Write Club

_writeclub @ 2005-11-14T23:03:00

2005-11-15T04:05:20Z

“Okay,” Delila whispered to herself. “This is okay. Everything will be okay.” She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She held up her young hands and examined them carefully; first counting her fingers, then each of her chewed-away fingernails. They were perfect. They always were; every morning she’d check. Once she was finished with her hands, she let her arms dangle awkwardly at her sides, hands clenched in tight fists.
“All right,” she assured herself feebly. “All right. I’m okay. Right? Yes. I am. I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s all going to be okay.”
Delila stepped in front of her full-length mirror with her eyes pinched shut. She counted to three. Her eyes opened and to her relief, her body had not changed. She took a step forward to more closely inspect her face. Her big brown eyes looked normal; they were not bloodshot or missing or another color. Long eyelashes were situated in the right place at the end of her eyelids that were just the right amount of puffiness considering she’d just woken up. Her eyebrows were perched on her forehead, plucked to perfection. The creases in her forehead were in their rightful place; her button nose and ever-frowning mouth were aligned. She counted her freckles. There were forty-eight. “Good,” she whispered at her mirror-self. All that was left were her long, black locks. Her shaky hands lifted to her head. She leaned in closer to the mirror to be sure not to miss any possible flaw. Her shaky hands sifted through her thick hair. After looking at both her left and right sides, Delila reached for her hand mirror to check the back. She kept her eyes fixed on the mirror. Three or four gray-white hairs slid between her fingers.
This was not right. Delila did not have any gray or white hairs. She was too young for that. It couldn’t be. She checked and rechecked and re-rechecked. To her dismay, after pinching herself she knew that this was a living nightmare. She keeled over; her head was spinning. She felt her heart plummet into her stomach.
“I’m getting old!” she exclaimed. “I must be. Why else would my hair be gray? None of my friends have gray hair. My parents don’t even have gray hair yet! This can’t be happening. I wonder what’s wrong with me? It must be some rare and incurable disease!” She began pacing back and forth. She stopped for a moment, put her right leg forward, and threw her fist in the air, “I’m not ready! There’s so much left to do in life, this can’t be it!” She pounded her fist into the palm of her hand and resumed her pacing. “How am I going to break the news to Mom and Dad? Should I write a will? I don’t want people I hate taking my things.” She sprinted to her desk and reached for the neat stack of loose-leaf paper in the left hand corner of her desk. She took a blue pen from the blue pen compartment of the pen drawer and began to write. In perfectly spaced script, she titled the top margin and began to list what would go to whom. As she scratched away, she continued to wonder, “What if after I’m dead people make fun of me? What if people forget me? I guess I’d better make sure I give them really great stuff.” She stopped writing and jerked around, running to her dresser. Yanking the drawer open, she began putting her clothes into piles according to whom they’d belong. “It’s too bad,” She thought to herself. “I barely got a chance to wear these. And now, they aren’t worth anything.”
After emptying her drawers, Delila descended the creaky steps into the kitchen. Every step she took was slower and more miserable than the last.
“Even though nothing really hurts now, I k now it will soon. It will hurt. It just doesn’t yet.” She tried to justify her theatrics. It was painful for her to think of the pain that would soon encompass her entire being.
“Mom, Dad, I have some bad news.”
“You know, Del, I doubt it’s even so bad. Really, how could it be? You’ve already diagnosed yourself with the bubonic plague, polio and athlete’s foot. You’ve pretty much gone through every single bacterial and viral disease known to modern medicine. I can’t even begin to guess what you have now.” Her father didn’t look up from the crossword puzzle he was solving.
“Dad, that’s just it! Something is wrong with me, but there is no name for what I have. It’s undiscovered. I’m the first person to have it! Somehow, I’m aging at an accelerated rate. This is a new disease, do you think they will call it ‘Delila George Disease’ or something?”
“Delila, you don’t have any disease.”
“My entire head is already salt-and-pepper colored. Yesterday, it was jet black! I bet you that it goes all white in a few days. Soon my hearing will go. In fact, I am having trouble hearing already. And then, who knows? I’ll lose my eyesight, and grow age spots and I’ll need to wear diapers. It’s going to be awful, Daddy.”
“Delila, is don’t you think this is a little bit far-fetched?” questioned Delila’s mother with an irritated expression on her face. “I mean, is it possible that you are overreacting?”
“Mom. No! Are you calling me – histrionic or something? I don’t understand why you never believe me! You should show a little more concern since I, your only daughter, am ailing; I could go any minute now!” wailed Delila. “Do you not understand the stress I am feeling right now? You’ve had many years to enjoy your life. I must try to make do knowing that any day could be my last. I mean, sure, I’ve felt that way since I figured out what had really happened to Fluffy!”
“You were only eight when Fluffy –”
Promptly, Delila interjected. “Regardless, it’s completely all right for one to accept their mortality; but, Mom, this is unbearable for me. Will you please be sure not to forget me? Don’t let anyone be too sad, but don’t let them get too happy too quickly,”
“Delila, will you relax for two seconds?” Delila’s father hissed, gritting his teeth. “You’re completely ridiculous. You are young. Enjoy your youth! I don’t see any gray hairs. I don’t see crow’s feet, or varicose veins. You are devoid of age spots. Don’t worry so much; it isn’t good for you. Maybe you need to consider quitting coffee,”
“Dad, I quit drinking coffee when I was twelve, but it was already too late; it stunted my growth tremendously.”
“Jeez, Del, maybe you can take yoga classes or something….”
“I’m developing a hip problem.”
“What about some art classes?”
“Arthritis.”
“Come on! That’s absolutely insane!”
“If you don’t believe me, fine, but when I cease to exist, don’t you say you had never seen it coming!” Being sure to limp a little on the way, she raced upstairs and locked herself into her bedroom. She threw herself onto her bed. She wouldn’t go to school. Why should she? What is the point of a preparatory education if she’d not be alive to go to the college she’d been accepted to? She slung her arm off her bed and groped around to find her cell phone. She excused herself from class.
Delila cried for hours; she wouldn’t be able to mourn her death once she was gone.
After an hour, she rose; deciding it was time to check her condition. Once she’d mustered up her energy, she took several steps and found that her feet felt like they were wearing shoes ten sizes too small. As she continued hobbling to the mirror, an overwhelming pain shot through her lower back, so she had finished her trip across the room with one hand gently massaging her back, trying to quell the pain. Facing the mirror, she kept her eyes shut. She counted to three and opened them. Bewildered, she stood gaping at her mirror-self. Standing before Delila was not the girl that she had seen earlier this morning. This wasn’t a girl at all; she had frizzled gray hair with Delila’s big brown eyes surrounded by puffy and wrinkly skin. Horrified, she looked down at her shaking hands, which seemed to have more veins popping out of them than usual. She balled up her fists in rage.
“I knew it!” She tried to shriek, but it came out as more of a witch’s cackle. She gasped upon hearing her new voice. “No!” She cried. “No! This can’t be! I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! They didn’t believe me, but I told them!”
Now, completely deranged, she began to grab at her frosted locks. She furiously limped back to her bed; she needed to collect herself before doing anything else. She breathed deep in and then out. She had practiced this before when she would go to her therapist. In-and-hold-and-out-and-hold-and…. She tried to stand back up, but fell back onto the bed. Neither her arms nor her legs had the strength to support her body’s weight. How could she ever leave this spot?
Determined, she tried again. This time, she was able to manage to throw herself off of the bed. However, as hard as she tried to stand tall, her legs collapsed under her like a broken card table.
“Mom!” She cried. “Dad!”
“Is Del still not giving up on this disease?” Delila’s mother asked, amused.
“She’s obstinate, I give her that. Rapid aging? She’s crazy,” Replied Delila’s father.
“What gets me is, she always is so convinced she’s going to die,”
“Well, at least she’s fervent about her beliefs,”
“Don’t you wish she’d get new beliefs?”
“Yes.” Her dad sighed. “However, for the time being, we’ve a serious hypochondriac to deal with. How do we handle this? Maybe we could schedule her a ‘doctor’ appointment. Sugar pills seem to be her panacea,”
“Just ignore it. She’ll get over it in a day or two.”
Back on her bed, Delila no longer felt like the bright young girl she had been the day before; she was a decrepit old blob, just waiting to croak. Her stomach was empty, but she wasn’t hungry. She was emotionally and physically exhausted, but could not sleep. This was it. No children, no grandchildren, nieces, nephews, boyfriends to look forward to. Nothing. Death. She didn’t know what that meant. It was just a word to her, just like the word “life.” She no longer felt that she knew what anything meant.
Forgetfulness came next. Searching relentlessly for a single memory, she could only picture herself during her last moments. What was her name? What was her favorite color? Who was her first kiss? Her entire life added up to this moment. Curled up, she was back in her mother’s womb; helpless, weak. So this was it. Over and over, she watched herself die.

Big submission due today...

2005-10-19T16:27:45Z

So I had a little fun with it.

cooking for one

corn husks slowly pile in heaps on the floor,
giving way to silk and sweet yellow,
and i surrender myself to this, shells surrounding me,
awakening with lazy eyes and a gentle warmth in my limbs,
my belly.
teased to reveal perfectly smooth tight skin, poured in hot water,
the warmth spreads, my brown orbs stretching wide and surprised.
every nerve ending plays connect the dots, creating a hungry misshapen
self portrait, straining at delicate edges, fighting to draw tighter.
stirred gently, buttered, the yellow begins to darken, the richness creates water ripples, and the portrait shrivels down to a single firm circle,
i am a bent spoon, unmoving, arched for undetermined amounts of time,
silently screaming as steam escapes from the stove pot. the whistle.

sweet, hot, yellow.
i can’t capture all the things i’ve just seen:
allen’s smile (in between kisses so many years ago),
the meteor shower in summer of 2001,
dali’s mae west installment (best viewed from the tower at the forefront of the room), the first leaves of crinkly autumn,
assaid spilling glitter across the kitchen floor,
the sea-dark that surrounds a boat at night.

i collect the silk and the piles of skin, tenderly, raw, and sweet.

Pleaaaaase

2005-07-29T16:51:01Z

Hey!
naked_city_fan. . .

After responding to your post on the most recent community entry, I perused your journal and I read an entry entitled "My AIM is True". I was interested in that, but my computer isn't really cooperating with me so I couldn't click your lj cut to what I can only imagine is the rest of your story. Would you mind posting it in here, sans cut?

_writeclub @ 2005-07-26T16:46:00

2005-07-26T20:46:42Z

Hey I saw that you guys love Klosterman, I wanted to know if you guys have read Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs and if you have whats your fav essay?

And so it is

2005-04-30T13:28:05Z

Thought I would see if you pick up what I put down with my first submission:

Eat a dick. There once was a man from Nantucket. Religion is the crutch of the weak. Silly faggot dicks are for chicks. Within all my years of using public toiletries I have always thought that, within the confines of the stalls, they are the most brilliant places to settle down and justify one’s existence regardless of their station in life. Just knowing that you are not adding to the philosophies of the stall is usually enough to set me on the right track after a serious session of relieving myself. However, this particular time the little slogans and diatribes are not having their usual calming effects on me. In fact, under my current dilemma they are making me more aware of how I could have handled myself differently, and no, that is not a euphemism for masturbation, which, had I chosen to do rather than meet a strange man I have never talked to in person, I would more than likely be enjoying the wonderful, calming after effects of having succumbed to the exquisitely delicious finish of getting myself off. Instead and rather tragically I am currently kneeling in a quarter inch of the nastiest filth you could imagine ruining a fantastic pair of Armani trousers that I bought specifically for my first torrid, or so I hoped, encounter with all that was gay. Bile began to rise in my throat and the little bit of my dinner that I ate crept up along with it, a nice reminder never to have someone order for me again, regardless of if I could read the menu or not. Not only were my trousers getting ruined but the gun that was pressed against my forehead was no doubt creating an indention that would take a whole arsenal of moisturizers to get out. Quickly as the thought of moisturizers came into my head it was soon pushed out by another: God. I am going to die. This bastard who lured me here is going to kill me. Why on earth am I still thinking of my trousers? Looks like Timmy was right about me. Let’s hope my mother isn’t. Being a gay man in the twentieth century is hard, but being a newly ousted gay man in the twentieth century can be a killer. Right before my assailant pulled the trigger and I felt an immense amount of heat on my forehead I thought about my day and how I ended up here, being shot in the head by some homophobic bastard with a killing streak and even worse, how I proceeded with our “date” when he showed up wearing brown loafers and a black belt.

Some Introductions....

2005-04-27T05:03:11Z

Hi. I'm Rob, essentially, a bum teenager out of Rhode Island who thought this sight was the coolest thing since disco the moment I stumbled upon it yesterday.

That said, I'd thought I'd throw in something for your approval.

Ah,so there you are.

Out you trump, from the loser's bar, and into the windy streets. The November wind shivers your spine as you step into the icy raindrops. Clutch your coat, stumble toward the dark end.

Spash in puddles as you mumble to yourself. Debate, laugh, interrogate, alters in pitch and slur as they change between. Convince yourself you are not alone.

Do not worry. You are not.

Feel the shadows provide warm shade from the falling skies. Comfort in the darkness. Pleasing, yet never fullfilling. Stagger on.

Touch your cheek as you wander. Feel the scar on your cheek, a drunken father's gift. So long ago. You nearly fall over thinking about it. Laugh as you realize who you've become.

It's all that keeps the tears away.

You continue to wander.

Edge, and edge into darkness, as it were.

Look for home. But where is home? Do you remember?

Have you ever really had one?

Fingers brush the scar. The muffled anger it carried long since gone. Dead with ideals, virtue, and passion. Dea with the hope and love of the world.

For you, the world has long since died. For you, you are all that lives.

Or is it the other way around?

Wander dear Travis, wander. Travel towards the shadowed alleyways, clutching the narrowing walls of your prison. Feel the tearfull skies mourn you. The dead end is your destination.

I am coming.

Look at the dying flowers before you. Slipping and snaking their way through the cracks of man's creation. Struggling to go on. Now they die.

They mark the names of natives, you know. Long sinced buried and covered in earth. Long since forgotten. Long since defiled.

Yet they are still marked. Feel the skies mourn them. Feel the skies mourn you.

You stop and realize where you are going. You pause, unsure. To go back is sin to you, I know. Drunken pride keeps you where you are. Drunken pride hs got you where you are. And now, you are nothing.

I slip through and about, snaking my way from the shadows.

You clutch the damn scar again. Search the surface, feel the emptiness the giver had and the taker has. Feel tearful rain on its surface.

Know I am the cold. The night. The dagger in your sleep. The endless slipstream. I am the shadow that trails and leads. And now friend, we meet.

You look about unknowing. You wonder absently how it should have been, or could have. How, in the end, you where all alone. The drunken carpet salesman. You curse softly to yourself.

No matter.

I come.

You tremble softly as ou feel me press against. The dagger silently slipping in yor soul. Nausea overwhelms. The eyes are closed in fear.

They open again. Fires alight in dark holes, defiance overwelms. I a little, surprised. My clutch is loosen for a moment, as his grows tighter.

I smile to myself. You earn some admiration.

I clutch deeper, stronger, and the icy blade enters you.

You stagger, desperately finding the strength to stand. You knees hit he pavement, then your face.

Defiant eyes now glisten as a beer bottle in a gutter.

His hand clutches the now rotting scar.

Tears fall from the skies, perhaps a little stronger than before.

And the natives mark his name...

The Mangnet Poetry Challange

2005-04-26T21:09:08Z

Here are the results of Matt hading me a box of magnet poetry words and letting me have at his fridge. I chalange other to try the same and share your results or if you don't have magnet poetry (which would be a shame), just pick words from the following sentinces since I used almost every word in the entire box and post your own poetic lines and rhymes. Mine fall into three categories...

1. EROTIC - garunteed to put a rise in your levis.

manipulate his tiney friend
I want you moaning, frantic and luscious with a woman's urge aching through your skin
drunk lust from bare skin
panting fast benieth my wet pink rose petal (that's one of my favorites)
heave my enormous sausage in a girl's butt
lick those feet as if he asked about a blow
shake it to the beat boy and say you want some easy play (almost rhymes)
hot wax over him would produce a cry so sordid it could leave shadows in bed (I read somewhere that after the Hiroshema attacks, the force from the bomb inprinted people's shadows to the wall)

2. PRETTY/FUNNY/GOOD - to put a spring in your step

milk chocolate is the sweet language
a gorgeous purple head trip vision
lie not my love, this delicate moment is true
a stil moon may white a sleepy void (I like this one too)
a lazy summer together will flood our winter
rock music pounding above a cool day
think like mist from a fluffy dream (i know, I know...)
mother's saggy breasts have taken to the wind (say it with a british accent, even funnier)
One shot of blue up and away, will hit like a car on a pole
thousands of diamonds spring with life as I trudge through the goddess garden (inspired by lucy in the sky)
the smell after an essential rain of the forest pleases like a gift
he who reads are none to ask (sounds like an old saying)

3. EVIL - not your diet coke version

mad timing has stopped her delirious chant (kinda Edgar Allen Poeish)
rusty knife rips the weak apart to sing screams full of death in the sky
the sum of your beauty is only a ship on a sea, you are repulsive to me (yay, I made it rhyme!)
cook my love bitter and raw like red meat
he uses power by some apparatus of robbing me until I fall (I was trying to use the word apparatus)
why place sad chains between us when we had the languid crush
watch as she drives a mean stare to get them gone, yet never lives like black iron
sit and drool to TV shine (what I'm about to go do...peace!)

If there are Romance Writers n this Group:

2005-03-01T09:00:22Z

Romance writers are deadly serious about their writing. They sweat and bleed, swear and plead as they birth page after page after page and then somehow (this part's magic -- I can't explain it if you haven't experienced it for yourself) manage to pull it all together and produce a deeply moving love story. ~A Writer

I’ve been writing since I was a child, but recently I have been following up a dream of mine to becoming a published author. To achieve this goal, however, I realize there are a lot of little things that make up the big picture. Creating a tangible plot, forming believable characters, and having the stamina to finish what has been started.

Although I belong to a number of critique groups for various genres (_blueberrybagel is one I formed for original fiction of any genre), I noticed there really isn’t any for romance writers of any type…thus the reason for joining forces with (astutebunny to form one using bodice_ripper as a place for writers and even nonwriters who want to discuss gender issues. If romance is something you like to write, hope you may one day publish, and would like to be part of a critique circle while discussing the aspects of writing, please join.

~*~*~*~*bodice_ripper~*~*~*~*~

*crossposted

So I tried to write a ghazal...

2005-02-16T18:26:19Z

google "ghazal" and try to write one. it's fun, even though mine leaves something to be desired.

the night before last

resounding, rhythmic, glistening drops
plink down heavily, fat water drops.

the tension in his face melts, drops
he falls down, weeping, smiling, drops.

salt and acid mix, forming sky drops
chemical cloudbursts matching eye drops.

i watch from the window, big heavy drops
pouring from my eyes; puddles make splash drops.

stomping in puddles, he smiles, tiny lake drops
he falls to his knees, eyes heavenward, the earth stops.

a chocolate haired girl has just witnessed soul drops
a humbling cloudburst, faceburst; wet drops.

i dont know how long its been since ive written...

2005-02-12T17:56:48Z

a short story with a valentine's theme.

He jangled the change in his pocket with one hand while fingering the cellophane of the twin saltine package with two fingers of the other. Free crackers with soup was some kind of unwritten culinary law, and he wondered how many people actually ever ate them. They tasted like sawdust to him. But then, so did most things lately.

She was twisting a curl as she eyed his belt, brown and dearly worn. He was a small man and quiet, dark lock of hair falling over the one eye almost as if on purpose. Soft features, pale, a kewpie in an olive jacket.

It was not until he heard her repeating Could you pass the salt? that he noticed her. He turned his head and his large eyes took in her mass of red hair, the paisley scarf that half restrained it, a nose both pert and freckled, the little lines at the corner of her pink questioning smile. He passed the salt with a nod and half smile. I do like salt, she said, on 'most anything. Pepper too. And salsa? You get me near a bowl, its half gone before the chips are scarcely touched. Yeah, I’m a girl who loves her condiments. He sensed her pratter was from nervousness and a desire to somehow breach the silence between, however awkward the attempt. So where are you from? she finally found the point she had been circling.

Not here, he replied. Back east aways. I’m just passing through. End it there, he thought, but surged instead forward- You?

Oh I’m a local. I just like to haunt this particular joint. Food is good and sometimes you meet an interesting traveler or two.

He wondered if she was a prostitute. She didn’t look it but you never knew. Born and raised here? he asked.

Yeah, she laughed a little, (embarrassed?) well I always meant to get out of here, college and all, you know, but life as a way of making those decisions for you (yes, definitely embarrassed. She feels smalltown and plain and desires to come across as otherwise).

He agreed that it did.

She cleared her throat and commented, you’ve barely touched your soup.

He set the spoon back down, just now aware he had been absently toying with it. Oh, its fine, I just haven’t much of an appetite.

If you’d like some fries, help yourself she gestured to her plate.

Offering food from her plate. God she was precious. So how old are you… hey, come to think of it, I don’t believe I caught your name

Oh, I’m sorry! So sorry, I’m Shelley, and I’m 22 well, you know.

Married?

Was. Not no more. I don’t stand for a man whos' get rowdy and don’t respect his woman. And I don’t stand for a man who loves his drink so.

That’s good. You shouldn’t. No woman should.

They were quiet.

Any children?

Two beautiful boys, one five and the other’n just barely one, they’re my pride and joy. Niece is watching them for the night, thought I would take an evening to just come and get some coffee and relax myself, I spent all day painting the outside of the house touching up the trim and whatnot and I’m darn near tuckered out, it was fiercesome hot out today.

Yes, still is, he said, noticing the bit of sweat collecting at his own brow.

More silence passed between them. The woman, a girl yet, really, was examining her fingernails with a sharp intensity.

Fancy a walk? She ventured. I imagine you haven’t seen much yet of the town. Not that there’s much to see, heh.

He thought for a moment, his throat growing tight. That I would, he said, and took her arm Like a real gentleman she thought.

She took him around the few main streets and indicated the places to eat and not to eat, which shops had the best wares and which were tawdry trinkets with inflated prices meant for tourists. She filled his ears with simple tales of country happenings and made his grave countenance twist into a smile more than once.

The sun was setting as they meandered along a trail through a field of wild grass and queen anne’s lace. …and back here's about where I live. Silence. I suppose I should be getting home, now, its getting late and...her head was turned away but as she trailed off she turned it back, looked up at him with clear blue eyes and reached upwards with her slender neck to place her lips to his.

The soup spoon pierced her temple just where he intended. He gave it a good twist before he let her fall.

He walked away calmly, jangling the change in his pocket with one hand. Tossed, carelessly, the packet of saltines into the weeds.

Danny

2005-02-08T15:39:19Z

Darling

My sweet, my love --
What have you done?

With sinful sour hate
you have filled my soul.
I have melted from
your tower of light
into a ebbing pool
and flowing disdain.

What is this that breaks us,
what came upon our hour?

Who are they that tainted me,
why have you painted me
with tears and messy mascara.

Mmmmm.

2004-12-02T05:18:28Z

Depresssingly enough, I haven't been writing anything outside of papers. However, I did finish "Ulysses" by james joyce this week and Penelope struck me as beautiful... So I can give you the tail end of that. (the whole chapter, hell, the whole book can be found online at www.bilbiomania.com) defyapathy, I think you'll really like this.

I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the beautiful country with fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours springing up even out of the ditches primroses and violets nature it is as for them saying theres no God I wouldnt give a snap of my two fingers for all their learning why dont they go and create something I often asked him atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off themselves first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why why because theyre afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market all clucking outside Larby Sharans and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the posadas glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

A board game that couldn't exist.

2004-11-17T05:25:26Z

House Rules

Disclaimer No. 8: no unauthorized or "house" rules allowed, as it may cause mass chaos in perpetuity throughout the universe.

All players must start in the middle of the board and either advance to the beginning or regress to the end.
Deciding who moves first will be based on the length of each player's hair (from the crown of the head). The player with the shortest hair moves first. If one player is completely bald, they automatically lose, exempt only if they have a beard at least four inches in length or more, in which case they move third. If two players have exactly the same length hair, their placement is therefore detemined by a duel to the death using the large hand axes included in the game. The player to live moves second.
This game is intended to ONLY be played on the ceiling. Caution--! do not attempt to play near ceiling fans or outdoors. There are two exeptions to this rule: game may be played on the floor only if in outer space, or the inner depths of the earth.
Landing on the "LOSE ONE TURN" square entitles the player to move twice the next turn.
Landing on the "ROLL AGAIN" square causes the player to your direct left to sponataneously combust, or if in Madrid, Spain, freeze to death at absolute zero temperatures.
Rolling a seventeen(17) is a class B misdemeanor; rolling a six(6) is a level two(2) felony in Massachusetts, Delaware, Wyoming and Florida; rolling a negative four(-4) (as some sides of the dice have negative numbers) will surely get you deported to Brazil in three (3) days time. (Note: Pack well and bring a toothbrush. You may also consider a pillow and a snack for the plane ride. Summers can be extremely cruel so pack a dehumidifier, and light clothes. We recomend brown corduroy shorts and t-shirts. No pets, siblings or kin permitted.)
first player to lose automatically wins.
Players not obeying all the rules to the full extent are subject to being considered smarter than the other players and so may therefore forfiet their turn in order to do something more productive in the world.

Disclaimer No. 19:(censors added by orders as a precaution to national safety and homeland security.) This game contains vital subliminal information including documents as well as audio and visual tapes concerning --------------certain recent wars---------involving------------------------to maintain plausable deniability, as well as propoganda supporting the FBI's connection to---------------. This can be achieved by------------, using the dice roll a----,then----------to the-----green square. Caution, this information is extremely confidential and should not be told to anyone untrustworthy or under federal suspicion.

These rules are merely a guideline. Feel free to make up any house rules you see fit along the way. The goal here is fun! Remember, it's only a game.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

note: in the original paper version the "censored" part was crossed out with a thick black editing marker.

E=Fb (musical science)

2004-11-12T17:28:46Z

I went to Royal Oak to read. I got a tea and I started reading on the corner, and all those people, you know the ones, they were there. All the people I don't know, with pink and red and blue hair. Most of them trashed.. All of them talking about getting trashed. And some older guys, some homeless. Kim, who as always had an innocent bottle of juice with some kind of alcohol in it. In her other hand a freshly lit cigarette. Some guys in a Hummer drove by and I swear, I'm not kidding or exaggerating, they had thirteen televisions inside. Three on each visor, one in the middle, where the rearview mirror should have been, a few on the backs of all the seats, a few hanging from the roof. An even bigger "Fuck you" to poor people than getting a sheet of real gold to eat with your desert at fancy restaurants.

Not surprisingly, I once again got asked if I could hook some people up with some drugs. I learned the best thing to do in that situation is ignore the person. Fuck them if they want to judge me on my dreadlocks and Salvation Army clothes.

The hummer passed by a second time.

And I was talking to Kim. She'd been reading my journal about how I was saving money to move someday. She drank more from her blue alcohol drink, in it's Hawaiian Punch "bodacious berry" bottle. And smoke swirled around her.

A little later, a blond young guy came to the corner with his guitar. He could play pretty well, and his voice was okay, at best. Another guy, an old guy, came over and played a recorder with him for a while. The Hummer passed by a third time, all the TVs glowing. The guys inside, they were twenty four at the oldest.

The recorder guy was bad. It was random and choppy, and kept coming back to the same note--the wrong note--every few seconds. He apparently only knew one key, and at the time it was about an augmented fifth away from what the guitar guy was playing. The notes resonated painfully, the waves not at all meshing. But I ignore it all and I’m reading and I have my tea.

And for the fourth time, I've got a red Hummer with chrome wheels and thirteen TVs inside. They're just circling the block. That's how cool the Hummer with TVs is. They got the money for this from their parents or from drugs or black mail or something. Without being prejudice or stereotypical, I can say beyond all doubt that they did not get it from real, manual labor work like working for a company or business or stock markets or selling goods.

The song ends and I go over. There's a small crowd around. I talk to the guitar guy and mention that I play elec. violin. His eyes light up. He's been looking for an elec. violinist for like four years, dude. Seriously, he's interested. So Hi, I'm Damien. And Hi, I'm Johnny. And he took my number and said really, seriously, he's gonna call. But I’ve heard people say it like that before. I know I won’t hear from him again. And a red flash went by on the road followed by thirteen little glows.

Then suddenly there were only about four people on the corner, not counting two police officers. "Bye Lupo, I'm gonna go drive around." and Kim was gone with her little bottle of neon blue poison. The guy with the guitar left too, only more innocently than most of the others; he had a show to get to. I went to the cops and said, watch this hummer coming down the street, isn't that illegal?

Damn, he said. Look at that shit, he said. That's a lot of TVs...uh, yeah, that's illegal. Any time the driver has one in front of his view, yeah it's illegal. And he went back talking to a shirtless punk and a kid with a skateboard. And I read a few pages and I left for home.

On the way down the street, I stopped at a red light, next to the Hummer. I yelled out my window, whatcha watching in there anyway? Fuck you, one of the guys said. And I said, okay then. And I stayed cool and just thought, maybe they'll get a ticket. Or into an accident. Or maybe they'll get their Hummer stolen. Or blown up by the mafia. Or something.

(I just joined. Hi everyone.)

belly button

2004-10-26T00:43:13Z

You know that feeling.

The one that starts in your chest- a tightness pressing against your ribs, your breastbone. It's not a fluttering, or a pattering, just a constant push, like your heart doesn't have enough space to hold your feelings. While you worry about your bones breaking and your skin bursting open to accomodate the pure white light inside of your abdomniopelvic cavity, that sensation lessens. It slides up your throat in the form of a lump. The teary eyed lump, where you know there's nothing to cry about but if you open your mouth to release the thoughts trapped in your cheeks your face will suddenly be wet with salty passion, you'll be left gasping for breath as though plunged under a wave during high tide in the Pacific. Before you know it, it's coming for your eyes. They cannot be closed, for fear that the water gathering in your eyelashes will be unleashed in a frenzy, a torrential storm which will allow no survivors. In your shellshocked state, eyes wide as saucers; the white light, no longer threatening to burst out of your chest, is pouring from your eyes.

You realize you don't have to speak- everything that you could ever say is shining out of your face. The tears come anyway, tears of relief and gratitude, rivulets of love sliding down your cheeks. Those tears are the most beautiful form of self expression you could ever give the world. You don't have to paint a mural, or build a hospital, or write a book; this is the culmination of everything you've ever wanted. As you leak passion from every pore of your face, it becomes easy to write a book, to change the world.

Looking up at the light through a curtain of salty water and curled eyelashes, you've unlocked every secret the world has ever locked away.

This is honestly nothing, I was just trying to capture how I felt last night. Please tell me if it makes sense, and if you feel like it, try to write about a feeling. I doubt I'll use this exact text for anything, but I want to know what you guys think because I'm sure I'll want a character to feel this way in one of my stories. Blah blah, sorry I haven't posted in a while, I haven't been writing as much as I like to. I look forward to hearing more from you cats and kittens.

_writeclub @ 2004-10-19T20:39:00

2004-10-20T00:40:39Z

I had a dream
about a little girl named Josephine

She has big blue-green eyes
and dark brown spring curls in two pink bows,
freckles dotted across her nose.

She walked over to me toes turned outwards
the way I use to waddle when I was little.
Then she fell backwards.
"Uh-oh," I said, playfully,
but she just giggled at me and said,
"Mommy, you're silly."

This is just a piece I'm working on. It's not finished yet

2004-10-18T03:59:55Z

Lonely

I feel like
I can’t pile on enough blankets at night,
to melt the ice droplets resting in place,
the space beneath my eyes.

I search for a warmth
to thaw this frostbitten face.
My skin is chilled numb
crying out to be touched.
My lips long to taste.

I rest upon the hearth, alone,
try to catch a soothing heat.
My nerves regain their feeling.
the tears melt and trail down my cheeks,
but
My face is still it's colorless white
my blood is still ice
splintering under the skin.
My bones are frozen,
brittle, like winter twigs.

its rough, choppy, repetive, the same way being obsessive compulsive is, redundant and out of order.

2004-10-06T21:36:33Z

Pound

I'm chasing you through night time wonder,
forcing you to think of me and what could be.
Screaming at your heals, tripping you.
I love you, I do, and I want to make you see.
I will, I will run after you and pound it in your skull.
You are just blind, i know how you feel.
You cannot deny, you cannot appeal.
If you say you don't want me you're a liar.
If you say you do, you're a liar.
Chasing you, trying to force my thoughts in you head.
Stop hiding how you feel with lies.
You don't even know what love is,
so how can you say we aren't in it.
I know we are i smell it.
You're cold sweat, your fear, i know whats behind your eyes.
Stop trying to tell me know.
I'll chase you till you fall,
chase you till i'm all.
I'll pound it in you skull.
When you don't love me,
I'll make you.
When you do,
I'll hate you.
Because it goes my way, I don't care what you say.
You never will be loved by anyone else anyway.
So why even try to run, everyone else is behind me.
I'll pound it into your soul.

The new plan is the old plan.

2004-10-06T05:39:39Z

Write a story about compulsive behavior.

I'm not giving you any further ideas, because I think this can go a lot of different ways and I'm excited to see how it plays out. I'll put up my compulsive behavior story by Thursday or Friday at the latest.

_writeclub @ 2004-10-04T23:42:00

2004-10-05T03:43:18Z

I figured i post something in this. Its just something I wrote when I was bored a long time ago. Sorry for the mispelled words.... It might not be that good but its ok..........

It was a cold, dreary night. Signs of a thunderstorm were everywhere. Gray clouds closed in on the ocean blue sky, like an animal closes in on its prey. As the dark sky consumed the earth, the trees rocked back and forth. Leaning so far down, they were only inches away from touching the ground. The wind hit them swiftly and fiercely, breaking hte trees branches and scattering its fall colored leaves throughout the rough ground. The smell of rain was in the air, but no one could have been prepared for what was soon going to hit them. Just before the first drop broke through the storm covered clouds, a flock of startled birds flew up into the sky. With the fear of a small child who had just seen its worst nightmare in their eyes, the birds flew quickly off into th nights sky.
Within minutes later, a bomb exploded in the unsteady clouds. Cold rain drops burst through the clouds; crashing upon the ground like a stamped of angry bulls. AFter each new drop of rain came another, hitting the now damp and muddy ground harder and even harder then the last. Thunder shook the earth, as lightning struck the unprepared ground. While the earth shook from the thunder, the ground rumbled each teim ethe lightning struck it. Every flash of ligtning lit up the sky.
Then the wind began to pick up to a faster speed, like a race car trying to finish its race. Everything was beign blown in different directions and the gray clouds were getting darker by the minute. On a corner of a street, a red, breat up stop sign was torn out of the ground and thrown agressivly onto a nearby lawan. Screen doors were beign swung open, as everyone ran to take cover in their homes. Just as the last door was slammed shut a large funnel appeared out of the nights sky. It raced along hte stree, thwoning cars, trash, and trees in every direction. It swiftly crashed upon house by house, bulldozing them into the ground. Pieces of all the houses were thrown around, smashing into anything blocking its way. The street was being torn apart as the most firece storm became worse and worse. Soon the city would just be a memory , a dream taht people once knew as reality. The hopes and dreams of these people were being crushed like they had never meant anything to anyone.
The funnel was moving faster and faster, as rain hit the ground so hard it bounced righ back up. Rain was consuming the ground and the earth, filling the streets and the sewers till they began to overflow. LIghtning began strigking the trees and they came crashing down to the ground with a loud *thud* that could be heard from iles away.
The storm raged though the night until the early morning. As it slowly began to settle down, the gray skies began to fade away, letting shine through the bright suna nd deepest of blue sky. Rain drops dripped form what was left of the shattered city and flowed into the sewers that still remained. The sky glowed like it had just been reborn. REady to stat from teh beginning people came out of hiding to rebuild again what they not long ago once had in the palm of their hands. AS they looked up in awe, a brightly colored rainbow stretched across the reborn sky.

_writeclub @ 2004-10-04T10:31:00

2004-10-04T17:18:19Z

i only see black and white, white powdery lines on black table top. razor blade lies near by. its all i see, and its all i'll do. line after line after line. suddenly the room seems to be spinning, round and round until all that was is no longer and i move on to my high place, my mountain, my veiw from the top of my little world. nothing stops me, the things i say and the things i do just flow. i do not care and i do now know. people stare at me as a lag down the street, smiling, waving, strangers seem to sense that i am not normal, but i dont care. my abnormalities are my happiness. hours fly by and it seems like minutes, and already i feel sick. i need more, i can feel the stares and the empty eyes looking into my empty soul. i have been walking so long i don't remember where i am, and i need to find my lines, i need to find my black and white. stumbling along, cursing myself and anyone who passes by, i grapple at everything and anything searching for some sort of release. i blink and suddenly it's night and across the street from me glows LIQUOR. i start to cross almost hit by a black mercedes and an angry man in a suit. i bark at him. the door rings as i step in and it echos endlessly in my ears, i cringe. i don't care which one or what it costs, i find a bottle with the highest number and pull out some sort of card from my pocket throwing both across the counter a little asian woman scowls at me and i scowl back. once i'm outside again i find an alley and i slump against the wall struggling with the lid to my bottle. i drink walk and drink and walk until i fall asleep, i wake up and i'm in front of my house. slowly i stumble inside find my little box of treasures, and suddenly once again all i see is black and white.

i have no idea what it's like to do drugs, i have no idea if this is how it feels. this is how i would see it...i didn't know what else to write.

You are sugar, you are spice.

2004-10-04T16:32:14Z

it's been a while. mac OSX isn't compatible with the new livejournal "update" program.

new ideas to write on, if you need them:

-a story in which the main character cannot get warm. not as in, they fell into a lake and are trying to warm up after, but as in their cold is a lifelong condition.

-carry on with the drug/drug inspired/induced writing, because i love reading things.

-anything else you want.

happy autumn, everyone. i'll put something up by the end of the week, school has had me really swamped, and i'm sure 90% of you are in the same boat. lame, i know.

on that note...

2004-10-02T13:06:09Z

A New Jealousy

I’m tired of having to compete with drugs,
like that hot stuff at the party tryin to get some,
the one that says, “come with me.”
and
“I’ll show you things you’ve never seen.”
and you agree because you think you need
something else, to make you whole,
to be complete.

This is the new envy.

Why can’t I be
as good as your weed?
Your DXM,
your LSD.
your triple c’s
I’m jealous of your ecstasy.
Those sensations and intensities,
Shouldn’t they belong to me, only?
Just let me provide your cloud nine.

But how can I measure up to your highs?
On meth, you’ve never felt so alive.
You’re a superman.
How can I compare
to your heroin?
Everyday it’s a new experiment.

I guess I just wish,
I could be the adventure
the addiction.
I wish you could need me
instead of needing your fix,
your codeine.
Let me be your morphine.

Don’t choose your death over me, please.
I’m so
so tired
of having to compete.

This is the new jealousy.

off-topic, but that's ok, right?

2004-10-01T02:54:42Z

if anyone in this group is straightedge or super against drug use, i apologize and don't read any further, i guess.

i wrote these to document two separate mushroom trips, thought i'd share.
tell me what you think, or don't, haha.

Digested Mentality

7 hours away from anything real
420 minutes stare me square in the face
and mock my existence,
while the clock on the wall is melting
and no one seems to care that
the general movement of the carpet
is driving me insane.
and secretly i just can't wait
for the warmth of my own bed
and to be in my own state of mind
with the comfort of knowing
that it's impossible for a picture frame to talk.
but when i can't think of tomorrow because
there is only today,
and when i can't think of yesterday because
it just doesn't make sense,
25,200 seconds laugh at me
while 420 minutes mock my existence
and 7 hours ago i could think straight.

Digested Mentality, Part 2

And so the hallway starts to tilt and I can see my reflection at every angle. Like some kind of fun house, distorted and skewed in such a way that I begin to feel nauseated, but not enough to think much of it at the time. It's not like I can feel much anymore anyway. I try to walk further but I realize that I'm only sinking slowly into the ground, and the walls that contain my reflections are breathing, laughing, and then breathing some more.

You are inside my head, you know what I fear most.

More frusterated I become and I try to kill my reflection, but instead I just create 2,000 smaller versions of myself, each shard now bloodied by my weakened fists. This is not a dream, I say, this is really happening.

Smoke begins to fill the room so now you try and strangle me and go unnoticed. But I know you're suffocating right here with me because you're the type of person that likes to look others in the eye while you're stabbing them in the back. And it feels wonderful, drowning in your own contaminated pride.

And now the walls are closing in, inch by inch until all I see is smoke and darkness and all I feel is the dull pain of my injured fists. I dissolve into the air, because it's easy to dissolve when you're already half invisible. Only now the pain intensifies and I sink beneath the floor into another version of my nightmare. I feel nauseous again as the room starts spinning and 2,000 bloody versions of me rotate above my head. Creating 2,000 new universes, that, even if I wanted to, I could not reach. Because they are millions of miles away, and I give up too easily. This is not a dream. This is really happening.

i didn't spend too much time on the second one so i know there's a ton of fractured sentences. i'm not too sweet with those, sorry.
anyway, comments&criticism are more than welcome.

You can't even tell it's a superhero yet.

2004-09-22T18:37:49Z

I can see her reaching for me, even though it's foggy and wet she seems bright, luminous. She looks like she does on tv, save for the strange light emitting from her mouth; the sky swirls around us and I realize that we're part of the sky, my skin fragments, a fine dust pushed into her disassociated molecules by the wind and it doesn't matter that her vocal cords have dissolved, and I can feel us blending, swirling like tornadoes of fallen lea---

I can feel my brain implode as I am slapped harshly into the conscious world. I hate alarm clocks.

Snooze button.

My roomates are cuddling on the couch when I come home and they invite me to sit in between them instead of just ignoring me when I come in. I curl up, wrap myself in their blankets, and allow them to lay their legs across my lap. I look up, but the tv is gone, and in its place is a picture of my mom. It's kind of boring, really, but when I go to say something no sound comes ou--

I'm jilted awake once again by the harsh reality of a 10 o'clock staff meeting. I reach for the snooze button, but force myself to sit up, set my feet on the ground. Once I'm out of bed, there's no going back. Brushing my teeth hurts, and I realize that I've forgotten to sleep with my retainers in again. I can feel my teeth shifting back to their messy positions, the ones that it took five years of orthodontia to manipulate into straight even rows of chiclet-like teeth.

A shower would be nice, but I don't want to subject my hair and skin to the barbaric icy cold water so early in the morning-- The pilot light went out last week and no one's bothered to fix it. In retrospect, I don't even think I know how, and I splash kitchen sink water on my face after filling the coffee maker with excessive amounts of coffee grounds. I never learned the proper amount to put in the tiny white filter, so I estimate. I like my coffee black, anyhow. I've gotten so used to my own foul sludgy brew that I don't even like the weaker shit coffee shops serve.

I can hear it bubbling through the dirty white machine, and I hasten to my bedroom to get dressed. I'm supposed to wear khakis with my grey work t-shirt, but my khakis are dirty. I could wear my green or my blue work shirt with jeans, but I can't even see a touch of green or blue cotton blend in the heap of clothing that sits atop my unused armchair. Grey and denim it is, I sigh, hoping I won't get written up for violation of the dress code. I tear off my long pajama top, the only remains of my exboyfriend; and throw it into another soft shapeless blob of floor. My once white bra is now stained with dirt and sweat, but I put it on after smelling it and deeming it clean enough. I pull on white tube socks, pink underpants, and my cleanest jeans. The grey looks okay with the dirty rinse, and I praise myself for buying dirty rinse-- Less laundry. I pull out my blue gym shoes and slide two hair ties around my wrist, rushing to the kitchen.

The coffee is ready, and its smell is polluting my tiny kitchen. I find a clean mug and pour, drink, scalding my mouth, repeat. I choose a banana from the top of the fridge and race out to my waiting carpool.

"Took you long enough!", roars Jordy as I pull the passenger door open. Jordy seems to wake up perfectly pressed and clean every morning, with energy and excitement. I think it has something to do with his bedtime and the special laundry soap his mom uses.

I grunt in response, and the car is silent all the way to work.