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Post by jay on Apr 21, 2009 16:19:23 GMT
i don't much get it either, but it made me laugh. a lot.
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Rose
Empress
Great, great minds against themselves conspire...
Posts: 166
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Post by Rose on Apr 21, 2009 17:18:16 GMT
Made me giggle a bit too. Ahh, words are fun.
More of my story, for anyone who was reading it.
Lord Chevalier was greatly troubled. He loved his daughter very much and couldn't bear to be fighting with her. Equally, he knew that marriage to Mr Stoker would provide her with an even more comfortable future than she would have in his own stately manor. And thus, the circle would rotate, she would bear a son, and he would inherit both the Chevalier estate and Mr Stoker's. However, Esmé was a very emotional, passionate girl; perhaps a calm, quiet husband would suit her better, produce more balanced offspring. But where to find a real gentle-man like that among the brash, lively aristocracy of today?
Suddenly there was a tentative knock at his study door, and in glided the careful, quiet presence of Mr Icarus with some letters. "Urgent messages from your agent in New York, sir, along with correspondence from the Duchess of Kent with regards to a meeting with Miss Chevalier to determine her suitability for Mr Stoker." "Sit down, Icarus," the Lord sighed, and Jeremy obliged. "I feel I have rushed into these marriage arrangements. Give me your opinions." "Sir," he began cautiously, careful to choose his words most precisely. "While I understand your concerns and desire to ensure your daughter is well provided for, I do believe that this decision is only partly yours; Miss Chevalier must take part in choosing for herself. She is, from what I can tell, wiser than you give her credit for, sir." "Still, she is just a child..." Lord Chevalier sounded dubious. "No, sir, she is a young woman in a modern, changing world; she will be allowed to vote when she grows older, and she can get employment almost anywhere she chooses -- if she wishes to work. Allow her to meet men, see who she gets along with best, then use your observations to decide. She is only angry because this is entirely your choice. If you were to push her subtly closer to a good future husband, she would be more inclined to accept the arrangement." Bold words from the usually quiet Mr Icarus; bold words indeed. "And what qualities of character in a husband would you suggest I look for?" Jeremy paused, his nerves overcoming him for a brief moment. "Personally, sir, I would search for an opposite, with less regard to wealth and status. Your money is plenty to support a family, so a rich husband is an extra benefit, not a necessity. Look for someone quiet, who may calm her anger and control her moods. A soothing presence, perhaps, someone to whom she shines." The Lord laughed shortly at this last comment. "Does she shine to you, Icarus?" "Yes, sir. She does," he replied quietly, too afraid of betraying both himself and his master to lie. "Very well then. I can trust your judgment -- you will only want the best for her. Leave the letters with me; I shall deal with the Duchess."
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Post by wanderer on Apr 23, 2009 11:42:55 GMT
I've started looking foward to segments of your story. I like how it's developing. Format wise, not content wise, it reminds me of how I used to churn out a couple of chapters a day to post on other messageboards when I was younger. It eats time though, I'm enjoying your pieces but I wouldn't reccomend doing what I did. I just write for myself now, which is a shame really.
We've all lost friends, right?
"Birdsong"
Are you thinking of me, Are you all alone, Do you still chase rainbows, When you’re on your own.
It’s been a long time, A hundred years, You’re walking the line, I’m still standing here.
Do you miss me at all, Do I cross your mind, Am I the ghost you see, In the middle of the night.
I want to say I’m sorry, I really mean it this time, I am honestly sorry, Cruelty being my crime.
Are you thinking of me, Now your dreams of grown, Do you remember me, Now our dreams are your own.
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Chris
Libertine
Posts: 85
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Post by Chris on Apr 26, 2009 16:33:19 GMT
Some of the stuff on this thread is pretty good. I'm quite liking reading it ^_^
Most of the stuff I write are lyrics and poetry. I'm trying to branch out into short stories at the moment, but they still need a lot of work.
Here's one or two fragments of poetry I've come up with. I'm not comfortable/ happy with the other stuff at the moment, so here's the stuff that I am;
Tintagel - wrote this when I was on holiday in Cornwall a couple of weeks ago.
The Iron Cliffs are whispering, And the Savage Sea is hissing. And here I stand and taste the Sun Now that the Storm has blown over.
I have fought for far too long, Singing old and desperate songs; Crying to the waves and world To free me from this hell.
... [ the other stuff still needs to be perfected ]
----------------------------------------------------
- This one doesn't have a title yet. I sort of wrote it from the point of view of a mother whose child has left home.
The forest stole my son away. In drawn out amber autumn days. The greying greens- Of wounded leaves; Rotting, as I searched.
He went to chase his burning dreams To run with wolves and feel free. Left me alone. While he wandered and roamed; Forsaken and forlorn.
[Could do with being a bit longer really, still need to write quite a bit.]
----------------------------------------
That's all for now. I'll post more if people are disgusted by my work ;D
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Post by wanderer on Apr 27, 2009 7:45:14 GMT
^ I love that! It seems that writing comes really naturally to you. You should buy a really big, expensive sketch book and write out finished versions of everything nicely and keep it for future and stuff, I intend to try publish mine.
- My latest outputting:
'Home'
I pass through these rooms, And leave no mark, But I take it all with me, Picture of light and dark. I am the accuse’d, The major mistake, I’m nothing but eyes, And the pictures they take.
The well-trained gaze, I pass by invisibly, Automatic adjustments made, Brought squinting to reality.
I must make myself seen, I present you a mirror, On a television screen, I took this picture.
Here is the guilt, This is really you, And I’m proving that, Every imperfection I know.
I live in this house, I don’t call it home, I bounce off the walls, Blind and alone.
This prism before my eyes, Is documenting reality, It bares the hidden lies, The absence of normality.
What’s warped through the lens, On paper is actuality, These numbers make sense, When presented as imagery.
I am the alchemist, Making gold from lead, The mage, the chemist, Immortalising the dead.
I’m lost behind dials, A box of plastic and metal, I expose fake smiles, I reveal the unreal.
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Chris
Libertine
Posts: 85
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Post by Chris on Apr 27, 2009 20:22:28 GMT
Cheers! Yeah I should really. I've got one of those Moleskine black notebooks that I use for just writing the random stuff in, but haven't really copied any of it up yet cause I'm constantly trying to revise it. I'm loving your stanza; 'I am the alchemist, Making gold from lead, The mage, the chemist, Immortalising the dead.' Its really clever, makes sense and the rhyme makes it stick in your head
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Post by wanderer on Apr 28, 2009 11:51:25 GMT
I'm loving your stanza; 'I am the alchemist, Making gold from lead, The mage, the chemist, Immortalising the dead.' quote] Really? I didn't like how similar the words 'alchemist' and chemist' were, they're really just a modern-er version of the other, and I wasn't going for a repetition/ingraining thing there.
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Chris
Libertine
Posts: 85
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Post by Chris on Apr 28, 2009 20:27:43 GMT
Hmm... That's interesting I think it works. I pronounce 'Alchemist' slightly differently to 'Chemist'- so to me it makes sense aha. For some reason, that was the stanza that made me think the most. You seem to be good at looking inwardly at stuff clearly, and thats a good skill to have in poetry I reckon.
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Rose
Empress
Great, great minds against themselves conspire...
Posts: 166
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Post by Rose on Apr 28, 2009 20:42:55 GMT
You're both fantastic at poetry! I wish I could write in verse better! I just get annoyed at the structure. I liked this stanza best, though. I don't quite know why.
'I am the accuse’d, The major mistake, I’m nothing but eyes, And the pictures they take.'
I really wish I could put up some of a book I wrote called The Artists. One of the characters was called Tristan and I used pictures of Patrick for him. I've finished it now, but I'd do a chapter at a time, and each chapter would be from the POV of one of the characters - Tristan, the writer, Maria, the painter, or Victoria, the singer. I'd write it in little episodes, and every ten chapters there'd be pictures and letters, fragments from their lives. My friends would wait for me to finish a few chapters, then read it bit by bit, then make me write more. I loved those characters.
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Post by wanderer on May 7, 2009 10:54:30 GMT
rose. Do post it, I’m sure no-one has anything against it, and there are loads of people who would want to read it. Not saying this would work on here but in a previous forum in the ‘writing’ section everyone had their own thread for their work. (Although some evil mods deleted it in the end ‘cuz we were apparently filling up their bandwidth with crap) Anyway, something from me: In Mortalitum. Rotting, decomposing, Huge and spreading, Growing, Beached in a cell, Able only to turn, Circle after circle, Soon gives way to boredom, Lethargy, Submerging into itself, Shapeless, boneless, Having forgotten the essence of being, Craving motivation, distraction, An undoing of what is done, The curse that made it, Begging, Reverse it, To feel anything, Bare sickening bloat, Ripe, white and swelling, Welling up and out. Written about me, the feeling I get when stuck in the house with nothing to do, feeling useless, etc. I tried desperately to write it in a way that it’s obviously NOT about a person, in the same style as my ‘The Wanderer: An Experiment In The Essence of Humanity’ writing. It actually feels like a baring of my soul, there’s a lot of self-hate in there.
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Post by Rhiflect on May 9, 2009 22:23:45 GMT
Something I wrote in frustration this evening, it's all one long poem but can be in three parts:
Scrub Me With Soap Scum
I'm stagnating Pond scum, just settling for years Pick me up, create a stir I want to break from this collection of slime i'm joined to.
Wall to glass to ear Voices are muffled, intentions are clear, A dirty voyeur, want some for myself. Steal all the laughter from under your nose, Stuff it in my mouth, breathe it in close. Bottle to mouth to lips, Short fingers hold pens, getting too many grips. A dirty thief, I want some for myself. Steal the delirium away from your brain, Saw open my head, forcibly insane.
IMPLODE EXPLODE COMPLAIN RELOAD.
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Post by thornyking on May 10, 2009 4:10:55 GMT
---yadda yadda, bye----
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Post by Rhiflect on May 10, 2009 9:48:07 GMT
It gives a really autumn-in-bed feel, Erik. I like it
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Post by thornyking on May 11, 2009 17:18:23 GMT
Thank you! It actually tells a very simple story, but everything I write is so cryptic.
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Post by jadeface on May 13, 2009 20:14:10 GMT
Been struggling for a long time.
folding things up and putting them back where they belong.
i watch the letters fall from my mind like they are lost; so lost they can't find each other in the darkness of a time where i am just so fragmented in myself. they need me to put them back together, they need me to find them and give the meanings and reasons to light up in the sky, the same way i need them to find me. i have hidden for a long time the reasons for my empty head; it is not because i am no longer in need of them, it is because
they are no longer in need of me.
i am willing to cross the waters and shut all the leaks if it means that we can be friends again, if we can work together to give me back what is ours. part of myself relies on curves and straight lines, and there is a big gaping hole where i await its return. i can feel it rising from the depths of my hands, the heat rising from my cheeks like i am cooking myself up to be free. i have no recipe, the ingredients are imaginary, yet i need them to complete myself, and then i will be
all that i am supposed to be again.
i struck those keys ten times today, and the ringing in my ears hurt so much that i never felt so much at once. but that's what it was; a reflection of myself, the decay of something that has been gone for a long time.
bring it back and i will put you back in the pictures, i will put you back in the boxes and i will switch on your lights and open your mind and scream for forgiveness that i ever let you slip away.
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Post by nerdmissile on May 16, 2009 20:48:09 GMT
I know exactly no-one wants to hear this but I feel all you wordsmiths are wasting your talent on abstract images. It's just... when you hide so much, and mix metaphors, and never really pin anything down to a solid "this is like this" (which doesn't have to be that straightforward, there are loopholes) then readers won't ever really know what you're talking about, no matter how pretty the words are. I care about word-music almost more than meaning, but meaning can be very beautiful too.
I know a lot of you are writing for yourselves rather than some imaginary reader anyway, but it's certainly something that has improved my writing, and made me prouder of myself.
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Post by thornyking on May 16, 2009 21:19:45 GMT
I kick myself a bit sometimes because it's true -- no one knows what I'm on about. I should work on that even if it's for fun. Thank ya.
Other times I like the nonsense-like when I don't have ideas. It's a crutch!
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Post by jadeface on May 17, 2009 14:58:13 GMT
Hmm, I've never been told that or told it doesn't make sense.
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Chris
Libertine
Posts: 85
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Post by Chris on May 17, 2009 20:52:49 GMT
Abstract images can be clever though; the fact that you have to think so much about what you're trying to write.
In my opinion, if you wrote everything literally it wouldn't that interesting. You'd lose some of the art in it. It would be more like prose than a poem. I can see where you're coming from about being too out there with metaphors... I mean if I read something like ' Number 375 Bus, Speak to me in fields of grey radishes.' I'd be like ....... Ok... what is that on about? But I think the fact that you have to apply your own meaning to the metaphor as a reader, means that it's got so many possible explorations and meanings to different people.
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Post by jadeface on May 17, 2009 21:13:47 GMT
Yeah, I mean it depends on what you're writing, so I can see where you're coming from. What I write is considered more 'poetry' than anything else. But I just like the idea that words are there for people to take what they want from them. Like paintings, and music. I don't like to dictate what people think.
I do want to get into writing stories though. And obviously if I do this, I will write differently, and can write differently.
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