Ladies and gentlemen... the WrongPlanet writing showcase

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aspergian_mutant
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04 Jun 2008, 10:50 pm

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-JR
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21 Jul 2008, 5:32 pm

I wrote this a few years ago. Now I know why I wrote it, and really don't feel as hopeless as I seem there:
(Tree was my psuedonym)

Quote:
Standing Still

Tree



Mounting the failures

Visions never seen

I've come to an end

Past is catching up to me



Fear that paralyzes

Fuels an apathy

My mind realizes

No worths in me



Symptoms of success

Drowned out by this mess

Where is the me

Those others see

Chained to the comfort

Lone self built this fort



The ship-still anchored

Rocket-still grounded

Isolation-still harbored

Ideas-still unfounded



Standing still...

I see the world-

Pulsating with life

I see the world-

Standing still...


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"...do you really think you're in control...?"
Diagnosis: uncertain.


LukeVanTramp
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23 Jul 2008, 6:18 am

OEDIPUS COOKIE
A NOVEL

PRELUDE

1

I awoke lying on small mound of things flaccid and rancid, everything that would have rendered you and your consummate middle class ideals into something broken, impotent and threatening.

Hygiene, aesthetics, ambience… all the major illusions inverted to the point of paroxysm.

Dead fish. Salmon. Shrimp. Banana peels. Banana Leaves. Ants and rice. I smelt like cat piss.

It was unpleasant, but I was comfortable.

I could hear two people, one male, one female, arguing behind the wall next to the garbage heap.

2

The only memories I have of my mother’s features are a collection of lines enshrouded by crisscrosses of darkness, the afterimage of microbes on the surface of the thin layer of fluid around my eyeballs dancing around her blurry contours like an aura.

After I was born my parents taught me how to talk and write in 3 weeks, with the prolonged and excessive usage of brain jacks, literally installing information into a hard drive that was my brain through the circuitry manipulation of my neurons.

My nursery was the Pink Room, where everything was plastic and smelt of disinfectant. After my mind was wired up to do what it was meant to do, I was locked up in it for 17 years. The brain jacks made me autistic so it wasn’t like I was capable of much socializing anyhow.

Every morning at precisely 6.45 a.m., after untying the strap that held the mint-flavored oral placebo (on weekends it was strawberry flavored) firmly at the back of my throat, mother would go out of the room, shut the door, and the lights would go on.

Come to think of it I’m not even sure that was my mother. Could have been a very dedicated nursemaid.

“Mother” would slide a pen and pad underneath the door, and I would pick them up, go to the pink desk by the pink nightstand, and write.

I would spend exactly 8 hours writing about meat cleavers, second chances, true love, and dogs copulating in the alley outside of… whatever the hell I was confined in, were it a maze or a desert.

I was never sure if the universe outside was finite or infinite. Come to think of it, how could I even be sure if there were a universe outside? At the mean time, life goes on.

Mother fed me based on what I wrote.


3

I constructed my first sentence when I was 4 months old.

It was a semi-coherent blue scrawl with a faded blue sharpie:

I AM

The lights went out, and Mother came in. I heard the sound of a plate rattling against a metal tray, and Mother went out.

The lights came back on, and I saw that she had left me a slice of bread. I ate it.

Six minutes later, I wrote my second sentence:

I AM NOT

The lights went out again, and mother entered and exited just as abruptly as before. Lights on. She had brought me a plate with small lumps of peanut butter smeared all over it.

Very well:

ADAM I AM NOT

Lights out. Mother left me a slice of bread with peanut butter on both sides, which I consumed when the lights went on.

I AM JOSH

Mother bought me oatmeal.

I AM A BEAR

Mother fed me prawns and rice.

I AM A TRAIL

- Wantan Noodles as trail.

COME FOLLOW ME

- Whipped cream as clouds.

COME PLAY WITH ME

- Popcorn

LET’S PLAY

- Play dough made from flour and bread crumbs

WITH MY SYNESTHESIA

- A plate of Baked Oysters!

Oh, how I feasted. They left me a bottle of Tabasco sauce and a bottle of vinegar. I ate greedily, teeth gnashing greedily against oyster shells radiating like exhaust fumes on puddles.

I burped, and smiled, and burped again.

And vomited across my bed sheets.

Putting my hands around my wet, enlarged belly and smiling contentedly, I reached for the pen and paper, and wrote them a new story:

IN 4-D

- T. V. D I N N E R S


4

During my first 2 years, writing was a matter of illustrating things that I had learned about from the brain jacks, simple lines such as THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG. Mother left me a bowl of rice and peas for this.

I went on to experiment with descriptive writing. THE SENTENCE THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG HAS ALL OF THE LETTERS OF THE ALPHABETS IN IT got me a bowl of chicken and vegetable soup.

When I was three I started getting bored of bread, oatmeal, rice and soups so I started cutting up the concepts I had learnt from the brain jacks and mixing them around. By doing this, I accumulated more pieces of the nutritional pyramid:

THERE IS NO DICHONOMY BETWEEN THE EXTERNAL AND THE INTERNAL.- Chicken liver.

THERE IS NO DICHONOMY BETWEEN THE INTERNAL AND THE ETERNAL. - Flavorless Gelatin cubes.

THERE IS NO DICHONOMY BETWEEN THE EXTERNAL AND THE ETERNAL. - A ham sandwich and a cup of warm milk.

MA, COULD YOU POSSIBLY GET SOME KIT KATS IN HERE. - A can of coke.

OR SOME COOKIES. – A tic-tac.

Withholding. Just ma’s way of telling me I had a lot more to learn.


5

BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO BUFFALO.
- Spam and fried eggs sunny side up with Worcestershire sauce and salt.

JAMES WHILE JOHN HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD HAD A BETTER EFFECT ON THE TEACHER.
- Spam and mash with tomato ketchup and salt.

石室詩士施氏,嗜獅,誓食十獅。氏時時適市視獅。十時,適十獅適市。是時,適施氏適市。
氏視是十獅,恃矢勢,使是十獅逝世。氏拾是十獅屍,適石室。石室濕,氏使侍拭石室。石室拭,氏始試食是十獅。食時,始識是十獅,實十石獅屍。試釋是事。
Brown Sugar Water


6

Faz said that he didn’t approve of the mammoth-sized metal rods sticking out of Stacey’s breasts.

“Those nips are going to waste, darling.” Faz told Stacey. “Assuming there are any left after what that S&M plastic surgeon did to you.”

“You’re being utterly prejudiced.” Stacey snapped. “Chuck is NOT an S&M plastic surgeon. He’s a proper plastic surgeon who, on his free time, chooses to participate in sadomasochistic activities as a past time among consenting adults at the Bound Muscle Bar at the mall.”

“Methinks Daniel was mixing business with pleasure when he operated on you, girl. You look like a Robert Williams drawing. However are you gonna get nipple stimulation?”

“Ha-ha... It’s not just a piercing, genius. It’s a remote control vibrator. It’s wired to receptors in my nervous system. All I have to do to get an orgasm is to get those metal plates in contact with these.”


7

The actress reached into her pink purse (wasn’t it a prop?) and pulled out a little metal rod with a small pink handle at the tip. She waved in front of the cinematographer, as if to ward off a vampire with a cross.

Nonplussed. The cinematographer drew a gun with a slight showman’s flourish, then aims it coldly and precisely in the middle of the actress’s face.

The actress made a choking noise and dropped the rod from her manicured fingers. The cinematographer sprang to action. He moved with a combination of speed and artistry, catching the rod mid air before it hit the ground. Just as quickly as he had whipped it out, he squirted pink paint in her face with the watergun, and slid the gun back into his holster. This happened so instantaneously that he looked like a juggler doing this.

The cinematographer set a camera up on a tripod, ignoring an angry flurry of the actress’s questions. He switched on the camera, and put on a mask shaped like a pixel mosaic. He started dancing around the actress, jabbing the blue metal sphere protruding halfway out of the surface of her breasts.

The actress made ugly, squealing noises.


8

I was peeking from behind the wall watching a monkey dancing around a pig, when burly arms grabbed my shoulders, and flung me back onto the trash heap.


9

Somewhere along the age of 6 I decided that if I wasn’t going to see the world outside the Pink Room, I was going to taste as much of it that I could instead. So I started writing stories.

I started my journey a McDonalds across the street where we lived. To get a Big Mac and fries, I wrote short contemporary horror stories. For a side of milkshakes, I wrote them in third person. For Sprite, I wrote it in first person. I wrote erotic fiction for pasta and Science Fiction for TV Dinners. If I wanted sushi with egg rolls I wrote existential fiction disguised in western genre conventions. If I wanted fruit I wrote colloquiums. If I craved yogurt I used symbolism. If I wanted mustard and sausages I used deconstruction and metonymy.

I had analyzed all the recipes.

Writing stories based on plot structures from Chinese fables got me sponge cake.

Reinterpreting Greek mythology got me pizza with anchovies.

Dada got me gefilte fish.

Objectivism got me shellfish.

Eastern mythology got me chocolate bunnies.

And I learnt how to get Kit Kats, too. All I had to do was write teenage romance novels.

By the time I was 9, father was a multimillionaire. He was an agent for 42 nonexistent authors ghostwritten by me. He also secured all the film rights.


10

“Nosey little cocksucker.” said the director. He was holding an electronic clapper board and wearing nothing but a pair of yellow boots and a body hair oat. One boot pressed down on my ribs as I struggled.

The director lifted his foot and I rose from the mound of trash.

The director kicked me hard on my behind. I scampered off down the alley, towards a street light that temporarily blinded me. For the next 15 seconds I saw nothing but whiteness and all I could hear was my own footsteps making crunching sounds in the gravel underneath me.

I heard the director’s footsteps in huge, unruly strides behind me. Our combined footsteps created an atypical tempo. It was very disorienting. It made my legs feel wobbly. I felt like I was going to fall over.

I’d have recurring nightmares like this, of me running away from a predatory force creeping up behind me while having pins and needles over both my legs.

“Yeah, run back to your mama, little boy! Tell her we need extras for the sodomy scene.” The director yelled behind me. “I’m playing the f****r, and GUESS WHAT…”

Suddenly, the only footsteps I could hear was my own.

“…IT’S NON-STIMULATED, YOU LITTLE f**k!”

Something hit the back of my head, and shattered.

I fell onto shards of green glass on the floor. They punctured my plastic suit and ripped into tight flesh.

I closed my eyes.

A split second before the pain registered, I felt calm, at peace with the world. I was born from the gravel, now the gravel was absorbing my life back in.

The pain seeped into me as soon as I unclenched my muscles. My wounds came loose. I felt the warmth and wetness of my blood seeping out from under me and into the gravel. The gravel wasn’t a part of any nature order, the gravel was a puddle of vampire quicksand sucking out my blood with its hundreds of green teeth pierced through my flesh.

I made the connection in my head at the exact same moment I registered 3 colors, green, sharp, and red.

The fragments came together in my brain and danced in circles, creating a palindrome that made perfect sense in the severity of my condition. The director had thrown a Heineken bottle at my head. I had seen them littered around the set.

“…little bastard doesn’t know how to go about minding his own god damn business…”

the director’s voice faded into distance and lingered on, melding into the grunting, animalistic noises the cinematographer and the actress were fully engaged in making. The director’s annoyed proclamations were much softer than the other two’s, but his was frighteningly audible because it was of a more consistent pitch:

“… god damn kids ought to be locked up at night.”

I crawled out of the puddle of blood and glass into the light. While I crawled I smelt my blood and bacon grease in the air.

Bacon was the taste of churned-out plot boilers and generic mystery novels. Instantly, I knew what was happening behind me.

Faz, Stacey and the director were performing a sordid Ménage à trios scene on an American flag, while flames consumed a Charcoal Grill off camera. I didn’t see any of this, but I already knew the scene by heart.

I wrote the book the screenplay was based on.

I knew better than to turn my head back to watch what I had written being re-enacted. Lot’s wife had turned into a pillar of salt when she sneaked a final longing glance back at the city of Sodom. Sodium Nitrate may taste good on steaks but it gives you colon cancer.


11

Dirty limericks usually got me a Twinkie.

“There was a young lady from Brussels
who exercised her virile corpuscles
with dynamite sticks in bed
head to ass and ashes to match head
whenever she got orgasms with fire marshalls”

I wrote this on a yellowing legal pad and put it in the dumbwaiter. 30 seconds later, I heard a motor humming, chains rattling against pulleys. 15 seconds later I opened the dumbwaiter. In it was a fork, knife, and a blue porcelain rice bowl containing a sizzling, deep fried Mars Bar, a nutritionally dubious Scottish delicacy.

Oh well. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. My limerick didn’t scan anyway.

I cut off a piece of the mars bar and bit into the oily, fried dough coating the melted chocolate.

I was instantly rendered a spluttering, coughing mess. I had scalded my tongue. I spit oil and chocolate phlegm all over the floor. The Mars Bar was soaked in oil. Hadn’t anyone used a paper napkin to absorb the gunk?

The aftertaste was overwhelming. I vomited on the pink floor boards.

It was just Ma’s way of telling me not to write s**t if I didn’t want to eat it.


12

I crawled out into the illuminated pavement, a tolerable distance away from the stench of burning wood and squealing noises.

The streets were empty. The houses were patchwork architectures made out of cardboard held together by yellow industrial adhesive that dripped from the sides and looked like molten honey. The tiles on the street were shaped like little hexagonal cells.

Suddenly I felt very tired, like an old bear crawling around during wintertime. I just had to hibernate.

I crawled over a manhole shaped like a pentagon to fall asleep or die, whichever came first.

In my sleep, I heard a bicycle bell ringing faintly in the distance, and another odd sound: Click click click click click click click

A man peddling a rickshaw stopped right nest to me. He stopped his rickshaw and got on his knees, and crawled slowly towards me. Under the streetlights, I saw that he was wearing a mask. It was extremely peculiar. It resembled a kabuki water buffalo, but it had no eyeholes, just a slit where the rickshaw peddler’s tongue poked out.

“I’m afraid I’ve cut myself,” I tell him.

The peddler sniffs and makes clicking noises with his tongue at me, like a dolphin ‘seeing’ with echolocation.

“You’re just a kid.”

I nod and he makes more clicking sounds.

“Have a name?”

“I don’t know. Bears don’t have names” I say, closing my eyes.

“Sure they do.” said the peddler. “Just off the top of my head, I know a bear called Yogi and another call Baloo. Then there’s Rupert, Paddington, Gummi, Pooh… why, my mother in law owns a bear called Scott. It was the quaintest thing ever. It would salivate every time we pressed a button.”

“I honestly don’t know,” I yawned.

The peddler sneezes twice and rubs his nose. “I smell roast pork.” He says. “Is someone having a barbeque?”

“I don’t know.” I said, and fell asleep.






A MESSAGE TO THE READER FROM THE AUTHOR:

You can see some of my writing techniques on this thread:

http://www.wrongplanet.net/postp1595634.html#1595634

Please if you've taken the time to read it I hope you were take the time to talk to me about it when I write I hope that my writing will get more aspie writers talking to each other about their writing techniques and how they figure out the hard way how to express themselves.



TheMidnightJudge
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27 Aug 2008, 3:21 am

syzygyish wrote:
I want you all to ignore this because it belongs in the haven
somehow I just can't go there



Sorry for not ignoring it, but I believe that a poem from despair is a great poem, because it is heartfelt.



Loborojo
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04 Sep 2008, 4:53 pm

ghotistix wrote:
Lately, I've noticed that a lot of people have been posting their poetry, essays, and short stories to the message board to get feedback (myself included). Unfortunately, message boards just weren't made for complex formatting or really long posts, both of which are necessary for showing off writing with any coherence. I've also noticed that the Writing and Poetry section of WrongPlanet is both lacking in features and... well... dead. I'd been experimenting with web design lately, so I decided to throw together a little writing showcase! It includes full text formatting, a handy paste-from-MS-Word feature, and a feedback system for leaving comments on pieces or getting feedback for your own work.

Check it out!

It's pretty simple at the moment but it should be bug-free, so go ahead and submit anything you might want to show off. At the moment, it's only got a couple pieces of my own, and they're getting lonely.

If you mods like the idea of a centralized area for WrongPlanet's writing, feel free to sticky this topic. Any questions, comments, and suggestions are welcome!


it says, sorry page was not found...has it gone??


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Your neurotypical (non-autistic) score: 48 of 200
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Rainstorm5
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22 Sep 2008, 4:13 pm

Loborojo wrote:
ghotistix wrote:
Lately, I've noticed that a lot of people have been posting their poetry, essays, and short stories to the message board to get feedback (myself included). Unfortunately, message boards just weren't made for complex formatting or really long posts, both of which are necessary for showing off writing with any coherence. I've also noticed that the Writing and Poetry section of WrongPlanet is both lacking in features and... well... dead. I'd been experimenting with web design lately, so I decided to throw together a little writing showcase! It includes full text formatting, a handy paste-from-MS-Word feature, and a feedback system for leaving comments on pieces or getting feedback for your own work.

Check it out!

It's pretty simple at the moment but it should be bug-free, so go ahead and submit anything you might want to show off. At the moment, it's only got a couple pieces of my own, and they're getting lonely.

If you mods like the idea of a centralized area for WrongPlanet's writing, feel free to sticky this topic. Any questions, comments, and suggestions are welcome!


it says, sorry page was not found...has it gone??



I posted some writing here a long while ago, too, and the response was limited. This really isn't a writing forum geared toward feedback, anyway. I can recommend a couple of good writer's boards that I've seen in my travels.

If you want writing feedback, go here: (must give opinions in order to receive)

http://www.writersbeat.com [I'm 'OnceUponATime' there, longtime member)

If you're trying to showcase your writing or writer's website, go here:

http://www.authornation.com

Or if you just want to chit-chat about writing and/or post poems and short stories, go to Writer's Beat, above, or to:

http://www.webook.com


hope this helps...


JKC


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sunshower
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10 Oct 2008, 8:40 am

I meant to post it up on your site, but it doesn't seem to work off my computer and I'm a bit technologically illiterate. So if anyone wants to read my poetry it's on www.fictionpress.com and search for my username under 'sunshower'


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Dhawal
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01 Jan 2009, 8:10 am

Delirium wrote:
Goldie

Hush now, Goldie
Your lover’s dead
They found him on the riverbed
His blood mixed with the water
His brains burbling out
His eyes rolled back in his handsome head
Hush now, Goldie
Don’t you cry
You’ll get your revenge
In the sweet by-and-by
You’ll drive a spike
Through his head
And leave him by the riverbed


Wow, you wrote this? I like it, I like it very much. First I went like 8O then I went like 8).



Dhawal
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01 Jan 2009, 8:21 am

DeerEatingWildOnions wrote:
deer no
eating no
wild no
onions no
dreamy no
drifting no
onto no
highway no
headlights no
uh oh no
last thought no
save me no
super no
deer no


DeerEatingWildOnions
DreamyDriftingOntoHighway
HeadlightsUhOh
LastThoughtSaveMeSuperDeer

Right? Or was it too obvious?



Dhawal
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01 Jan 2009, 8:41 am

RaoulDuke wrote:
This is a short piece I wrote on memory. I have a nearly eidetic memory, so this piece reflects the struggles it can present, rather than the benefits most people espouse.

Seal yourself away, hide deep in the sand. Pain, frustration caused by memories carved in your brain; faces, places, people, voices, all as raw and full as the day they came into your life. Pain that stings no matter how old it is, and happiness with no sell-by date. A double edged sword that needs to wrapped in thick tape to blunt the blows. It is the curse of a strong memory, good for recalling facts, bad for recalling emotions. Each pain is like a stab wound that never mends, a deep sore left to ferment and rot, something you try to cover with bandages, gauze, anything, but it still makes itself known. It still throbs under the dressings, still bleeds and oozes pus. A horrible thing to look at, a thing to turn your eye away from, but something that also follows your vision, much like spots left by staring into the sun. This is because it is carved behind the eyes; how can one blind oneself to something that isn't actually there? Something that only resides in the hall of the mind, and not in the foyer of reality. How can one chase away ghosts of a past long dead? Flailing fists at them, finding only air and negative space. Such is the pain of one whose mind is like a photocopier, a video camera and a magnetic tape. Old thoughts never die, and new thoughts take up permanent residence. This mind knows nothing of leasing or renting, only firmly entrenched homes for each experience, foundations rooted deep in the synapses of the brain, rooted deep in the psyche. There are no summer homes here.


Thanks for sharing this. How many people would know this side of eidetic memory?



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08 Jan 2009, 1:03 pm

My Political Blog:
Vortex of Freedom - Because Both Parties Suck

My Fictional Presidential Campaign Blog:
Ahmnodt Heare for President


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"Vortex of Freedom" Radio Show
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http://www.blogtalkradio.com/maditude


Slimeinator
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21 Jan 2009, 4:33 pm

Maditude wrote:


Nice blog.

Now that I can post links here, and I have found this topic, here are two stories I wrote and submitted to DeviantArt a few days ago:

http://snakeuniverse.deviantart.com/art ... -109715388 - Horror story about a lawyer.

http://snakeuniverse.deviantart.com/art ... -109619718 - Two alternate endings to the popular Edgar Allan Poe story, "The Cask of Amontillado."

I now have a third story up.

http://snakeuniverse.deviantart.com/art ... -110394117 - Horror story about the new girl.



Catwoman
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25 Jan 2009, 1:47 am

A New Kind of Normal
written September 11, 2002

Do you remember that bright September morning
A day like any other, all seemed to go well
Then out of the clear blue sky without warning
Death and destruction created a new kind of hell
Planes turned into bombs and people to dust
The great towers to rubble and cold empty space
Lost are the remnants of innocence and trust
Now a new kind of normal has captured their place

What did you feel when you saw planes exploding?
Shock, terror, panic, fear, trepidation, and worry
What did you feel when you saw the skyline eroding?
Anger, wrath, rage, hate, vengeance, and fury
What did you feel when you saw people falling?
Grief, despair, anguish, desolation, and sorrow
What did you feel when you heard heroes calling?
Pride, spirit, strength, resistance, hope for tomorrow

It is too much to ask to control your emotion
But in your actions you do have a choice
You can respond with spirited patriotic devotion
While giving love and courage your voice
How are you going to keep from forgetting
The impact that day has had on your life?
A few years from now will you be regretting
You never stood up to help in the strife?

A new kind of normal with which we must live
Alert but refuse to surrender to fear
A new kind of spirit with which we must give
Our own brand of heroism when the need should appear
A new kind of wisdom from which we must learn
That hate makes us into that which we despise
A new kind of justice for which we must yearn
That brings understanding and evil's demise.


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All of us get lost in the darkness, dreamers learn to steer by the stars. - Rush, The Pass


Rain_Bird
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24 Feb 2009, 8:55 am

Rather than clogging up the thread with a bunch of stories and poems, I'll just link to them (click on the titles):

Short Stories:
Dust and Ash A short story about two lovers who spend their final moments on Earth together as they await a nuclear explosion

The Fourth Planet - A very short story suggesting that humans originally were from Mars, before completely destroying that planet.

The Desert and the Sea- A story about traveller in the desert happens upon an oasis, where he is entranced by a witch. The only way he can be completely ridded of the spell is to find his true love, and then kill the witch.

The Sea and the Island - A short story about a girl who lived upon the sea, but gave up her freedom for a man who lived on an island. (a prequel to the Desert and the Sea - it's about the traveller's true love before she met him)

Three Miles from the Rest Stop - Just a semi-fictionalized story about my former best friend, and a dream I had that made me realize that he had no place in my life anymore.

Poetry:
Almost Free
Missed Journeys
The Road to Nowhere
Illusion

Ok, that's enough links. If you want to read all of the poems and short stories I have online, just check here: My Short Stories and Poetry
I didn't link to everything I have up, and I'll be adding more stories as I write them.



DragonKazooie89
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25 Feb 2009, 11:57 pm

My FanFiction.net account where some of my writings are: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1486194/DragonKazooie89

I also have some other writings up on my deviantART account.



invisiblem0nsters
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26 Feb 2009, 1:44 am

Chimera


Suicide is homicide, society's killing off the mentally wounded.
Indiscretion personified proposals,
Left in midwake by mistake, my moment to show off has past.
Concentrating eyes dividing,
Pithy thematics entertaining webmodistry of sight lacking affection,
Destroying luminosity.
Leviathian gaze turning blighted eyes
From the carnage, consuming anhillation,
My soul - matron of death, enveloping the world
In a loneliness inescapable and most foul.
It ends here, this was no accident.
You've angered me, I can't deny your death is imminent.
Because I've morphed from every source to now become this monster,
4 heads, 6 feet, 3 tails, 36 teeth, rendering you incapable of speech.
And now I hear you want to live vicariously through me?
8 eyes that stare you down and say you're lying, b!tch, please..
Just try and extract me...
Rage spit back into the face of the unclaimed,
I stand for every faceless street urchin no name, you will pay.
I'll give holy birth to catastrophe, and rub your face in it down deep.
Bet you can't erase me
I tell you now this was no accident.


_________________
Truly true to myself.