Writing II

[Fargo Squire]

There was one of these a while back, where mostly writing was just discussed. But I've started producing some good and also some friggin' crazy stuff, and I thought I'd get some insight. If for some reason you feel the need to poo in my face and get rid of this, feel free.

A Poem:

Look, a gigantic moose; how stern,
But when he approaches I turn
To sandy conflagrance in the wild of gonies, I dodge
An explode, ducked and flew a
Toebing, teabing, winkers.

Crackin' my back, askance I wager,
And comes the old fellow, nine times more sager
Than I ever was, stand tall in
Fields of over-grass, glow-worm,
All upset get squeezed though
Eight's, not enough, your number.

Am I, though, waznagabo? And why,
Fear I anyway I'll never know the sky
For clear it makes itself, to me,
Wives tell of solemn kangaroo
On long cold winter... nights, appoint
Them all, George Washington, o' splay!

Eaublonda man, oko oko mana bay,
Loping down several roads laeeay
Broken on all fronts and, pouring,
Cannot be sacred demortostora
Pogonades, for parasailing Anglicans
Are the southern border, and you, the South.

Forthwith, forthright, watch out fair dingo,
For the six unleaf-like salmon using lingo
That a King would deem unsuitable, all gone
Said be that butter can, and lo abold
came Hair, Hair who brought those global
Sebor nobo ono Kan, though cobles came as well.


Copyright (c) Ninja Joe Inc.

[BugHunter]

W ---- T ---- F ........................................

[Fargo Squire]

That's exactly what I said...

[Deimos]

I honestly don't know what to say to that...I read it about four times...and still can't say anything

[Fargo Squire]

Okay, well, that poem freaked me out as much as anyone I showed it to. I decided to take one of those moments where I'm drifting off in History or Government class and just write while thinking absolutely nothing at all. That's what happens... Now, if you'll forgive a really long post, here's a story that I actually narrated to myself while asleep. Then I woke up and wrote it. Some I couldn't remember from the dream and had to make up, but it worked out well:



Thomas and Mira




Thomas and Mira had left their home only one month ago, but already it seemed like a year. They missed their parents, and openly wept some nights in memory of their large family, who they could no longer see clearly in their minds.

They had been sent away, to live with their distant aunt, their only relative who had chosen to live in the city rather than on their farm in the country. Mother had dressed them nicely, Mira in a lacy white dress that Mother herself surely must have worn for her wedding, and Thomas in a white shirt, overalls and khakis, and also his father's favorite pair of loafers.

'Unfortunate, then', thought Mira,' that we are now forced to travel the rest of the way to town on foot, having lost our cart and mules to bandits on the road.'

And so it was that they found themselves walking along the bends and curves of a confused but gentle country road, sadly wearing away at the lovely shoes their parents had given them.

'If only we could return', thought Thomas,' but the bandits would again stop us, and this time would take not our cart, but our clothes, and perhaps our lives.'

So they despaired and despaired again, and continued their journey to what they hoped would be the town of their original destination.

Soon, they began to get sleepy. Mira was the first to yawn, but Thomas was glad to see that he was not alone in his weariness, and he suggested they settle down for the night, and so they did. In the morning, Thomas was first to rise, and thus first to see that they were not at all where they had been when they nodded off to sleep.

He woke his sister, and together they marveled at the gleaming walls of this small room, at the hardness of them.

'Like walls made out of steel', thought Thomas. And then aloud,"Could that be a door, Mira?", and he pointed to a large rectangular section of the wall that was set back from the rest. Mira nodded, and they came approached it carefully.

They gasped in a mixture of surprise and fear as the towering door of steel slid into the wall at their approach, but afraid as they were, they continued through the door out of common sense and of habit.

"There you are. We called days ago, and you may be too late, but at least you came. Hurry to the bridge, we need you here now."

Both children, startled at the voice that so suddenly spoke to them from nowhere at all, had scampered away into a side room, and there had been all the more horrified to find, above a round steel dish, a floating head that seemed not to be dismembered, but simply to be false. They backed against the wall, terrified of this thing in the air that they could see right through, and yet that they could see none the less.

And then, to their horror, another head joined the first one above the dish.

"Quickly, there's not much time. What are you doing against the wall over there? Get to the bridge, now!", shouted this second phantasm, more forceful, more in-charge than the first.

They edged along the wall and made their way back into the hallway, following it the way they had first been going, reasoning that in going back they would simply be trapped in one room or another, alone or with made up but real heads that had no bodies.

Finally, they made their way down a short set of stairs into a larger room where on their left they saw two longer sets of stairs that curved away to the left and right and met at the top. And to their right they saw the greatest wonder of this day. They saw two very tall windows in the side of this room, and from these windows they could see stars, and a planet close enough that they could tell where the clouds in its atmosphere swirled.

They watched this vast, empty, canvas on which God had painted so many beautiful artifacts of life and love in silence, until again they were interrupted, this time rather more violently.

"Help! They're here, and you're not even halfway to the Bridge! Hurry, they've broken.... No, they're inside, they - no you don't, get away from the controls!", they heard what sounded like gunfire, but also like the sighing of a tired old man, both at once. And then they heard terrible screams, and lights that they had not even seen before began to dance around the room in a blazing bright green.

The children hid behind a large metal barrel at the base of one of the windows, and suddenly felt very sleepy. They fell into a deep sleep, one that could not have been voluntary because after this last experience they were rather wary of sleep.

Again, as Thomas woke, he found himself to be in a new place. This time though, it was simply the earth that he saw all around, and he felt more at home. He also noticed that he could not see Mira anywhere.

"Mira, where are you?", he called.

And then he did see her, walking away in the distance. And so he began to follow, but with his first step noticed that his right shoe was in two pieces, the front few inches having been somehow separated from the heel. He compensated for the odd damage to his shoe by walking with his right toe mostly in the air, to keep the toe from falling off, and continued after his sister, calling out her name every few minutes, and never getting any closer to her.

He came upon a strange bucket, overturned in the grass, and his curiosity stopped his pursuit for just a moment, as he righted the mysterious bucket. Under it, he found a cloth, damp with water.

'Aha! And won't the filthy shoes I'm wearing be happy of this?', he cheerfully asked himself, and he sat and began to wipe the dirt from inside his shoes. And when he was almost done cleaning the severed toe of his right shoe, he remembered his sister, Mira. 'How can I keep this cloth from her, when surely her shoes are as grimy as mine?'

So he followed the now distant form of her, and at last he did catch up, on a small hill. By that time, he had forgotten about the cleaning cloth, but was glad to be again with Mira, and not alone.

"Why did you run off and leave me? I surely was not that difficult to wake.", but she did not respond, indeed did not react to his presence at all. She simply stared, and so he looked where she looked, and he saw a great gaping hole in the wall of the cliff that had been to his right all along, though he had never noticed it. And he saw a burly man standing just to the left of this hole.

"Hades", said Mira, and she plunged forward into the hole chanting that name.

"Mira!", called Thomas. "Mira!", and then he began to be confused, began to wonder if in fact it was his own name he called. And he despaired, knowing that his sister had walked into the realm of Hades.

Then he was no longer kneeling in front of the cliff side, but in an office. In that office was a large man, sitting at the desk, and a taller but slimmer man, with a pointed face. The tall one came over to him and looked into his eyes, though he himself had no pupils to speak of.

"Your sister is gone, has given herself to the devil, young Thomas.", and the man said it almost cheerfully.

But confused, Thomas found himself saying,"Ah, I see now. The master tells his student only what he is sure the student will believe." And the man smiled and said,"Yes, but does belief necessitate a lie? Cannot the master tell both what the student will believe and the truth, all at once?"

Copyright (c) Ninja Joe Inc.

[Cobra5]

I like it better then anything else I've read on the internet!

Which... well, that's not saying much at all (I hate writings on the internet. They all suck). But actually, I did like it. Not in, 'OMG, that's so cool' way, more in the, "Wtf? *with a laugh*" way. It was... fun.

I've been wanting to write really bad, too... but I've been in a bad mood. I can't write well when I'm feeling down, unfortunatly...

[Fargo Squire]

Ooh, I use bad moods for arguments between characters. I can always come up with awesome things to yell at myself when I'm feeling glum.

[Tassatul]

Just a concept I came up with in creative writing class. Definitly thinking of expanding it:

Adam awoke to the sound of his alarm clock blaring into his left ear. After smacking the snooze button so hard the clock fell of the small nightstand, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, his mind blank. His mother’s cry cut into his space-out.

“Adam, if you don’t get up right now you’re going to be late!”

He sighed and rolled to the left of his bed, and stepped to the ground with his left foot first. Uh-oh. Fully awake, he pulled his foot back from the floor quickly, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Doomed to bad luck for the rest of the day. This is just great.

Everyone knew about getting out of bed on the left foot and the bad luck it brought. It had been proven, along with a large number of other former superstitions, by a new branch of science that Adam could not remember the name of. Whatever it was called, it had pinpointed some sub-atomic particle or another that was responsible for good luck. Certain things, like stepping out of bed left foot first or the actions of black cats, scattered the particles away. Even certain days of the year had a global effect on ‘luck.’

Adam refused to succumb to his destined bad luck for the day. He got dressed, and picked up his charms: a rabbit’s foot, a four-leaf clover, and the penny he had left heads up on the floor last night. He wasn’t sure how the whole luck particle thing worked out, if some actions outweighed other actions or charms, or what the deal was. Someday the scientists might have a chart or book to help everyone optimize their luck, but until then, folks were just playing it by ear.

I wonder what happens when everyone is lucky. Are there enough luck particles to go around, or does the ‘highest bidder’ win?

Nobody was really sure what would happen, by the prices on well-known good luck charms had definitely jumped. Rabbit’s feet were going for thirty-five dollars in some places. Luckily (no pun intended), Adam already owned one before the scientists had presented their research. As he walked out the front door and toward the already pulling away school bus, he knew this was not going to be a good day.

[Coral]

John was happy. He awoke at noontime, normal nowadays. What he wanted, became reality.

A breakfast of champions started his day, with large, ripe fruit, fresh milk, and other such niceties not taken for granted by the common middleclasser. His beautiful girlfriend cooked this breakfast, and his lunch, and his dinner, and let John use her for other purposes.

Mr. John headed down into the basement, and faced massive stockpiles of cocaine, LSD, marijuana, and other such drugs. He enjoyed these frequently, and used them in large quantities. And well, his mind was elevated while he used them.

John also had an enormous swimming pool, a great mass of video games, a huge farm devoted to him and him only, a large personal gaurd, a bank in his name, a town named for him, a this, a that, an everything.



John faced the cold of the snow, defiant, in his hands, a bag of cocaine; a gun. He took one last look at the police before he raised his own barrel to his head.

There was blackness, there was whiteness. But there was no grey.

[BugHunter]

What the frell? And look who decided to show his face again. Someone owes me five bucks!

Oh and uh... I'll read everyone else's writings later.

[Coral]

3 entries found for metaphor.
met·a·phor Audio pronunciation of "metaphor" ( P ) Pronunciation Key (mt-fôr, -fr)
n.

1. A figure of speech in which a word or phrase that ordinarily designates one thing is used to designate another, thus making an implicit comparison, as in “a sea of troubles” or “All the world's a stage” (Shakespeare).
2. One thing conceived as representing another; a symbol: “Hollywood has always been an irresistible, prefabricated metaphor for the crass, the materialistic, the shallow, and the craven” (Neal Gabler).

[Tassatul]

Thats only two Is there some hidden meaning?

[palla]

Seeing as this most certainly concerns writing, I will post my announcement here. I'm sorry to jump in during the middle of a conversation. Apologies to all who would take offense.

Okay, its almost mid October and I don't know how many of you have given this much though. National Novel Writing Month starts at the beginning of November, the first to be exact. While you can't do any actual writing until the countdown begins, you could start work on plot lines, character summaries, and a lot of other stuff at this time.

www.nanowrimo.org

I participated in this last year and its a good networking opportunity, as well as a deadline if you work well with one. It might seem like a silly idea, but even if you dont meet the 50,000 word deadline, its fun as heck!

[Cobra5]

We should just rename this thread, "Everyone we thought was gone..."

Next thing you'll see Chris Griffon and Abishai in here.

Actually... that'd be really cool..

[BugHunter]

hehehe