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| Title: Road to Freedom
Rating: PG
Summary: Set in the 1870s. A seventeen year old white man dreams of being a teacher, and is granted his wish to hold a temporary teaching job in a negro village. At this village, he deals with racism from both sides: a negro man who does not want him in the village, and a small group of whites who cause trouble for the village and anyone who tries to help or befriend them. ASR (PG) rating for non-graphic violence and racial themes.
Notes: This is my latest story. I wrote it few months back for my creative writing class. I will confess that I don't think it's one of my better stories, but I suppose it isn't the worst I've written either. lol. I'm hoping someone out there will find it interesting and comment on it. Clicking the link below should take you to the first chapter. If you're interested in the story, just keep an eye on my journal for continuing chapters.
Road to Freedom - Mood:hopeful
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| Title: His Shadow and Me Author: Gomey Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Mine. Bugger off. Words: 3053 Notes: Constructive Criticism is very much appreciated and welcomed. Thanks for taking the time to read. ♥ And yes, I know the gramatically correct way is "His Shadow and I" but it's...complicated. It's the title, deal. *snick* His Shadow and Me (fake cut) - Mood:exhausted
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| Another story from me... :) Enjoy! ( Beautiful )Cross-posted in ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) shortstoryhome, which *hint hint* needs members! :) -Krystal - Mood:rushed
 - Music:mix CD
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| Hi, all! I just joined. I'm normally a fanfic writer... This is one of my first pieces not associated with television show and concrit would be greatly appreciated. I'm sticking it behind an lj cut just because I use a lot of one-or-two sentence paragraphs, so it looks a bit longer than it actually is. Plus, it addresses suicide, so I thought I should put it behind a cut as a warning.( Story Here! ) Oh, Lemon Jelly? Apparently all your advertising in 'Wake the Hope' paid off! :)
-Krystal - Mood:contemplative
 - Music:Our Town - Hollyann
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| I don't know if anything about theatre can ever be anything but fiction, since it's all representation, it's all a lie from the start. Even in autobiographical one-person shows, they'll play other people or other times and places, as soon as someone speaks in the present, except as a controlled aside within convention, it ceases to be theatre and becomes 'performance art' or stand-up comedy or a post-modern deconstruction.
Funny, that. | |
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| Hey, it's a little late, but here's what I thought of when I was told the word "breathe". Yes, I'm a smoker. At the time, I was having a bad day, and it was way too damn cold to go outside and have one, so yeah. Tell me what you think.
In & Out
Over and over again
Will it never end?
Ever present pain
Smell the sulfur of the match
Hear the crackle as you touch the flame to the one thing that helps
Long, thin, white; perfect.
Deadly, yet, so calming.
Inhale the smoke.
Exhale the tension; pain.
For the moment, nothing can touch you
You're free.
Inhale the soothing vapors
Exhale your worries; problems
The ashes fall, and with that comes a sense of dread.
Welcome back.
In & Out.
You can never escape. - Mood:tired
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| Alright - and here we are again. I've got to say that I'm really happy
with the response the community got - that was unexpected. Thanks to
everybody who's contributed and also thanks to everyone who's left
comments for each other's writing since that's what this whole thing is
all about.
Challenge #2. DEF.
Here are your next three words:
D - distance
E - ephemeral
F - fiction
You know the drill but, just in case you don't, here's the basic idea
again. Pick one, two, or all of the words. You can do them all
seperately, you can link them together - but just see where they take
you. And write something. The word doesn't need to be the title, in
fact, your writing doesn't even need to include the word you choose.
Just write, post and comment.
And have a wonderful Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa and New Year,
everybody! If you want to make this writing a seasonal piece, or just
write something seasonal as an additional challenge - by all means go
ahead.
Good luck and have fun. | |
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| there's something about concretizing things, or rather 'letting things indulge in the process of concretization themselves,' that seems to be a uniquely artistic instinct.
...
For a long time I have been afraid of the implications of commitment, running from it in any form- My diagrams on homework assignments are always shaded lightly and apologetically scripted into with passive voice and tidy handwriting. Even art pieces are only just as I imagine the art teacher would like them to be. My relationships have been predominantly in the service of the other person or persons... Life has been, up until now, a series of hoops through which I have happily bounded, looking forward to that one little doggie treat on the other side of the cone slalom.
Okay, over it.
Moving on, fearlessly.
Stand back, ladies, gentlemen, and those in between, neither, or both. This could get interesting.
(x-posted in my own, regular journal) | |
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| Hi guys..I'm new here (Hi Lemon Jelly *waves*) but was feeling a little inspired tonight so thought I would post up some writing...please be gentle..[By the by...I'm taking a microfiction module at uni at the mo...so am only writing very short stories, incase you're wondering where 'the rest' is!]
All I could look at was the tiniest of scuffs on the coffin. I concentrated on how much I wanted to hurt the man who had not been careful enough. I imagined him laughing, disrespectful, not even noticing as he brought it too close to some sharp corner. The sound inside my head- grating, violently scraping the varnish away, made me gasp.
Dad had chosen daisies to adorn the box. He said they were her favourites. Somewhere in my throat, a memory shook out its wings. Perfect fingernails, slitting stalks then crowning our blonde heads. I always kept the chains, hoping they would not wither and turn brown this time, and ripping off each petal when they did.
I recall nothing of the service, what was said, what was remembered. The only entry in my journal for that day reads, “We buried her in a scuffed coffin with a pile of weeds.” | |
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