAL things like this): Piano's and bicycles.accompany the keys. weave in and out. jump. press. lose. waif; endearing. Trample-een.treacle floors. forget the spring in your step, today it's definately about being stuck in the mud. "a word? more of a, uh, stumble, actually. inventing things by accident because i'm so worried about not being enough, that i become far too much." Hello,my name is joe and i can meet you in the middle of any accomplishment. Well, electronically speaking.the little twists and turns of the cables within me that make me sit up straight. and the small gripes of pain that keep me moving. and so my eyes stare up at things i can no longer see; a grainy mist of nothingness which i could touch with my hands and miss, if i wanted to. but instead i imagine doing so whilst the electricity inside me makes me move once more. and then there are words upon words; words which wonder why and how the world is turning whilst these words are being words. multitasking. and parts of me feel that they are breaking free and hanging lifeless, and then retreating next to me for comfort. i am a million words running from my ears to the page in the dark and retreating into invisibility whilst the rest of me falls asleep. awake asleep awake. Talk,scream,breathe.drive me up the wall, then mark your words for all to see, to feel, to touch. build your own expectancies, and let me break them down for you, because i'm guessing, by your reasoning, that's probably how you wanted it. oh, my oh my, what have i done. i have done nothing, nothing doesn't ever look at me. feel the consequences - i do - for something you created out of nothing. read the words, analyse THAT, because you tell me what i am, and that's never what i do. and then, for a long time, there's a disappearance. oppurtunist, as i can see. feed the guilt, because i'm none the wiser, maybe you're not a liar, maybe i really do destroy everything. but that's the first time i've ever heard that in my little world, in my little eyes, using my little feet to walk on by. why don't you just take over, reap, posess, that's the only way you'll ever be satisfied. and why, through all this, did you not invite me to this pity party? it's a shame, considering i'm the one who created this imaginary mess, in this imaginary world, with your imaginary shoes all worn down; all cracked, all muddy, all destroyed. never has there been a fake smile so real. what a tragedy, what an absolute disaster. it was a long time ago since i let anyone trick me into anything.and believe me, next time it's going to take a genius. so don't even try. i should be walking all over the world, but right now, it's been walking all over me.
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Post by jay on Feb 9, 2009 22:54:06 GMT
i loved those. there are some lines that really stand out to me as absolutely fantastic but when you put them in context with the rest of your work, it's all wonderful.
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Post by jadeface on Feb 9, 2009 22:59:16 GMT
Thank you very much. I think some lines do come out quite well, normally in one of my 'aaah I have an idea quickly type it/write it down before you forget. I'd like to write things that tell stories more though, like yours. I haven't really ventured into that yet though.
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Post by Rhiflect on Feb 13, 2009 21:16:06 GMT
'i should be walking all over the world, but right now, it's been walking all over me. '
God, that's SUCH an amazing line, I feel like that a LOT! I love them all, especially the blue sky one.
Here's one of mine from Oct last year, which I like a lot more now that i've re-read it.
You're Rigid, Plank! I wish we were toussled, like uncombed hair, all straggles and twists into the air. I wish we weren't so polished and clean, so clinical and overly pristine. I wish we were more than this frame, hollow inside, all edges the same. I wish we were frial, sudden, slight, like rhythms and words lost in the night. I wish we weren't so happy hardcore, I wish we could relax some more.
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Post by scarredbyfallout on Feb 17, 2009 22:16:18 GMT
Aaah! Ive been cut off from the net for a couple of weeks and now all this great writing has sprung up. Give me a bit to get through it all and i'll let you all know, though i reckon i'll fail to find fault, hehe
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Post by jay on Feb 18, 2009 0:45:00 GMT
rhi, that poem is ACE. i adore it, especially the line about the frame. eek. eta: 3000 big ones. yay, me.
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Post by Manly name. on Feb 18, 2009 22:38:42 GMT
i was a poet, never dared to show as wouldn't you know it? i managed to blow it
i wanted to go more, as it's quite a bore, knowing one should've stopped at about line four.
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