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Post by Dark Beauty on Nov 7, 2007 17:30:19 GMT -8
*Smile* A nice write. Perhaps you'll return to the cave at a time to catch another one of us looking at it forlornly.
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Post by Zeffa! on Feb 19, 2008 18:11:23 GMT -8
The loud thud of his backpack broke the silence of the dark forest, followed swiftly by the crunching of many pairs of dirt-covered boots on dry leaves.
"This looks as good a spot as any, doubt there's anybody else 'round here for miles. Should be safe enough, s'long as no bears come poking around," remarked a man in a dusty canvas coat, the tails of which reached down to his knees. He rubbed a hand along his unshaven jawline, steely gray eyes peering forward as if in thought.
"Looks like we made off pretty well for ourselves at any rate. If we find a fence in the next city we'll be golden. I got a few contacts up there, so shouldn't be too tough t'find someone who'll take hot goods."
By this time the others had begun setting up camp, clattering around as tent poles and sleeping rolls began littering the area. After constructing his ramshackle and well-patched tent, one of the men stood, scratching his rounded gut and grinning, displaying his yellowed and carious teeth. The three had little worry about bears, as this ogre's stench seemed quite capable of warding any other living organism in the area.
"Did you see what they was hiring for watchman?" sneered the fat man in a low, phlegmy voice, his beady black eyes barely visible in the shadowy light.
"The fetcher was so old he could barely stand in his armor," taking a piece of the firewood the third man had set out, he hefted it inone hand, and then swung it at the imaginary sentry, shouting "Bam!" as the elderly figment of his imagination's skull caved in. He let out a laugh that made the third man cringe, then tossed the log back with the others.
"Not as subtle as usual, but we pulled it off," said the unshaven man, nodding with a smile.
The third man cracked the flint against the steel, launching sparks at the kindling of dry leaves and grass beneath the log. "You're awful quiet Zephyr," remarked the unshaven man, shoving his hands in his pockets as he watched the slim man continue to start the fire. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Zephyr answered, standing as the fire took life, consuming the kindling and moving up along the wood, crackling and popping quietly. His emerald, almond-shaped eyes stared at the dancing orange glow as if he were looking into the pits of hell itself and didn't care.
"Thought you'd be happier, pulled it off without a hitch," continued the first man, kicking the pack on the ground lightly with his foot, making a heavy jingling sound. "Must have at least three, four hundred between us. How bout you Olie, what're you gonna buy with your share?"
The fat man looked up from his food. He'd opened up a box of rations, chewing on a wedge of cheese and dried meat. "Food, really good food, and the best woman in town," he replied, smiling widely. Zephyr found it difficult to distinguish the chunks of cheese from his teeth, both yellowed and filled with holes.
"Rosetta the Red," said the unshaven man, smiling up at the crowns of the maples as he recalled several fond memories. "She'll cost you alot more than what you got," he said after a moment. Olie grunted, returning to his cheese. Zephyr sat with his back against the trunk of a tree, tossing a steel dagger in his hand and catching it idely, still looking at the fire.
It was still dark when he awoke, leaning against the tree still, the dagger laying beneath his hand as if hed fallen asleep while catching it. The fire died a few hours ago likely, there weren't even any embers left glowing beneath the logs.
He remained still, hoping that he'd drift back to sleep and not wake again until morning. A solitary sound interrupted him however, a loud, familiar crack, like that of an eggshell breaking. Zephyr opened his eyes like a shot, his hand snaking around the hilt of the knife by his hand.
The fat man's figure wasn't difficult to spot, even under the shadow of night. He rose from the unshaven man's tent, moving slowly, quietly toward the tree Zephyr sat at. His filthy and chubby fingers wrapped around the club like lumpy worms. Zephyr made no move, watching with his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he crushed the handle of his steel dagger tightly.
Olie lumbered forward, standing a foot away from Zephyr. His yellow, carious grin seemed to glow in the dark. Zephyr could feel the vile warmth of his breath against his face. He raised his arm, black, beady little eyes twinkling in the starlight as he looked down at the form below.
With another loud thud, the man's club fell to the forest floor, followed soon by a much louder crash as his body tumbled backward. As he fell, Olie grasped for his throat, making an ugly, gurgling noise before his skull collided with the remains of the firewood. Whether it was the firewoord, or his head that cracked, Zephyr wasn't sure.
His heart raced, beating as if he ran a mile within the last few seconds. The boy's hand still pulsed, clinging tightly to the steel knife as the warmth of Olie's blood slowly faded away. He collapsed back to his knees, then against the tree again, the dagger finally falling out of his hands. Slowly, the night bcame darker as his vision faded to black again.
Zephyr opened his eyes a second time, a bright fiery glow before his eyes.
"Noon already," he muttered groggily, getting to his feet. He looked down to see what was touching his boot, discovering the bloated corpse of Olie again. His heart jumped as he recalled the events that occured last night, the light of his eyes becoming sullen and dark. He kicked the fat man's leg away from his, walking over to the other tent.
The unshaven man's body lay there too. Though Zephyr couldn't see the wound itself, the man's head lay in a pool of congealed blood which soaked his pillow.
He left the tent, looking at the pack of coins which lay on the forest floor like a snake about to bite. They stared eachother down for a while before he picked it up, sighing in defeat as he slung it over his shoulder. It seemed three times as heavy as before, and smelled like the fat, skullcrushing ogre that lay rotting int he camp, but the slim boy ignored it, walking southward, his boots crushing dead leaves as he trudged forward.
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Post by Zeffa! on Feb 22, 2008 15:51:12 GMT -8
The climb hurt more than anything else. The jagged rocks of the mountain shredded away at the leather of my gloves and the soles of my boots. Every step, every handhold that made my ascent easier left a smear of my own blood upon the stone. Even though I came prepared, dressed in thick layers, the snow seemed to find every hole, every open seam, freezing me from the inside mercilessly. The tears in my eyes and the fluid draining from my nose froze itself upon my face, breaking and leaving my face reddened and raw.
As I overlooked the land before me, i felt the cold chill of the mountain wind biting at my flesh, trying to strip my very soul from my body. The sky hid itself from me, hiding behind an opaque and murky veil of clouds, as if it could not stand to look at me directly. "God's one-way mirror" I thought to myself.
Am I abandoned, am I alone here? Why have I been left here to rot? What am I but lean carrion that still needs to be fed and washed? If I were to lay down and sleep would it be any different than if I were dead for but a few hours?
I fell to my knees, peering down at the world from my vantage point. From up here it seemed as if there existed no land, no earth of grass or wood, no seas or rivers. Where there might have been a grassy hillside or a serene lake, there stood only a black void, an immeasurable darkness. Bewildered at this haunting sight, i gazed where I knew a house to be. Though I saw no walls or roof, i saw the dim, yellow glow of a lantern light. I rummaged through my pack, fumbling, for my hands have long since become numb from the cold, for binoculars. Squinting through the lenses, I focused on the glimmer of light i saw form the house. What I saw astonished me.
A woman sat in her chair, rocking a baby and crying over it. She sang softly, a song I swore i could almost here, though the thought was absurd, as I sat miles upon miles away from her. There, in her hand, she clenched tightly a small silver trinket, though I could not make out what it was.
I rotated, aiming the binoculars toward the city where I came from. I saw no houses, roads, or fences. But again I could see, speckled across the area, like a swarm of fireflies, little yellow spots thrown about. Men sat hunched over, drinking from bottles, humming a sad song to themselves. I saw boys working their hands raw on invisible fields, shaking their heads. Sitting in rows at a church that did not exist, i saw the light of the men and women who hung their heads, all crying to a tune that slowly grew in volume.
Suddenly the mother's song, the men's humming, the men and women of the city, and those beyond, all seemed to join in a refrain. A chorus that, while I'd never heard before, I knew by heart. A sad song of misery, a cry in the dark. I fell to my knees, closing my frozen hands over my ears, but the song only increased, though i turned a deaf ear it seemed to shout at me.
"Why?!" I shouted to the gray, shrouded heavens above. "Why did you make the world this way? Why is the sound of suffering all I can hear? Why is there no joy, no color, no warmth? Why can I not see you God?!"
I peered again below at the city. The lights of the people below vanished from my sight. As I quickly turned the lenses to try and find them again, new visions appeared below, more disturbing than the sight of the woman crying. I saw men covered in grime and blood beating someone who had fallen tot he ground, grabbing for the golden coins which had fallen from his purse, and eating them. They consumed the gold as if it were dry bread, yet they were not satisfied, and moved on to the next victim, hungering for more.
These men, these demons I saw, they were so varied and different. One man wore nothing but rags, his flesh hanging off his bones as if he had not eaten in years. Another man wore a fine suit though covered in dirt and blood, his belly large and fat, though he still hungered unsatisfied.
I saw women in the streets gouging eachother's eyes out with their enlonged fingernails, which gleamed red. I saw children struggling against eachother in the street like dogs. I soon realized it was not God that brought the darkness into this world.
I had not noticed the snow had turned to rain. I dropped the binoculars an stared up at the sky. I opened my mouth, as if to say something again, but no words came. The cold raindrops only tasted like tears on my tongue.
I sought shelter, I wanted the color to return to the world, to gouge my own eyes out so I could not see the vile acts of my friends and neighbors. I wish I never climbed this mountain in the first place.
I moved away from the ledge of the mountain, I could not bear the sight any longer. Though they no longer sang, though my eyes were closed, I could still see the mother rocking her child, her knuckles white against the silver trinket. I could still see the man on the ground being kicked and bludgeoned, I could still see the man crying into the bottom of his bottle. The echoes of their song rang in my ears, and i found myself shouting the song at the top of my lungs, trying to drown them all out.
With my eyes closed and my ears shut, my own voice deafening me, i stumbled. The fall seemed so much easier than the climb to the top of the mountain...
The first thing i felt when i opened my eyes was the rain mingling with my own tears. I lay in the snow, which seemed stained a bright red color. Though I could not move my body, my eyes looked above me, seeing the thorny crowns of three trees towering over me. I lay there beneath the tree in the center, broken, bleeding, the cries of the people still haunting my ears. I could feel death creeping over me like the cold numbness of the mountain. As the world faded, I saw my own light, the dim yellow glow, overtake me.
The last thing I remember is hearind the same song the people sang, though it didn't sound sorrowful, but calming, peaceful, welcoming. As if I was finally hearing the full song, not a single phrase of it being repeated over and over. I joined my voice to theirs, and the sky, the mountain, the trees, and the snow left me forever.
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Post by Zeffa! on Mar 9, 2008 5:35:48 GMT -8
One thing about me If I could change one thing about me, I wouldn't be who I am today.
I wouldn't ever make you doubt me, I'd always know just what to say,
I'd be there for you when you need me, never too busy to hear you speak
I'd do all I could to make things easy I'd help you stand when you felt weak,
I'd keep no secrets and hide no tears for every smile i'd give is true
And every time I'd give in to fears all I'll need is to think of you
I I were the man I wish I was, I'd be strong and good and never sad
I'd think about the things to come and never wish for what once I had
I'd have more friends and much more fun never spending a friday night alone
I'd think about the things I've done, and not fret about the seeds I've sown
But I'm condemned to my own life to hurt the ones I love the most
to hold my silence and my strife angry, silent and morose
I'd be a fairytale prince, not a filthy pock-faced boy
I'd be content with my life since with all my memories filled with joy. _______________________________________
"He's got some nerve to insult me like that, a man like him has no right to judge," thought I, staring at the brooding figure across the room from me. He looked like a wild man, probably wanted, maybe he's a murderer or a drug addict or something, filthy unwashed hair and a scent I could smell from even over here. His ugly olive jacket had stains and rips all over it, made from a cheap material, maybe canvas. Probably stole it. He'd made a gesture and glared at me, and the look he seemed to be showing me is simply grotesque, a face filled with judgement and no love for his fellow man. Darkened sleepless eyes stared back at me, decorated with the bags of someone whose conscience forbids them to sleep. He obviously has issues of some sort, he's over there all alone in the corner, sitting at a table across from mine, just staring at me. I turned away and went back to my drink, pretending he didn't bother me, but when I turned to look again to see if perhaps he'd left and graced me with his absence, i find that he's still just sitting there giving me the look of a man who's about to vomit. He'd probably drank too much judging by the empty glass in his hand. At this I began to grow angry, he clearly recognzed me somewhere and hated me for some slight i'd done to him in the past. I thought about leaving once or twice, or perhaps going over to the man to ask him why he's antagonizing me when I've done nothing at all to him. I purged the unshaven, oily-skinned man from my sight and moved to the bar. "Excuse me," I asked the woman who tended the counter. "Who is that in the corner there?" She looked up for a moment, peering to the side around my shoulder into the corner. I didn't turn, lest the man get suspicious of me and increase his silent antagonism. "Sir, there's no one there, did your man leave? If you want I can-" but I stopped listening for a moment, turning to look in confusion at the man in the corner who still seemed to be there, though now he'd risen from his chair. He still stared at me, though his face was one not of judgment or disgust anymore, but of befuddlement and violence. "What do you mean to say he's not there? I can see him myself!" I shouted at the barwoman, feeling my face grow red with annoyance. She just shook her head and went back to cleaning her counter of crumbs and empty bottles. It seemed the only way to identify the being that plotted against me is to confront him directly. I buttoned my coat and straightened my hair a bit, moving over to the man in the corner. The man seemed to be appraoching me as well, perhaps he DID know me, and if so was he coming to attack me? Did he know what my intentions were? As we neared eachother, standing not farther than ten feetm he stopped, and never before have I felt more stupid. The man, you see, was my reflection in a mirror...
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Post by Zeffa! on Apr 8, 2008 18:31:26 GMT -8
Yay for required in-class writing poetry! For this I had to imitate some poet's style using "inside of me."
Here's what i came up with.
Utopian:
Inside of me lie scattered remnants of broken toys and lego pieces, of old nintendo manuals and out-of-date TV guides.
Inside of me there are cords and cables which lie along the floor like tangled roots twining up the metal legs of a cluttered desk, entangling me, binding me in place.
Inside of me lurks a monster, vicious and unforgiving, who lashes a the walls and doors, staring silently out the windows a smile on his lips
Inside of me a boy sits on the grassy hill laying in the sun and kicking his legs. A kinder and more caring face than my own strikes a jealousy in me.
Inside of me a crow sits on a rotted fencepost where barbed wite once hung from. Golden yellow grass brushing gently against his talons as the warm summer wind lifts his head.
Inside of me there is a single portrait of a young girl smiling in front of a crumbled wall collecting dust and left tilted.
Inside of me there is a thief stealing the driftwood off the shore to make a raft to escape form friends and lovers, liars and artists, in search of fields of gold to rest his weary eyes, together with her, God left silent.
It was fun because I had to actually write it in class, so there was a time constraint that's not usually present, forcing me to think on the fly and begin fueling my thoughts directly.
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Post by Dark Beauty on Apr 8, 2008 19:30:33 GMT -8
It sounds like it certainly was challenging to write. I would like to have one of those experiences myself. A very nice write.
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Post by Zeffa! on May 19, 2008 3:03:58 GMT -8
Here's some more.
Listen, But Obey
Do what you like most, but major in business and English. Wear comfortable clothing, but dress nicely. Have a hobby, but don’t waste your time or money on it. Get a full night’s rest, but wake up at four o’clock. Walk to save on gas, but don’t be late. Care about poverty in our city, but don’t give change to the man on the street, he’ll only use it for drugs. Love your neighbor, but keep an eye on them in case they do anything suspicious. Stand up to bullies, but turn the other cheek. Follow your dreams, but don’t be foolish with your direction in life. Get a job, but mind your studies and schoolwork. Don’t forget to smile, but don’t be false. Be an actor if you want, but study physics for your degree. Express yourself, but don’t burden people with your troubles. Control your temper, but don’t bottle up your anger. Eat whatever you wish, but make sure it’s healthy. Choose your own adventure, but go to page 48. Fill your life with excitement, love, and worth, but stay safe. Speak freely, but don’t badmouth our President. Don’t support the war if you don’t want to, but pay taxes for our military budget. Know that you’re only human, but accept nothing less than perfection.
Q; Do you miss your home? A: I’d burn it down if I did
Q: What brought you here today? A: A twisted ankle and ten dollar sandals
Q: How did your ankle get wounded? A: Three flights of concrete steps, two years, and a penchant for falling
Q: What was her name? A: The Beautiful Blacksmith
Q: Was she at the scene? A: She left long ago, but she sat shotgun that night
Q: What are you doing with your life? A: You already told me that
Q: Got any dreams? A: None that outweighed a dollar bill
Q: How many packs do you smoke a day? A: Three cans, sixteen servings. Coffin nails rot your teeth.
Q: How long have you sat there?
Q: Do you like country? A: I like the tune, but the lyrics suck
Q: What do you want for lunch? A: It’s a dollar for a burger, two pennies for the ferryman.
Q: Who’s your hero? A: You don’t play games.
Miracle
Within the vibrant castle With walls the color of a setting sun Sat thousands of tiny, chalky, white angels Without wings or halos Everyone of them naked and hairless Little blessings from heaven above With a swift turn of my wrist The castle floor becomes the sky And the angels rush to my waiting palm. Though man told me to take but two After a meal every four hours I take nine And returning the roof to The angels who graced me with Their divine gift I close the bathroom cabinet And the world fades to black Soon the angels will send me Back to God.
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Post by Dark Beauty on May 19, 2008 17:30:33 GMT -8
"Listen, But Obey" is my favorite, I think... of those three, anyway. "Miracle" frightens me... but it's well-written.
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Post by Zeffa! on May 20, 2008 10:07:10 GMT -8
Yeah, miracle is a write i had to do for today's class based on an object. I chose sleeping pills, a bicycle, and a burnt-out light bulb.
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Post by Dark Beauty on May 20, 2008 11:31:41 GMT -8
[The poem you posted] resonated particularly strongly in me. I find that this sort of feeling creeps into alot of my works too. Yeah. Especially when there is a definate reference. Such as in poem two. But, it is a very interesting one. I like the question/answer thing.
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Post by Zeffa! on May 20, 2008 17:17:36 GMT -8
Heh, that line really confused my teacher. She called it beautiful, yet very strange.
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Post by Zeffa! on Oct 9, 2008 12:03:09 GMT -8
Though this isn't technically writing, creativity, or anything related to it aside from my whining, i figured i'd put it here. All my creative juices are flowing into the reasons why this isn't poetry and creative writing.
I seem to have a deathwish or something, because i signed up for two literature classes back to back. It's rough, combining that with my theology course and i've got two papers to write, four hours of reading, and 20 notes to take every two days. .. Whee! On the plus side, there's a game called team fortress two that's pretty fun.
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Post by Dark Beauty on Oct 10, 2008 7:38:35 GMT -8
So you're back at school now, or are you living at home...?
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Post by Zeffa! on Oct 10, 2008 12:13:03 GMT -8
This will be my second week of school after today.
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Post by Zeffa! on Oct 29, 2008 14:52:08 GMT -8
Okay, so let's put this piece into context. I'm having oh so much fun with my literature cours,e having to write overly complex pieces, tearing every segment of every setnence apart bit by bit and examining what's "really" behind each piece. What is the narrator trying to say here? Can we trust his opinion? Are there symbols present in the story, and if so what are they trying to represent? I mean come on, can't the story just be about a man going to the grocery store to pick up his girlfriend after shopping? Nope! You can apply these questions to any situation and sound intelligent.
Then I thought, you know, if that's true, the I should teach an English class about sesame street. So I wrote an examination essay on Cookie Monster... Yay caffeine.
In C. Monster’s “C is for Cookie,” the speaker claims that “C is for cookie, [and] that’s good enough for me,” however upon further examination, certain questions begin to arise that cause us to doubt the narrator’s authenticity. Is C necessarily for cookie, or is it perhaps just a front for something else, symbolic of something darker? Furthermore, is it necessarily enough for him, as he states, or is the narrator hiding the truth from the reader , trying to lure us away from the cold hard fact that it is merely a partial supplement; that perhaps there’s a void in his life that cookies just cannot seem to fill. This may be the reason for the protagonist’s gluttonous behavior, substituting the absence of something within himself with even more cookies. This tactic, as we can plainly see, does not work, it’s the equivalence of placing twenty band-aids on a broken arm, hoping that with enough patches the bigger issue might be resolved.
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