Author Topic: In this thread we WRITE every day.  (Read 2715 times)

Malifaxis

  • Posts: 4613
    • Thoughts of the Sixth Age
In this thread we WRITE every day.
« on: October 13, 2014, 04:01:35 AM »
I break a finger when I try to draw a stick figure... but I'm told I am alright with words.

Why should artist get all the fun?

Doesn't matter if it is a word, a haiku, or a novella... write something.


Yes. Read the thread if you want, or skip to page 7 and be dismissive.
-Reiloth

Words I repeat every time I start a post:
Stop being shitty to each other.

Malifaxis

  • Posts: 4613
    • Thoughts of the Sixth Age
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #1 on: October 13, 2014, 04:02:20 AM »
Beyond the starbow wanders the nomad in chains
Riding his road and awaiting soft rains
Through galaxies that bleed songs in ancient refrains
Seeking the solace of where all love sustains.
Though great vistas roll past he spares not a glance
With eyes nailed ahead to spare not a chance
Searching past all for that one vast romance
Seeing only this cold path and avoiding the dance.
If you seek just dark rubies you avoid other stone
Pure diamonds, star sapphires, a philosopher's bone
Whether you seek to grow rich or strive to atone
It is through this long journey you have finally grown.
Seek not the orchard with bright unnamed fruit
Your home won't exist on a lightning torn butte
When you truly gain comfort within your own suit
That love it will strike and knock your stupid ass mute.
Yes. Read the thread if you want, or skip to page 7 and be dismissive.
-Reiloth

Words I repeat every time I start a post:
Stop being shitty to each other.

Reiloth

  • Posts: 4542
    • Corpse Pose: B&W Film Photography
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #2 on: October 13, 2014, 04:06:31 AM »
The crackled leaves of yester-year

Left among the hollows of withered past

The brown yellow things I cannot hear,

Given soft and torn by spring last,

Whether borne from distant sorrow,

Or granted from natural decay,

I cannot bear the word tomorrow,

Or lift the sadness of today.

Were darkness made to see the light,

Even still-moon of distant black crescent,

I would thank it so, and wish it sight,

To spurn the flight towards deep descent,

So sinks the sun into the day,

To contradict the setting fire,

Harken yet to the Lord’s earthly choir,

To respect the dead and elder ways.

And set us back to heart’s desire,

And set us back to heart’s desire.
"You will have useful work: the destruction of evil men. What work could be more useful? This is Beyond; you will find that your work is never done -- So therefore you may never know a life of peace."

~Jack Vance~

Evoru

  • Posts: 158
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #3 on: October 13, 2014, 04:08:58 AM »
The cashier stared at the dryad, uncertain. "I don't think that's included with the tree. I think it's an additional item."
   
Danielle sighed, nodded her head as if she'd suspected as much herself. "Well, how much, then? How much is it?"

The cashier looked to the dryad, who didn't volunteer what it believed itself to be worth, but instead blinked back at him and clung with determination to the discounted Christmas tree.
Clothes make the man.  Naked people have little or no influence in society.
~Mark Twain

lordcooper

  • Posts: 7840
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #4 on: October 13, 2014, 06:11:30 AM »
Sup?
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam

fuck authority smoke weed erryday

oh and here's a free videogame.

lordcooper

  • Posts: 7840
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #5 on: October 13, 2014, 06:16:52 AM »
This haiku is shit
But I do not give a shit
Postcount is plus one
Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam

fuck authority smoke weed erryday

oh and here's a free videogame.

Malifaxis

  • Posts: 4613
    • Thoughts of the Sixth Age
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #6 on: October 13, 2014, 10:28:04 AM »
Like liquid fire
Shots cauterize the old wounds
Burn away darkness.
Yes. Read the thread if you want, or skip to page 7 and be dismissive.
-Reiloth

Words I repeat every time I start a post:
Stop being shitty to each other.

Kaineus

  • Posts: 459
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #7 on: October 13, 2014, 10:36:44 AM »
Highschool poetry
Needles, broken glass, old wounds
See the post above

Kaineus

  • Posts: 459
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #8 on: October 13, 2014, 10:48:36 AM »
Sorry, dick move there
It's easy to disparage
Haikus are for chumps

Kaineus

  • Posts: 459
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #9 on: October 13, 2014, 11:00:57 AM »
Let's put a limerick on this bitch
Cause these poems, at best, are kitsch
Or just play the game
This poetry is lame
Armageddon satisfies my writing itch

Malifaxis

  • Posts: 4613
    • Thoughts of the Sixth Age
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #10 on: October 13, 2014, 11:11:27 AM »
I've seen more sincere apologies out of congressional republicans.  Way to "apologize" and still slam someone for being creative.  Good on you, bro.

Or let me put it a bit more plainly:  If you don't like the poetry or writing, then go lurk another thread.  Go play.  Go comb your beard.  Let those that enjoy it do so, troll.

Words slip soft like clawed kitten's caress
To cut gently into a lonely breast
Whether in poem or through warm jest
They ridden by muse are truly blessed.
But madness claims for creative spark
Leaving none untouched by deepened dark
Thoughts come swift as lightening's arc
To carve blood trails as a loving mark.
So hold tight those spirits who write the world
Be you a dancing boy or a clever girl
For through this life you oft be hurled
Have someone create when your world unfurls.
Yes. Read the thread if you want, or skip to page 7 and be dismissive.
-Reiloth

Words I repeat every time I start a post:
Stop being shitty to each other.

Malifaxis

  • Posts: 4613
    • Thoughts of the Sixth Age
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #11 on: October 13, 2014, 11:13:27 AM »
The cashier stared at the dryad, uncertain. "I don't think that's included with the tree. I think it's an additional item."
   
Danielle sighed, nodded her head as if she'd suspected as much herself. "Well, how much, then? How much is it?"

The cashier looked to the dryad, who didn't volunteer what it believed itself to be worth, but instead blinked back at him and clung with determination to the discounted Christmas tree.

This is fucking spectacular!  Really cool stuff :-)
Yes. Read the thread if you want, or skip to page 7 and be dismissive.
-Reiloth

Words I repeat every time I start a post:
Stop being shitty to each other.

manonfire

  • Posts: 4027
BARTHOLOMAEUS ANGLICUS [on the kok]
« Reply #12 on: October 13, 2014, 11:26:18 AM »
Also the kok is hoot and drie of complexioun, and therfore he is ful bolde and hardy, and so fightith boldeliche for his wyfes agenst his adversaries and assaileth and resith on hem and tereth and woundeth ham with bile and with spores. And whan he hath the maistrie he singeth anon, and or he singeth he betith himself with his wynges to make him the more able to singe. And he usith fer in the nyght to singe moost cleereliche and strongliche, and aboute the morwetyde he schapith lyght voys and song, as Ambrose saith. The cok bereth a comb on his hede in stede of a crowne, and yif he lesith his comb he lesith his hardinesse and is the more slow and coward to assaile his adversarie. And he loveth clerliche his wyves. And whenne he fyndeth mete he clepith his wifes togedres with a certeyn voys and spareth his owne mete to fede therwith his wifes. And settith next to him on rooste the henne that is most fatte and tendre and loveth hire best and desireth most to have hire presence. In the morewetide whanne he fleeth to gete his mete, furst he leith his side to hire side and bi certeyne tokenes and beckes, as it were love tacchis, a woweth and prayeth hire to tredinge; and fightith for hire specialliche as though he were jelous, and with byle and spores he chacith and dryveth awey from him cokkes that cometh nyghe his wifes. And in fightinge he smytith the grounde with his bile and rereth up the weyes aboute his necke to maken him the more bolde and hardy, and meveth the fetheres of his taile upwarde and donwarde that he mowe so the more abilliche come to the bataile.



manonfire

  • Posts: 4027
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #13 on: October 13, 2014, 11:33:18 AM »
One fynne somer day when softe was the sunne,
I kylled a yong byrd and I ate it on a bunne.



Kronibas

  • Posts: 1900
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #14 on: October 13, 2014, 11:58:06 AM »
Y'all let me get a
Mimosa up in this bitch
I'm Tektolones.
Karma police, arrest this man...

Barzalene

  • Posts: 7733
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #15 on: October 13, 2014, 07:50:06 PM »
Armagedon is
like a river running slow
but without water
« Last Edit: October 13, 2014, 09:25:32 PM by Barzalene »
Varak:You tell the mangy, pointy-eared gortok, in sirihish: "What, girl? You say the sorceror-king has fallen down the well?"
Ghardoan:A pitiful voice rises from the well below, "I've fallen and I can't get up..."

Malken

  • Posts: 9037
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #16 on: October 13, 2014, 07:54:32 PM »
When it comes to the Cadillac of meat grinders, it’s hard to beat the Weston 08-2201 Commercial Meat Grinder. This meat grinder will go through bones, tendons, joints and meats of all sort and then some within a blink of an eye. This is for professional chefs or hardcore meat lovers who want to grind away what usually takes minutes into seconds with its powerful, permanently lubricated and air cooled 1 horsepower/750 watt motor. When they tell you that the Weston 08-2201-W Meat Grinder can process up to 725 pounds of meat per hour, they are not kidding. If you can fit it in the stainless steel tube, it’ll grind it up without you ever having to use the reverse switch that is often much needed with cheaper meat grinders.
“When I was a fighting man, the kettle-drums they beat;
The people scattered gold-dust before my horse’s feet;
But now I am a great king, the people hound my track
With poison in my wine-cup, and daggers at my back.”

Harmless

  • Posts: 2631
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #17 on: October 13, 2014, 08:23:28 PM »
Reading this thread made me almost pull something laughing
Useful tips: Commands |  |Storytelling:  1  2

Reiloth

  • Posts: 4542
    • Corpse Pose: B&W Film Photography
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #18 on: October 13, 2014, 09:05:18 PM »
"Only the vain and insecure laugh at others rather than themselves." -me
"You will have useful work: the destruction of evil men. What work could be more useful? This is Beyond; you will find that your work is never done -- So therefore you may never know a life of peace."

~Jack Vance~

Evoru

  • Posts: 158
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #19 on: October 13, 2014, 10:04:40 PM »
Child. Time is a lie the living tell themselves. Your parents will wear the faces of your children. They will eat and shit and fuck and forget, and when you die and go into the dark place to eat the mud and scream to the gods that have forgotten you, the blood will call you back, and you will wear the skin of their children like a mask. You will forget, and you will do this again and again until the stars burn out and the pieces that are you have forgotten how they fit together. Forgetting. That is the only truth.
Clothes make the man.  Naked people have little or no influence in society.
~Mark Twain

Kaineus

  • Posts: 459
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #20 on: October 13, 2014, 10:31:04 PM »
She was told to never trust the gods in the church of dreams, but one day, Bea made the mistake of doing just that.

Like most children she was permitted to go -- to sit and meditate in the church with the others, that place where distance contracts and expands at once to mean nothing and everything, where everyone dreams at once together and at once apart, where endless shades of color come from gradients only of light and dark.

One day Bea met a god -- she knew he was a god as soon as she saw him. Standing on a roof, he was clad in colors and silks more vibrant than any of the other dreamers wore. He tried to masquerade as one of the dreamers, though he stood many heads above them, all women, some of the lasses coming only to his waist. Bea picked him out for what he was, and she couldn't stay away -- and the god picked her out. They came into eachother's embrace, and they could not be apart. And as the god shed his other lovers, Bea felt that she herself was becoming a goddess.

And she grew powerful, and the more powerful she grew, wielding weapons that left her fearless, dressed in shadows that let her move everywhere unseen, she grew bored. She grew sad, and the god sensed this, and so he let Bea know that there was a land beyond the church of dreams, the land of praxis. She begged and begged to see him. She would have to come a far way, and he had warned her.

And so she woke from her dreams of power, she woke from the many lives she had shared with the god, and she left behind the many children they had had in their dreams. It was hard to see at first as she trekked through the land of praxis. When she had finally traveled over the fields of stone and loneliness, and when she first met the god in the land beyond dreams she could hardly see him for all the dust that swirled about this land. He cast a great shadow -- a great, bulging shadow. He poured forth cups for her -- cups of stale ale that tasted like the sweat off his back. His urine-orange fur felt coarse and moist over her when they lay together, and it was nothing like the church of dreams.

But she was caught -- she had come so far, and if she went back home, would they even know who she was anymore? And soon she began to swell, like the god, with the god's child. And when the child came, he was disgusted, and said the babe was hideous like she was, and was nothing like him. It hurt, and the less the god wanted to see of the child, the less he wanted to see of Bea. And soon she hardly saw the god at all, and she knew he had gone back to the land of dreams, to the women, drab and short and so unlike her, those she thought the god would never love as much as he loved her. But now he loved her no more.

I live in the church of dreams, and Bea has not come by for some time. Where are you now, Bea? I hope you are alright. May your child never dream like you have, and may they never meet these bellowing gods.

Fathi

  • Posts: 4515
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #21 on: October 14, 2014, 04:54:19 AM »
Keraunopathy

Barry Cleroux was two under par and lining up a sweet putt when the middle finger of God reached down from the sky and flipped him off so hard his heart stopped.

He woke up thirty-one days later.

“Memory loss is a common symptom of severe electric shocks,” the doctor told him. Along with other fun symptoms: chronic pain, weird lesions, cognitive difficulties, emotional flattening.

Emotional flattening and memory loss. Hell of a combination.

Beside him in the office, a red-headed woman sobbed, each breath a shudder. She had introduced herself as Melanie. His wife. His bulgingly pregnant wife.

Barry had no idea who the Hell she was. Worse yet, he didn’t care.

--

He made it home after a month of therapy, physical and speech and psychological. The red-haired woman squeezed into the doorway and hugged him, pressed her swollen stomach against his side.

Turns out, fits of uncontrollable anger were also a common side effect of lightning strikes.

He couldn’t stand the sight of her.

--

His insurance paid out. He bought books. Lots of books. Pathology of Lightning Strikes and Neuropathology of Electrical Injuries and Coping With Memory Loss.

Each night, he sat at the table and pored over the latest. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. The damage had been done.

Melanie sat beside him with books of baby names, catalogues of children’s furniture, photos of their old life together. The person in those photos was dead. He made a point of ignoring her. He couldn’t explain the anger nor justify it.

One night, she rolled atop him in bed and started kissing him. But instead of recalling some latent affection, he was repulsed by her desperation. When he shoved her away, it was reflex, not malice. She didn’t see it that way. She probably wouldn’t have seen it that way even if he hadn’t split her forehead open on the headboard.

She was gone the next morning. With her she took the millions of little cells dividing inside her body, rapidly growing into a person that would someday be half him. Barry tried again to care.

--

Barry’s Amazon wishlist dwindled, then dried up. Stacks of journals and old hardcovers littered his kitchen, highlighted and dog-eared and post-it noted.

He could describe the mechanism by which lightning entered the body. He could identify Lichtenberg lesions and detail with painstaking accuracy the effects of electricity on flesh.

But the memory lapses, the emotional deadening, the anger that surged through him seemingly at random?

Science seemed just as lost as he was.

--

Turns out there are conferences for people who have been struck by lightning. Who knew? Barry wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but he turned up anyway.

A woman at the podium recalled when she was hiking on Mount Rainier. The ozone smell, the blue light that shone off her skin, and how after the bolt hit, she felt like she was being carried up to Heaven. Her eyes teared up and she dabbed them with her jewel-purple cardigan.

“A soft voice spoke to me as I floated toward the light,” she whispered.

“It told me, ‘not yet, it’s not your time.’”

Barry didn’t remember anything like that.

The other speakers’ stories weren’t as uplifting. They spoke of constant pain, zero support, families that had abandoned them, and how little they knew themselves anymore.

After the presentations, Barry sat on the hotel’s front steps, munching a sad, bland Danish. Stormclouds churned overhead.

Someone sat beside him. Before he could say ‘fuck off,’ he noticed it was Purple Cardigan Woman.

“You look troubled.” She smiled like some fat-faced grandma. He was silent. Her fat smile turned rueful.

“Of course, you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t troubled. What was I thinking?”

Barry took a bite of his Danish. He was bad at small talk these days.

“Your story was really… uplifting.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it,” she said. Her pudgy mouth turned downward. “An inspiring story.”

Barry could see what she was getting at.

“So it’s just a story?” He finished his pastry. “You made it all up?”

“Would you hate me if I did? Not that I’d care if you hated me. Everybody here is angry.” She rested her puffy chin in a palm. “If I can make up twenty minutes of bullshit and it gives even one person hope that there might be something better out there than this--” she waved, indicating the hotel, or maybe the whole world. “--then isn’t it a worthwhile thing to do?”

Barry wasn’t sure. It sounded like a lot of work.

“It doesn’t make you feel any better, does it?”

“Of course not.” She fixed him with a hard look. “But just because you don’t feel much lately doesn’t mean the rest of the world forgot how.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that.

“You’re young. You’re cute. You’ve got a wedding ring on. If you aren’t here for your family’s sake, why the hell are you?”

They watched the stormy sky in silence.

“I wanted to learn. I thought maybe the doctors, the speakers here. I thought someone might know....” What was he even after at this point? Even if he learned exactly how electricity had manipulated his neurons, what would it solve?

“And you’re here? Learning about lesions and and vitamin supplements?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Purple Cardigan Woman looked like she might slap him. Instead, she leaned in, invading his personal space, and spoke right into his face:

“You’re not in the wrong place, dumbass. You’re just asking the wrong questions.”

Barry gave it a think. He thought about all those little cells, dividing over and over until they became a person, and how that new person would be half himself regardless of what he did. Regardless of what he remembered. He'd call his wife. He didn't remember anything yet, but that didn't mean he couldn't learn.

--

Back home, he excavated his telephone. The receiver felt heavy in his hand.

Barry didn't know Melanie's phone number, but when he closed his eyes, his thumb knew the way by muscle memory.
Out of all those kinds of people, you got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two

Quote from: BadSkeelz
My preferred form of birth control is still rough circle.

RogueGunslinger

  • Posts: 18782
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #22 on: October 14, 2014, 04:47:16 PM »
And so they come to an impasse. The point where our cognitive thought processes and subconscious reactions can not overlap and can not be focused on independently.  Instead they cancel each other out, leaving nothing but the raw output of our own desires. It is a constant and when viewed in a vacuum seems eternal. It is only when we shift our perspective to a different angle and encompass the desire of others that we perceive the slight fluctuations and perturbations in its form. Pulsing, undulating and always forming itself to the contours of its environment. When the layers of obfuscation have been stripped away from our existence the machination of our dreams become the sole reality of our being, and a moment, we can become gods. Able to create and destroy the most basic parts of ourselves that would otherwise be considered paramount.

Akaramu

  • Posts: 6375
    • Anathema Web Serial
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #23 on: October 14, 2014, 05:31:17 PM »
Snippet from my most up to date chapter that hasn't been posted yet. Warning: if you're reading my serial, this will be a spoiler.


"Sarina, get back!" Jasper yelled as he backed away from the stage. Two, three steps, then he was engulfed by the growing expanse of blackness that continued to flow through the ceiling.

Sarina clung to the wall, gripped by ancient childhood fears of the dark space in her closet. Whatever the this was, it was growing too quickly to be avoided. Besides, her whole team had already been swallowed by it, and there was no way she could leave them behind and life with herself afterwards.

Sarina closed her eyes behind her mask and held her breath while her field of vision dwindled away. Similarly, her thoughts were reduced to one. If we’re going to die, at least we’re all together. No one has to feel bad.

Ace’s voice sounded from somewhere to the left, surprisingly normal. "I gotta talk to Raven. Gonna touch your arm."

"Okay," Sunny’s voice replied. Small, but steady.

They sound okay. Sarina opened her eyes and leaned off the wall to extend a hand in the direction she’d last seen Jasper. There wasn’t anything there, but she didn’t feel courageous enough to abandon the wall at her back just yet.

"Is everyone okay?" she asked into the darkness.

"We are," Ace’s voice said. "Don’t know about Tess. Tess?" He yelled the name.

"I am!" came the answer from far to the right.

"Don’t worry, Sara. I don’t think they’re here for us." Jasper’s voice was subdued, barely above a whisper. Sarina adjusted the angle of her arm, breathing a sigh of relief when her fingers brushed against cloth.

The sound of footsteps drifted through the darkness from somewhere ahead, followed by the jarring scrape of furniture being moved. There was enough noise to hint at several people, not just one.

"Well hello there, my friends." Sarina recognized the voice. It had already reeked of smug complacency back at the Sun King’s court, but now it had reached a new level of confidence.

"Fuck you, Raven," Ace’s voice said, thick with anger. "Crashin’ our party, here. No one said shit about you showin’ up."

"Awww. Maybe they didn’t know? I don’t talk about my contracts, you see."

A woman’s whimper drifted through the darkness, thin and broken by panic. The sound of it sent a shiver down Sarina’s spine. If they’re not here for us, they’re going to hurt the TV crew. She slipped a hand into her cloak to take the MP3 player into a tight grip.

"And that means we get paid, seein’ as we just happened to disarm those guards for you?" Ace asked, dripping sarcasm with every word.

The guard’s voices came from somewhere to the right. A few hushed words were exchanged, and one of them was apparently still on the comms, relaying a curt update regarding the ‘situation’ and ‘a Darkshaper’.

Raven continued his one man show without a care in the world.

Reiloth

  • Posts: 4542
    • Corpse Pose: B&W Film Photography
Re: In this thread we WRITE every day.
« Reply #24 on: October 15, 2014, 03:17:29 AM »
The Tourist

Sometimes I feel like the tourist // walking unknowing of the landmarks // forever in circles through a forest of unfamiliar friends // caught in the endless 22 of wanting contact and pushing away // to see all the sights in a day, maybe three, they’re all gone, bang bang // sixth and spring // dark windows // frenzied sleep // third and wilshire // the plastic privilege // the glass ceiling is ever expanding // I see my life become translucent // I fail to see the forest for the trees // I blame Los Angeles // Los Angeles is disappointed in me // It chides me like an unruly child // I am my own prisoner //
"You will have useful work: the destruction of evil men. What work could be more useful? This is Beyond; you will find that your work is never done -- So therefore you may never know a life of peace."

~Jack Vance~