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Post by Fred Ward on Feb 19, 2009 10:41:30 GMT
Jay, that is really terrific. Definitely don't name the characters, anonymity of title adds to anonymity of situation. I'd love to see more of it! Marvin, that made me chuckle, thank you I've a song I'd like to share, in honour of Jay (but also because I'm just hopeless at naming my music) I shall call it; A: Lions and unicorns Hunt day and night for want of hunting An early breaking dawn Brings them face to face in a broken landscape; And upon this waterland This island born by contradiction I shall make a stand For my pillars, My pillars of sand Take it back to the bare bones and you've got nothing at all Place me on your pedestal Because you don't care if I rise or fall Run in through the chapel door Cut his throat in the house of the lord You, man's Icarus, And I one nation of Ulysses Let us shape this country, Gather your firewood from dead birches Dead birches - Dead birches Drifting down The dead, dead river Take it back to the bare bones and you've everything to lose Place me on your pedestal Because you don't care if I rise of fall Run in through the chapel door Cut his throat in the house of the lord I'd lie if I said I'd die for you Because that rules out the next life, too. And when my bruise covers your bruise Then I guess I'll have it all to choose: A choice between this realm of love, Of hate, of bliss, of lives amiss, And then second chance we may get That sees me taken by your kiss (That last bit may need a bit of work) Thank you, xxX
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Post by jay on Feb 19, 2009 11:40:50 GMT
'and when my bruise covers your bruise'... LOVELY. xxx
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Post by Fred Ward on Feb 19, 2009 11:49:29 GMT
Thank you veryery much Jay xxX
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Post by thornyking on Mar 25, 2009 9:16:54 GMT
I write silly things.
we are caressing same sentences written on paper-thin tortillas until our lemonade water leapings fueled by swallowed plum pits land on mashed strawberries stealing their green strawberry crowns to wear while carrying candle walking sticks that stab sands lighting seaweed afire creating smoke-formed violins upon which the fingers fumble plucking the sticky air digests notes the darkness shifts and sways for lemons and limes for eyes
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Post by wanderer on Mar 25, 2009 15:27:45 GMT
^I like that! Actually everything I've read in here is good. We must all be on the same wavelengh or something...
I write stuff too, can't say i'm amazing tho, I seem to disregard all rules concerning rythm, metering and stuff like that. I'm at college ATM but here's some stuff I typed up from fragments in my notebook:
'Stainless'
I may be steel, but I’m not stainless, I may not be shamed, but I’m not blameless, I may not be dead, but I am painless, I aim to please, but I am all weakness. My intentions were to die, To fail to die, Or come out happy, I failed on all three. I feel things that feel too real, I did everything I said I wouldn’t, Everything I knew I shouldn’t.
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 25, 2009 17:59:56 GMT
I like it! There's some truth in all of that.
Erik, i love it! The imagery of the smoky violins and the extended fruit metaphor are all brill!
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Post by jay on Mar 25, 2009 18:03:12 GMT
ahh, such lovely recent writings. well done you two.
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Post by wanderer on Apr 7, 2009 14:40:56 GMT
I don't know if anyone's interested but I wrote this today. Again it has no real structure and it's a confusing mix of real and imaginary.
'Return to the Ruins of Rome.'
Running from the forest fire, I dropped my lens-cap in the mire, Muddy knees, On old blue jeans, The wind rustles in the reeds, As I walk beneath these shady trees, The whole fen a funeral pyre, Consumed in the hear of the raging fire, Distant men with barrows, Hawthorns, yarrows, It smells so rich, so complete, The breathing earth beneath my feet, Hopeless pacifist with dreams of creation, A morbid, rampant imagination, They cut the reeds with polished scythes, Under the gaze of dragonflies, There are springs beneath these reed beds, Running deep and holding secrets, I am not scared of you, I am scared of your silence, Your inhuman violence, Your many voices, I catch in snatches of whispers, Your mosquito-bite fever, The heat of the day, sluggish demeanour, The red rust stains, From your iron fingers, I reach the river, It says; “why don’t you rest here?” The spring’s ultimate destination, My ultimate destination, Camera strap biting into my neck, It cries; “kneel and beg! Kneel and beg!” The path continues on, But I am turning, heading home.
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Rose
Empress
Great, great minds against themselves conspire...
Posts: 166
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Post by Rose on Apr 10, 2009 11:13:20 GMT
These are all so good. I wish I could write decent poetry, like you lot. It's just prose for me, really.
This doesn't have a name, but I just found it on some scraps of paper on my desk and felt like sharing it. I can't resist Wildean parties and lords and ladies. Maybe if I find the other papers that go with it I'll put up some more (I'm sure there was more...) but this is it for now.
Esmé shook her blonde curls and laughed, and Jeremy smiled, watching her from the opposite side of the room. She was more beautiful now, in this strange golden light, than ever before; he felt as though he was looking at her through champagne -- as if the whole room was inside a glass, like the one she was holding so daintily.
He ought not be at this party. He was only a secretary -- only a secretary -- he shouldn't be here at all. But he must remain, if only to meticulously check every man and decide who would be the best suitor for the blonde girl in the corner. Lord Chevalier was an eccentric man; often he would order Jeremy to perform tasks not usually required of a secretary. He must keep this job -- for someone of his reputations to have such a privileged post was a rarity. And so, therefore, he must choose a man to court so young a woman as Miss Esmé Chevalier. Such an unfortunate position for such an unfortunate man.
Lord Chevalier approached. "What ho, man!" "Indeed, sir." Jeremy bowed his head in respect of his master. "Spotted any good chaps, what?" he boomed, roaring with laughter, his ruddy cheeks shining in the somewhat less gold light. "I must reply to the contrary, sir," Jeremy began apologetically, mechanically. "Between you and I, my personal opinion is that they are predominantly crude, selfish, and only requiring Miss Chevalier's acquaintance for social and financial reasons. To be quite frank, sir, they are all boors." Lord Chevalier laughed more vehemently. "Boors! Boors!" he cried, embarrassingly loud. Jeremy winced. How terribly Darwinian it all was; choosing a perfect candidate for the budding blossom, Miss Chevalier, hanging on the cusp of youth. Whomever was chosen, their children would be truly beautiful.
Lord Chevalier drifted off into the crowd, leaving Jeremy alone again to straighten his waistcoat and sip delicately at his champagne. He had driven an ambulance in the war; he had seen men drowning in their own blood, rolling their white, white eyes. He had watched boys no older than Miss Chevalier screaming in pain as desperate surgeons hacked away at their gangrenous limbs. He had carted pungent corpses to the cemetery, almost choking on the rancid stench. And now he was here, sipping champagne and helping a Lord choose a husband for his daughter. He believed in free will, rights for women, peace and natural neatness for all. And now he was here, assisting in an arranged marriage. He threw the rest of his champagne down his throat, swallowing hard to brace himself for the dry kick of the drink, and left the room.
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Post by Rhiflect on Apr 10, 2009 20:10:39 GMT
I would read that book, and i'm not a lover of lord and ladies type books!
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Rose
Empress
Great, great minds against themselves conspire...
Posts: 166
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Post by Rose on Apr 11, 2009 23:02:02 GMT
Oh cheers. That's a really nice thing to say. Thank you. *modest blush*
Found some more.
"Miss Chevalier?" Jeremy called tentatively as he waited outside her chambers. "Yes, Mr Icarus?" She appeared in a light pink silk dressing gown, hanging in the gap she had made between the door and the frame, her voice charming and demure as always. "Your father says I must bring you to him." She nodded and he waited for her to choose a dress and fix her disobedient hair. He waited with his eyes closed, her babbled words drifting in and out of his hearing. Finally she emerged; she had dressed herself in green -- pristine, natural, virgin green -- and had left her blonde curls loose. With her bare feet on the mahogany floorboards she looked so out of place -- a nymph trapped in a mansion. "Icarus," she said simply, dreamily. "That's a peculiar name. Is it Latin?" "Greek, miss. Icarus was a boy whose father made him wings, but he flew too close to the sun and the wax in the wings melted, dropping poor Icarus into the sea." "Where are you from?" "Dublin, originally, miss." "You don't have an accent." "No, miss." They had reached Lord Chevalier's study. Jeremy opened the door for the young lady and entered behind her, feeling obliged to close the door behind him even though they were the only people in the house.
"Esmé, my darling," Lord Chevalier greeted her, completely ignoring Jeremy's quiet presence. "I have good news for you." He removed his half-moon glasses and put down his letters. "You're getting married." Jeremy gripped the back of Miss Chevalier's chair in shock, and Esmé also seemed very stunned. "Father, I... You know I don't wish to marry yet." "Nonsense! Mr Stoker is an excellent man! I'm told he's terribly handsome, plays cricket and rugger, and his step-mother is the Duchess of Kent." "Sir," Jeremy began courageously. "Perhaps Miss Chevalier should be left to choose her own husband. We are all aware that many men are willing to, ahem, take advantage of her..." "Precisely, man. That's why we must choose for her. How can she tell whether the gentlemen are to be trusted or not?" Suddenly Esmé cried out, "I'd sooner marry Mr Icarus than this Mr Stoker!" Jeremy knew not to take it as a compliment. "Don't be foolish, child," the Lord spoke angrily. "What qualities could Mr Icarus pass on to your children? He is not attractive in the slightest --" "Sadly not, sir." "Yes, quite. He is not rich; he cannot take care of you. He plays no sport. Your children would be --" "Unfortunate, sir?" "Precisely. Unfortunate." She had been building up to this state of anger throughout his speech; Jeremy could see her tiny fists shaking. "Is it so difficult," she said, the words coming at great strain. "To think of me, instead of my children?" She left, and Jeremy could hear her smashing a vase outside on her way back to her bedroom.
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Post by wanderer on Apr 12, 2009 15:40:13 GMT
^ You should have your own thread where you tell us this story. I'm loving it! It crossed my mind to post something similar of my own, but mine are rather bland.
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Post by Ana on Apr 12, 2009 17:32:43 GMT
I dont know if this counts but i finished adapting the final scene for my long studies in my third year even though im a fresher. I'm adapting The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas for the stage and this is the final scene:
The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas
Shmuel: “We are made to go on marches sometimes”
Bruno “Does this marching go on for long? My feet are so tired from searching for your Papa and I have to get home, we‘re having roast beef tonight”
Schmuel: “I don’t know, I never see the people after the marches”
(the boys are marched around the curtains, to the sound of stamping feet, and enter from the left. A clanging noise rings out indicating a large door has been shut and locked. Stage goes quite dark, green lights, there are sound effects of confused mutterings and muffled conversation)
Bruno: “its quite warm in here, that’s something, I expect we’ll have to wait in here till it eases off and then ill get to go home” (Shmuel gathers himself very close to Bruno and looks at him in fear)
Bruno(after a pause) “I’m sorry we didn’t find your Papa”
Shmuel: “its all right”
Bruno: “and we didn’t get to play, but when we do, we’ll go to Berlin and play with…oh what were their names again?” [beat] “actually, it doesn’t matter whether I do or not, they’re not my best friends anymore anyway” (squeezes Schmuel’s hand tightly)
(Schmuel looks at him and opens his mouth to speak)
(A loud gasp fills the room, the stage turns bright white, Shmuel and Bruno squint in a haze of confusion, sound effects are screaming, sobbing and general noises of confusion)
Bruno shouts: “you’re my best friend Shmuel, my best friend for life”
(stage goes darker, hissing noises indicating gas entering the room. The boys continue holding hands. The stage then plunges into darkness, the hissing noise continues. The stage is still black. a spotlight comes up to the pile of clothes Bruno left behind. His father comes on, find the clothes, and crumbles to the floor as he realises what has happened. Very faint lights come up, on the screen are the following words: )
"And that’s the end of the story about Bruno and his family. Of course this all happened a long time ago and nothing like that could ever happen again. Not in this day in age".
Then im going to have "Will You Still Love Me Tommorow" by The Shirelles play as the audience leave. Either that or "Wouldnt It Be Nice" by The Beach Boys
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Post by Rhiflect on Apr 12, 2009 18:43:22 GMT
Rose! That's genius! I'm really enjoying it. I HEART MR ICARUS.
And Ana, i haven't The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas (i must though) but that sounds amazing, i would cry buckets if I saw that!
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Rose
Empress
Great, great minds against themselves conspire...
Posts: 166
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Post by Rose on Apr 12, 2009 19:58:51 GMT
If you read any of my other stuff, you'd see that most of my male characters resemble Mr Icarus. I can't resist chaps like him. >.< More very soon. Script sounds good... The lighting is awesome. I love messing around with lighting effects. And wanderer, I'm exalting you for the simple reason of also being from Norwich.
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Post by bridgetbegins on Apr 19, 2009 10:38:06 GMT
Once again, the unfinished: you, not unlike me suffer from open-mouth syndrome
a vague look of confusion gracing your lips
the words I hang off of— when did this happen?
stumbling over crammed teeth tripping out
over bitten lips, skin to be twisted off with blunt tipped fingers
I am oddly drawn to the inside of your mouth
moth sacrificing to flame and all that is required
when I pull impulsively, childishly at your legs
until we bump our knees together, tilt far more
than needed still clunk noses and can do no more than
press lips together for the smiling, teeth wide and
bellies rumbling with laughter that will later
as I have come to realize turn to hiccups to be soothed
with cups of water tickling fingers
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Post by stilllovexpatrick on Apr 19, 2009 13:23:45 GMT
hotel chevalier
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Post by bridgetbegins on Apr 21, 2009 13:48:06 GMT
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Post by jay on Apr 21, 2009 14:07:52 GMT
interior crocodile alligator i drive a chevrolet movie theatre
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Post by bridgetbegins on Apr 21, 2009 15:45:51 GMT
interior crocodile alligator i drive a chevrolet movie theatre I HATE THAT even more than I hate the whole rick rolled thing. And I still don't understand either of them!
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