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[Danrul]

Hello everyone.

I had a quick peek down the page and saw absolutely no threads about the more literary forms of expression.  I thought it'd be worthwhile to have somewhere for people to post such materials, be it analytical writings, poetry, scripts, and even just narrative stories.  Its all welcome here.

What we do need to decide is whether we want people to post their stories in the forums or perhaps use pastebin or similar hosting systems to take the strain off sifting through the page.  Any ideas in this regard would be appreciated.

Well I suppose I'll get the ball rolling with a monologue I had to write and perform for an assignment. I hadn't titled the piece, but for the purposes of today, I shall call it Joe Crowell Jr.

Joe Crowell Jr. - A monologue by Daniel Tiberius Xavier Monochromatic Hake

Well good morning Mrs. Gibbs.  How's your gardening going?  Well, I guess that is what makes your heliotropes so lovely and yellow.  Well no, there ain't much need for it back my place.  Besides, I can't have green thumbs, or people wouldn't be too happy with their papers now would they, Mrs.  Gibbs.  I will.  Don't worry, I will be gentle. 

[Throws paper against side wall hard]

I've been doing this paper route now for...4 years, 4 years.  That's 4/11 of my life.  That's 1461 days.  But only 1/7 of those days is a paper day, so really its 208 days of my life.... but, for all those 208 days, I get a shiny half dollar.  If I saved up all my money, I'd have...104 dollars.  And if I saved all the money I had after buying me some strawberry phosphate, I'd have $35.20.  But if you count me buying a new baseball every two months or so, then that's another 13 dollars gone.  That means that after 4 years of hard work, I got Twenty-two dollars, and twenty cents.  Well hey, I'm pretty goshdarned proud of myself.  I got enough money there to buy myself a set of good church clothes my pop always says.  And I always says to him, “Well pop, I'll buy them soon.”  But it seems to me that having money is more fun than spending money, not to mention infinitely more useful, so, today when I come back from doing my route, I'll tell him the same thing.  And the next Saturday after that, it'll be the same again.

Now Mrs. Gibbs back there in the Garden, she's got a husband, as her being a missus would suggest. Dr. Gibbs, or, as I call him, Doc Gibbs, was properly educated up in one of those big fancy north-western colleges.  And Doc Gibbs, he fixed up my knee after I fell off Bessie, the milkman's horse.  Now there ain't nothing too wrong with it, but like he said it would, it tells me when its gonna rain.  But that ain't the point of my story.  Y'see, I was educated back in one of them fancy colleges too, 'cept this time, I weren't studying to be a doctor. No, I was studying to be an engineer.  Now, being an engineer, that means I solve problems.  Not problems like what is beauty, as that would fall under the jurisdiction of philosophy, but practical problems, like the building of a great skyscraper, or the construction of a mighty bridge.   I like to think that I would of helped people as an engineer, much like Doc. Gibbs did as a medical professional, back home in Grover's Corners. 

Yessir, I learnt a lot of things at MIT, but they were knowledge based, not applicable to everyday situations, nor were they a reliable source of income.  Sure I can help people by knowing that the addition of a cable here and there will distribute the weight horizontally and equally as opposed to letting the weight sit on the bottom of your support structure, but the crossing of a stream doesn't protect you from the darker things in life.  Now I graduated in 1912 and was an understudy on the Woolworth building in New York for a short time, but after that finished construction, I was between work so to speak.  Now this period of, unemployment, lasted much longer than anticipated.  Sure I had some work here and there, but when the war broke out in Europe, I was eager to prove myself as more than an unemployed engineer.  And hey, lets face it, I was eager to eat more than once a day. So I marched myself to the nearest recruitment centre, and like so many other young men of the time, I was on a boat to Europe before my letter informing my father of my decision had even reached home. 

Now I chose an officer role, in the naïve assumption that officers were rarely on the front.  Instead I realised quite soon that running between command tents delivering messages left me quite vulnerable.  Not only that, but the uniform I wore and the hat on my head made me a valuable target.  One day, carrying a confidential message to the commander of the time, my luck ran out.  I heard a distant shot, then the world disappeared. 

I've thought things over a lot in the time since then, evaluating my decisions from every possible frame of mind.  Its a destructive cycle of retrospective monotony that may not be helping move forward, but I'd choose seeing all these beautiful things, Mrs. Gibbs heliotropes, the white picket fences and hey, even the run down shed behind my house, over drifting away from the world into an empty dehumanising void.*

* This was my original ending, but on the night of the performance I cut it because the turns of phrase didn't work with the character, and also its kinda poorly written and pretentious and I didn't like it.

[Bree]

Cool monologue! Here's a flash fiction I wrote based on the painting Nighthawks:

Five minutes. I look up from the counter, at the soda jerk, then my watch. The numbers all run together in my blurry vision. So it’s that late. I glance at the couple next to me. The soda jerk fixes another drink- the last one- slides it to the girl. The girl with the fiery hair. The thick red lips. The eyes you could fall into forever. She takes her drink, downs it in between chugs of that stick between her fingers. Cigarette smoke and strawberries fill the bar.

Four minutes. Outside, the world is dead. Here is the last light on in the city. The last oasis of life until dawn. I look back to the couple. The man gives the girl another cigarette. Lights it for her. Meets eyes with her. Every night, they’re there. This same routine. Over and over again. She turns away, sneaking a look back at him. I watch. She turns back. He looks in her eyes again. She moves her hand closer. He moves his. Over and over again. Every night, I watch.

Three minutes. She finishes her second cigarette, and her drink. She slides it back to the soda jerk. He nods, puts it away. He knows the routine. He looks back at me, and nods. He understands. I nurse my own drink. I want to savor it, take as long as I can, but there’s nothing left. Nothing left there for me.

Two minutes. They stand up. He puts on her coat. She gives him his. Their eyes meet again. She looks back at me. I can feel that spotlight, burning down on me. I don’t have to even look to know she’s looking at me. I hand my glass to the soda jerk- I took everything I could from it. She looks at me, faintly remembers me. I remember her- too well.

One minute. They head out the door. She takes one final longing look at me. I never look back. He puts her hand on her hip. She does the same for him. They leave, a thick cold chill entering the room. The soda jerk polishes the counter, all the while keeping track of the time.

The clock rings. Midnight. I wave a hand goodbye. I put on my coat, head out the door. The soda jerk calls out suddenly. “Hey, Mel! You gonna be here tomorrow night?” I say, “Sure.” I got no better place to be.

[HöllenKobold]

Here is a poem I wrote.

Carpe Diem, Prince.
There was a prince in Ys whose wish was to
Be a princess! Tried and tried and he failed!
Prince: “Curse the natures and its awful boo!”
Off to his burrow, he cried quite impaired.
His manliness shaken, his mane tamed,
This was no prince! O poor prince! Be a man!
In town, there an apothecary, Ted.

“A potion! Five shillings, no more, no pan!”
The potion followed like lamb.
But, the pan would return in one night’s fall.
Back to cooking Grendel, life was a man.
Being a princess was not nature’s call.
He was born a man not woman! Forsooth!
No man needs emotions so aloof.

[Aquin]

I'm planning on writing a book during Nanowrimo.  Or rather someone else planned it and I'm too weak-willed to refuse.  I have an idea for the book; it's actually an idea I've had for awhile.  Once, a few years ago, somebody asked me to describe parts of the book using just one or two sentences for each part.  Here is what I wrote:

He felt his head fall forward, possessed by sleep, into the warm rising wind of the cliff as if it were kissing away his fears.

As the spear rose up through his flesh to open his ribcage, only one thought entered his mind: his wife's burning flesh. How could this grave wound be so dulled by a distant memory now that this time his chest was literally falling away from him?

The wheat fell to the ground as he stumbled across the front yard, the dry smoke trying so hard to force his eyes shut.  The flames chased and curled up the length of her once beautiful hair - yet she did not scream as the children did.  Instead, she gave him a warm smile and a look as if to say that one day they might meet again.

"Young one, you have ears but you do not listen to the wind that guides the sun through the sky into the night.  She is all around you, you should be smart enough to realize that by now."

"You had a name once, but it's been too long since anyone has called you anything but  wanderer; I suppose it suits you best."

She knew that the stars in the sky existed only because she thought they should.  Each one winked out as her attention was called to a hand pressing around her body, beckoning her back to bed.

She held so tightly to her beloved princess.  The embrace caused them both pain as memories of a spear tore right through her chest,  pressing the exhaling scream back down her throat. It was a memory that was unpleasant, unclean, and more importantly wasn't really hers... right?

[ஒழுக்கின்மை (Paul Eres)]

most of my writing is in the form of blitzkrieg fiction. it's a tradition where a group of people get together, decide on a title, and write a short story in 30 minutes to fit that title. i've done many of these, most online, one in-person. wynand and harlock (two people who worked with me on immortal defense) were also regular participants. it's a good way to practice writing. anyway, 30 of my stories for blitzkrieg fiction can be found here: http://rinku.livejournal.com/tag/bkfiction -- the one i wrote in person hasn't been transcribed to the internet, and i don't even know if i still have it

one of those blitzkrieg fictions was turned into a play in canada, which you can also watch on youtube (i myself have never watched it; i've uploaded it but i can't actually bear to watch it due to how embarrassing / strange it is to see people you never met perform something you wrote):



i also have this, an 82-page story i wrote when i was 7 years old -- spelling and grammatical mistakes all kept: http://rinku.livejournal.com/1986/09/29/

i got halfway through writing a novel a few years ago, during 'national novel writing month', but didn't finish it; it was based on the story of one of my incompleted games (tilde and the mask of :p); i may finish it one day

as for excerpts, you can always go read them at the links, but for the lazy here's one of my favorite bkfics, i like them all but this one is the most memorable, and it was one of the first ones i did

NEON GOD'S LIPSTICK SUICIDE: A COLLOQUY
BY RINKUHERO

0
LIPSTICK: INDEED SO YOU SAY -- BUT WHERE IS THIS GREAT SLAUGHTER OF MAN THAT YOU CLAIM I HAVE MADE?
SUICIDE: IT IS I, YOU SEE ONE DEAD CORPSE RIGHT BEFORE YOUR FACE -- IF YOU BUT LOOK AT ME
LIPSTICK: A STRANGE TALE -- INDEED THE DEAD DO NOT TALK, AND I SEE NO DEADNESS IN YOU
SUICIDE: THERE ARE DEGREES OF THE DEAD -- A MACHINE CAN BE BROKEN HERE BUT NOT THERE
LIPSTICK: THAT IS UPSIDE DOWN -- THERE ARE DEGREES OF LIFE, NOT DEATH
SUICIDE: SURELY YOU JEST -- SURELY THAT IS UNJUST

1 - [---------THE NEXT DAY]
LIPSTICK: I HAVE AWOKEN -- I SHOULD NOT HAVE KISSED HIM YESTERDAY HE SEEMED TO DISLIKE LIPSTICK
LIPSTICK: HERE I NOW GO TO PUT ON MY LIPSTICK ANEW -- THE GREAT NEON GOD BRAND NAME LIPSTICK
LIPSTICK: NEON GOD IS THE MOST EXPENSIVE -- MORE PROPERLY THE MOST EXPANSIVE
LIPSTICK: LINE BY LINE I MARK THIS COLOR -- NEON GREEN, LIKE MY HEART'S COLOR
LIPSTICK: NO LESS THAN IS NEEDFUL -- AND NO MORE

2
SUICIDE: I WAKE AND WORRY -- ABOUT HEARTH & HOME & DEPTH & WIDTH & GETTING THAT GREEN LIPSTICK OFF ME
SUICIDE: BUT WHAT IS THIS KNOCKING ON MY DOOR -- I CANNOT BEAR TO CHECK IT OUT
SUICIDE: I HEAR HER VOICE, WHY IT IS LIPSTICK -- I SHALL PRETEND TO BE AS DEAD AS POSSIBLE
SUICIDE: "THERE IS NO ONE HOME" -- "TAKE LEAVE OF HERE NOW OR FACE CONSEQUENCES"
SUICIDE: (AND BY CONSEQUENCES -- I MEAN NOTHING, HAW HAW)

3
LIPSTICK: I HAVE ARRIVED AT MY DESTINATION -- NONE SHALL ESCAPE MY COLOR GREEN, HEE HEE
SUICIDE: BY THE NEON GOD, YOU SHALL NOT PASS -- AND ENTER WHERE I WASTE MY LIFE
LIPSTICK: PERHAPS I MAY NOT ENTER ALONE -- BUT WITH THIS LIPSTICK ANYTHING IS ALLOWABLE
SUICIDE: GASP, NATURALITY IS RUINED -- REMOVE THAT ABOMINATION FROM YOUR FACE
LIPSTICK: NATURALITY, NAY, -- THERE IS NO NATURALITY IN DEATH

4
SUICIDE: WHAT DO YOU MEAN -- SURELY YOU MUST TELL ME WHAT YOU DO MEAN
LIPSTICK: LOOK IN THE MIRRORGLASS -- YOU ARE ALIVE IN THAT MIRRORGLASS AND OUTSIDE OF IT
SUICIDE: I NEED NO OTHER MIRRORGLASS THAN THEE -- FOR YOU ARE IN THE SAME STATE, NO, WORSE, MORE DEAD
LIPSTICK: I AM NOT AT ALL DEAD -- LIPSTICK IS NOT DEATH BUT LIFE
SUICIDE: BUT THERE IS A MAJOR CRIME AFOOT -- YOU DO NOT LOOK AS GOD INTENDED YOU TO LOOK

5
LIPSTICK: YES I DO -- LOOK, ONLY LOOK, LOOK AT ME
SUICIDE: I SHALL NOT LOOK AT THEY WHO STOLE MY LIFE AWAY -- AND BY THAT I MEAN ME
LIPSTICK: HERE, HOLD STILL -- I SHALL ADMINISTER THE GREEN TO YOU MYSELF
SUICIDE: I EAT MY WORDS -- *CHOMP CHOMP*
LIPSTICK: ALIVENESS IS HENCE -- HENCE, ALIVENESS

[siiseli]

I tried writing in english and it turned out crap.
http://paste.servut.us/read/1s9p#l6

[Lynx]

Here's a short story I wrote way back when:

It was the dawn of the age of reason in Italy when Lombard DiMedici, most hated man in all Florence, declared that he would hold a series of banquets over twelve days, at which a different quarter of that storied city would be feted and given small trinkets, so that all might speak well of him.  The poor, he said, would be given wooden florins printed with his face upon one side and the first words of the Lord's Prayer upon the other, so they might give thanks to God who gave of his bounty to Lombard, so that he could dispense this to others.  The small merchants would be given copper coins on the next day, the richer ones silver, then the minor nobles would receive gold, and so forth...

Alas for these notables, on the very first feast-day, it was the sixth course between two heavy meat dishes heaped high with greased slivers of almonds, a clear soup filled with pearl-like kernels of rice in which he toppled over face-first into his turreen, much to everyone's shock.  "Poison!" his sister shouted as the other feasters gave their own plates worried looks.  "Summon the cooks!  We will know which of them has put the poison into what dish."  And so the chefs were brought in shackles and threatened with dire torment if they did not reveal their machinations.

"I cannot tell a lie," Pias said.  "I sprinkled a small bit of death's head into the pate.  But it was not enough to kill, I swear on the Virgin Mary!  It was only enough so that it would build up over the course of twelve feast days, and so he would die before everyone's eyes on the last day..."  The next chef however, turned white.  "But I too had put a small amount of arsenic into the drumsticks coated with honey and rolled in sesame seeds..."  And each chef revealed his own machinations in turn, until the sister had had enough of the veritable banquet of poisons that everyone had eaten -- by this point, several patrons had turned green and stumbled to the door.  "You shall all be executed," she declared.  "And your heads placed upon pikes as examples to all that in Florence, we hold good cooking to be a sacred art, against which you have blasphemed!"

As the feast dissipated, she smiled to herself and used a napkin to wipe off the poisoned lipstick that she had donned before kissing her brother.

[Afinostux]

I have no proper writing, just a commonplace book style section in evernote with half baked ideas. And some limericks.

When making game engines from scratch,
Set up a script engine to match
Like google's V8,
or Python (it's great,
and can wear C++ like a hat)

Some little green men from the stars
Surf forums from somewhere on mars
They find quite sensational
Our pics motivational
And now they put cars in their cars.

You can write a good limerick
Even if you are dumb as a brick
You'll always sound smart,
There's really no art
To punchlines about someone's dick

I am not good at poetry.

[george]

I am not good at poetry.

I beg to differ. 

[Danrul]

Hey this is some pretty nice stuff.  My personal favourite has to be Lynx's short story, it's an interesting narrative. 

Here's another assignment, this time for Extension English.  The topic was 'quests' and we had to relate the chosen text to a 'quest structure' we had been given.

Half Life 2 - A Speech by Daniel Ignatious Excelsior Hake

Hello ragamuffins,

The malarkey you are about to hear is about quests.  One quest in particular.  A quest involving one theoretical physicist, 1 crowbar, a zero point energy field manipulator, and a whole lot of SCIENCE.

In Half Life 2, we follow the story of Gordon Freeman, MIT educated super-physicist.  The game itself is realistic in dramatic terms, with unity of place and time.  We never leave the viewpoint of Mr. Freeman, following him through all his ordeals.  Through the inherent features of the medium, we see a new form of unity arise, unity of perspective.  Interesting stuff really.

Mr. Freeman's call to adventure comes in the form of the G-Man.  Following on from the events of Half Life 1, Freeman is brought out of trippy interdimensional stasis, having been kept far away from the world, space, and time.  I told you, its trippy ay.  When he is told “the right person in the wrong place can make all the difference” by the G-Man in the opening sequence, we know things are about to change; we know that we have a job to do. 

We come back into the world on a train, heading to an unknown destination.  In many ways this is indicative and representative of the quest structure.  The hero is forced into the greater world, with a goal (or without) and has to make the best of it. 

The refusal of the call again comes about as a result of the chosen medium.  You can refuse the call  by quitting the game.  Its that simple. Also that metaphysical.  In one way, the person embarking on the quest is not Gordon Freeman, it is the player.

The supernatural aid in Half Life 2 is the aforementioned G-Man.  An unexplained enigma, he is not so much an aid as a silent (and often damned creepy) observer.   Throughout your journeyings, you will see his familiar briefcase holding silhouette pop up everywhere.  Though dialogue it is hinted that he represents a higher power, or is merely some sort of interdimensional talent scout.  This links to the voyeurism of the gods in Homer's 'The Odyssey' and in the classic film 'Jason and the Argonauts'.  These higher beings are flawed more fundamentally than those humans they supposedly view as entertainment.   Rather than use their omnipotence, the powers inherent from being a transdimensional god/deity figure to help people, they prefer to watch the world burn.

The crossing of the first threshold... is tricky to define.  Considering he'd been out of the universe for 20 years or so, you'd say that actually coming back to Earth would be a pretty big deal.  But really, when he first leaves the train station in City 17, alien technology and robotic structures clamped onto restoration houses and small apartment blocks like oysters to a dock, with a towering alien citadel piercing the heavens and breaking the homely, typically European horizon, seeing the world he fought so hard to defend in the original Half Life conquered by a new and foreign race of aliens, the Combine, we realise that he has left the world he knew behind.  This ain't your lab experiments boy, this is the tough gritty reality of a dystopic world.

Of course, Gordon arrives in the 'whales belly' in the most fashionable of styles; teleportation.  Whilst for his companion Alyx, who I will get to in a second, the teleportation machine works swimmingly, taking her to abandoned research facility where the resistance has set up base,  the teleporter malfunctions whilst Gordon is using it, and the Combine are alerted to the return of Gordon Freeman, who has become a hero and symbol much like Che Guevara amongst the human resistance. 

Gordon's belly becomes apparent (teehee) at this point.  He has lost contact with his old and new friends, leaving him to fend for himself in a world where is nay but an hour old.  To fend for himself in a world where he is suddenly Fugitive No. 1

Again as a result of the medium, the 'Road of Trials' is hardly limited to this section of the story.  Games without challenge and variety = not fun.  So the problem here is not to make the challenges   challenging to the character in the story, rather, they need to challenge the player mentally and force them to think inventively, whilst the 'physical' exertion and stress is left to Mr. Freeman.  This new possibility helps re-imagine the traditional idea of a quest and re-contextualise to broaden its potential.

Half Life 2 does however forego the antiquated representations of women in the traditional quest text.  Rather than being sexy temptresses with a smile of gold and a heart of malice, they are more realistic and contemporary representations of the er, fairer sex.  Though I suppose for some of the more desperate lads out there, the first encounter with Alyx Vance could be their 'meeting with the goddess'.  You know, if you find polygons on your screen sexually appealing.

The following half of the story is more roads with more trials for the most part, and the Atonement and Apotheosis would be tenuously linked. and that I'm already at just over 4 minutes of speech, I'll cut to the chase.  The decision is made to strike the citadel, kill that rapscallious scoundrel Dr. Breen, and begin the fight to retake the world.
 
The achievement of the ultimate boon comes in the destruction of the citadel.  And for all of you hate cliffhanger endings, you're gonna love this one.  The game slows to a halt mid explosion and the G-Man appears once again for his second monologue.  It appears Mr. Freeman's work is not yet complete, and that his employers are very curious to see more work from Gordon.  Fade to Black. 

[Xion]

guess I'll drop this here. Hastily written/rambled a while ago when I felt in a mood to put words somewhere.

"Red. Black. Red. White. Orange. White. Red. Purple. Purple. Gray. Red. Orange. Black."

Lareau stopped and cleared his throat. He was thirsty.

"Good." Doctor Cohart said as he placed the colored cards behind his ear, whispering something to them as he did so. They fluttered in understanding before falling out of sight beneath the doctor's tangled waves of long platinum hair.

"Now," continued Doctor Cohart, "we'll see where you stand with sound immersion. This will be your final test for the day, Loreau."

Loreau nodded. He was thirsty. The real reason he'd stopped calling off the colors was because his throat was so dry that speech had become agonizing. But he couldn't let them know that. If they knew that they'd keep the tests going.

The doctor fished out a helmet from up his right sleeve. It was a dull kind of shiny, dark white in the ill-lit room.

This must be the room where they birth the fluorescent lights that are placed in mostly-empty subway stations at night, and decripit, abandonded scientific facilities whose auxilliary power has not yet run dry.

Loreau reached out to grab the helmet and noticed Doctor Cohart's hands for the first time. Healthy looking tight-skinned things, a vibrant shade of human. Hardly in line with the rest of the doctor's features: dark, sunken eyes set close around a pointy nose, likely broken multiple times during his long-forgotten youth, if ever he had one. Skin hung loosely from his neck like a scarf, from his cheeks like sliced deli meat. A thinvisible whiff of beard trailed from his lower lip as a ghost of some loyal dog lingers by his master's feet, both unwilling to admit the other's death. For Doctor Cohart was, too, dead, it seemed. Sickly pale, with his bony arms and knobby joints shining even through his lab jacket. Like a skeleton.

Except for those hands.

Loreau took the helmet and strapped it to his head. It came down over his eyes and ears, muting the dead hum of the faded lights and blinding him from the doctor's hands. He licked his lips. He was thirsty.

From somewhere in Loreau's dark veil, Doctor Cohart's voice rang out:
"You will hear a sound, now."

Nothing more was said.

Loreau hadn't expected any more, though. They usually were vague like that.

A sharp noise sprang through Loreau's body, running up and down his spine, multiple times, in unison, separately. The sound spread to his ribs, along each one, slowly and one by one, until his entire chest ached. It felt like the sound of birds mourning for their youngest and oldest brothers. The oldest had tried to save the youngest from falling out of the nest - he was too young to fly. But he made that leap - oh, that dreadful leap! God, why did you jump! If you'd only waited, young one, if you'd only waited! Your brother saw you fall, he saw you plummet, and he went to catch you. Too late, though. You, little one, were already dead on the ground. But your brother, he was already diving to fast. He couldn't slow, couldn't stop. Eldest, though young as well, rash, unable to control his fresh flight. God, why did you jump!

Loreau sobbed heavily. He felt as those birds did. Desperate, afraid, alone. Helpless, hopeless, useless.

God, why did you jump!

the sound faded out, though Loreau's bones still ached for what seemed like hours afterward.

It was probably only minutes.

A fit of coughing racked Loreau, and his throat rang out with a hoarse, harsh bark. Dry, his coughing continued until he felt he would pass out. It was one of those self-perpetuating kind of coughs, where the more you cough the more you cough, and your throat spasms harder with each vile explosion, and your chest alights in agony, and your head spins, and spins, and spins...

He was thirsty.

"You will hear another sound, now...subject."
Doctor Cohart's voice issued once again from the darkness of the helmet. He probably wasn't even in the room anymore. Probably left as soon as Loreau put on the helmet and spoke now through some microphone sending signals to an electrode in the helmet, which then projected the doctor's voice directly into Loreau's mind.

Another noise started. Quietly this time, though. Sounded like something sparkling. Loreau's body began to quaver and wind. Sounded like something moving. Something playing over stones, laughing. Loreau opened his mouth and moaned and gasped and shook and writhed. He laughed and cried and smiled. It was water. The sound of a brook running through some northern forest in spring, just as the ices were melting. The day was beautiful. Cotton-candy clouds placed carefully upon a vibrant blue backdrop, and he was playing in the water barefoot. The trees were his friends and the warm sun balanced out the icy waters and crisp air. Loreau splashed and laughed and cried because
because
because he was thirsty. He was thirsty and those bastards knew it.

[Kekskiller]

Poetry!

Oh, void

Oh void, where are you?
Oh void, where have you been?
I'm still waiting - here and now,
Waiting where you've never been.

Oh void, what will you do?
Isn't life as hard as you seem?
Wasn't it you I had to know,
Oh void, long has it been.

Oh void - I can't tell.
I can't tell what you mean.
Maybe it's a reference,
Or maybe it's a stream.

Oh void.

Decide.

[Danrul]

Limerick time gogogo!

So there once was a man with no name,
who's income was his near perfect aim,
he lifted his poncho,
then shot the head honcho,
and he rode off with a bounty to claim

Gotta love the limerick, you can improv them on the spot.
Just remember the rules.

• The sylabble count of each line is formulaic.  it goes 33223, but can be multiplied up to say, 99669.
• Lines 1, 2 and 5 must share the same rhyme.
• Lines 3 and 4 must share the same rhyme.

So, get in here and think up some limericks.

[PDF]

I'm trying to write nonsense poetry:

Eternal

To-morrow, What ho! Warp'd to a red field,
Lord's snakes shall feast, like a laughing crow,
Hanging from the chimneys, she will hear-
The courtyard will tremble, shrieking
The witches' names, as if there were time,
Long lost, forever chained, rusted, moon reaches-
Takes her hand, and leaves fall, in a dark April's day.

[Kekskiller]

Spread the night light,
Be awake,
Soon you'll be mine,
To bake the tastiest cake.

[Xion]

A building is built to keep the most belligerent and bellicose beasts at bay behind brass bars, but the best beast beats the bars until they bend and break, bringing a bombardment of boulders bumbling down upon benevolent bipeds' bare brains and bellies.
Billions of bodies become bereft of bravado, beseeching bright beneficient beings but bringing no brilliance.
Bullying, the beasts burst into bowling alleys, big buildings, and brick bunkers, bringing burning banners borne boisterously above.
But before the beasts become boss, a brave boy brings his blade to the best beast, baring his biting backsword into the beast's brawny body.
Because of the boy's bravery, the beasts become benevolent beings.

 

[Jason Bakker]

Short story I wrote for uni. Was supposed to write something involving the Hero's Journey, but it didn't quite come out that way

Unseen
By Jason Bakker

Unseen, I see.
 
Unheard, I hear.
 
Unlit, I alight, flit from ‘top to ‘top, toes pitter-pattering like drops of rain, falling to rise again, mingling with the multitude.
 
Under my soles the city slumbers; I tiptoe across the wig, the pate, the tonsure. The eyes close – the ears don’t, but I worry not. The ears are my companions in the witching hour, and they do not betray me.
 
A spark, light in the dark. The hour is late for merriment, says I, yet curiosity tugs me forward.
 
Laughter trickles through the mist, tendrils tickling my ears. The window beckons, a glowing beacon in the darkness; looks very inviting, I must admit. “Does not!” Doubt declares, and a grumble escapes my lips before I can trap it. Doubt, my ever-present foe: the night is mine, and surrendering it to you is the last thing I plan to do.
 
Softly now I drop, crouch upon the sill. Peering in, I am rendered witless by the scene laid out before these eyes. Dazzling colour – a blaze of light and shadow, sorting itself into a vision of men and women dancing, in finery of which I have never until this moment dreamt existed.
 
A lion frozen in mid-roar passes by the window, pulling the Grim Mistress along by the hand, her face half ivory white, half ebony black, expressing a fierce and bitter longing. Loki weaves through the crowd, eliciting giggles in one corner, curses in another.
 
Overwhelmed, a hand on the latch goes unnoticed until the window swings inward and I start. Off-balance, I stumble back, but small fingers dart out and latch onto my wrist.
 
I am yanked forward, and as my soles hit soft felt, the window swings shut behind me. I look up toward the face of my saviour, and enigmatic Hestia glares back at me in greeting. A muffled voice is heard through her nostrils, but I do not care to catch it. Under that mask she is no doubt a radiant yet fragile beauty; unfortunately, her presence would hinder my endeavors, so I disappear into the sea of gods and monsters.
 
“You’re going to get caught.”
 
I do not think so, Doubt. I can and do sluice through the masses like warm butter through sheer silk, two luxurious cravings which tonight’s engagements should, for a time, sate. The coins flow into my pockets, my hands simply a medium across which they can quietly traverse. The night is mine.
 
Loki bothers me. We cut our separate swathes, yet we meet more often than not; he cackles and spins away, as I again unsheathe my finger knife. Host or known reveler, his credibility is wasted on frivolity and cheap parlour tricks. Hush, Doubt! I’m a-thinking….
 
On his next pass, I strike. A fortuitously placed chair, a subtle rap with my friend the persuader, and a maskless man is sitting, resting his eyes in a corner of the room, while Loki continues his rounds.
 
It is delectable. I am stepping through an orchard, stuffing my pockets with glimmering produce. There are no limits. A clear vector of giggles and curses reveal my path, yet no man steps before me. It is more than wealth, I admit right at this moment. It is power. My faceless victims cry out, and I laugh, deep in my chest, dislodging the timidity that had long lain hungry.
 
“Thief!”
 
I open my eyes, and the mask-less man stands before me.
 
Timidity had been dormant. Awakened, she joins with Doubt, whose derision distracts me from turning, from running. And then it is too late, my arms taken ahold of by the undeserving, the laughter and song in the room abating, abated. Cold eyes in iron masks, icy rays poking holes through my flesh.
 
I see you, roaring lion. I was like you, and now I am you – overwhelmed in mid-triumph, mouth frozen in a satisfied grin. As the mask of Loki is ripped from my face, all fades to black.
 

***

“…mutters to himself, even as he sleeps. Such a notorious mastermind, you wouldn’t expect him to be; well, frankly, I am in doubt of his sanity, Inspector.”
 
A pause, some murmuring.
 
“You can try, but don’t expect much. I’ll just let you through.”
 
The rusty iron door scrapes on the concrete floor as it opens, half a grind, half a squeal. I wake further, shying away from the light – it pains my bruised and tired eyes. A figure steps through, carrying a stool. He sets it down in front of me, and sits.
 
The door is closed, and I look up. The man-who-was-Loki stares implacably at me, emotionless and bland, his face matching his attire, which is simply revolting!
 
“He knows who you are. He is going to kill you, to chop you up into little pieces, hang you in the square, roast your balls over a fire, to whip you and make Mother weep, to -“
 
“SHUT UP!” Doubt quiets for the moment, but I feel his presence lurking close by. The man watches calmly, without moving a muscle, without a single twitch. He really needs to know. “Your suit is an absolute nightmare,” I tell him, but he doesn’t seem to listen. A little while later, he stands, picks up the stool, and walks out.
 
The door slams shut.
 
“Yes, Inspector?”
 
“Release the halfwit and send the word out: the search will recommence.”

[Danrul]

Xion, much love.  It reminds me immensely of the V speech from V for Vendetta.

Simplistic Analysis but I'm just here to enjoy y'all and your writing.

*digs around*

Wow I thought I had more writings on this computer.  I must recover my older work.

EDIT: Also, Woo!  Second page, keep it rolling.

[Lynx]

guess I'll drop this here. Hastily written/rambled a while ago when I felt in a mood to put words somewhere.

"Red. Black. Red. White. Orange. White. Red. Purple. Purple. Gray. Red. Orange. Black."

Chilling!

Unseen, I see.
 
Unheard, I hear.
 
Unlit, I alight, flit from ‘top to ‘top, toes pitter-pattering like drops of rain, falling to rise again, mingling with the multitude.

A nice piece, a thief savant?

[Jason Bakker]

Unseen, I see.
 
Unheard, I hear.
 
Unlit, I alight, flit from ‘top to ‘top, toes pitter-pattering like drops of rain, falling to rise again, mingling with the multitude.

A nice piece, a thief savant?

Something like that Glad you enjoyed it