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  1. #1
    mod love baby... Lady_X's Avatar
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    Default Writers...please post things you've written. :)

    umm...pretty please...
    There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.
    -Jim Morrison
    Likes Rouskyrie liked this post

  2. #2
    Senior Member Rebe's Avatar
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    I stood on a metal platform waiting for the train with a cup of coffee in my hand. This cup tasted like a mild version of boiled socks and gutter water twirled together with a shot of caramel.

    A guy stood next to me, wincing too, though at his doughnut. It had just rained and everything looked slimy. Pigeons swooped above our heads, dipping down to peck at the tracks. The tracks were exposed like an opened body surgery. The veins and arteries had turned black to become rails and the organs and skin had thickened to become boards.

    “Twenty minutes is way too long to wait,” he said. He had broad shoulders under a sweater and brown hair that changed shape in the wind.

    I threw him a smile.
    Your turn, Lady.

  3. #3
    The Duchess of Oddity Queen Kat's Avatar
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    Most things I write are in Dutch. I'm busy with a big project at the moment that I started over a year ago. Sometimes I write a lot (especially when I have plenty of other things to do) and sometimes I have to wait until I get so frustrated of something I have to write it out of my head. I'd like to post a lot of things I've written, but in that case I'd have to translate everything first. Maybe I should try getting this published first and then make sure it gets translated. Fortunately there were two readily translated pieces of my story that I put in my blog. I wrote these parts of the story when I was frustrated about something. (By the way, the story is about a tea lady whose husband just died and who's starting a search for an acquaintance who got missing twenty years before.)

    Here I was frustrated about my neighbourhood and the people who live there.
    Unfortunately I still lived in the same newly-built quarter as the one my parents had to move to twenty-two years ago. Okay, so we live in a different house and in a different street. Yes, we probably live in the best street of the whole neighbourhood, the one with the biggest, most expensive and most luxurious houses and the snonbiest neighbours. But still, this neighbourhood seemed like some kind or tumor to me. The center of our town was okay I guess, but this neighbourhood is nothing but concrete, greyness and dullness. When you look out of the window, all you see is houses. Lots of houses. Outside you couldn't find even one bush or tree, even though real estate agents try to sell this place as a "quarter in green nature". I barely knew my neighbours. The first time I spoke to any of them, was when my then 5 year old Bennie invited his friend Raphael to come over and play. Then all of the sudden all of them came knocking on my door. Why?
    "Mrs. Kraaymans -"
    "My name is de Kraaijert, but please call be Gabrielle."
    "Daniëlle, we came to tell you that there's a nigger in your garden."
    "Oh, him? That's my son's friend Raphael. They're just playing soccer."
    "Look, pumpkin, we don't want to be racist or anything, but you know, today it might be a nigger, but who knows what tomorrow will bring. Come on, darling, don't tell us you want your son to play with some Muslim kid, do you? Before you know it he becomes some stupid left wing pussy!"
    I didn't tell them about how Bennie played with his other friend Saida last week, but ever since they've been coming over to my house every now and then. They only do that to tell me about all "that foreign vermin" my son likes playing with, but at least I can get to know them this way. But these are just the people you don't see every day, the people who go to their work at 8:30 AM, who come home at 5:30PM and who don't come outside for the rest of their days. Outside, in the street, in the alleys, in the parks and on the benches, a certain ghostish folk spends their time. These ghosts do nothing but sit down, hiding their faces under they grey hoods, spitting ectoplasma on solid objects, cursing at people who walk by and listening to their own ghost music. These soulless creatures are usually called "Muhammeds", "Rashids", "Khalids" and "Ibrahims" by the people in our quarter, but at the end of the day these so-called foreign ghosts always turn out to be our own "Rubens", "Jeroens", "Mitchells" and "Tommies"; angry, stupid, pimply Dutch teenage boys who are simply bored to death because nothing ever happens here. That's the thing: nothing really happens here. The only time anything happens is when the police discovers that someone has been culivating illegal hemp again. Me and my children always make some kind of play of it, you know, like "who is the next illegal hemp cultivater?". "Probably mister Smith from across the street, you know, that one with a BMW. I heard he's actually a plummer, so I wonder where that money came from!" "No, maybe it's Yvonne from three doors on the right! That light you see shine out of her house at night couldn't possibly be from a normal lamp, it's too purple!" Sometimes I even wondered how it would be if I started cultivating illegal hemp, just to make my life more exciting. Then I always realized I couldn't leave my children alone with my husband, because he's a psycho and he stabs my son every time he has a chance.
    Here I was pissed off at a colleague who was bossing me around:
    When I was little, everyone had these amazing expectations of me. The people I knew when I lived back in Zeeland would have thought I would have ended up as a doctor, a judge, a very important CEO, maybe even a politician. But no one, not even me, would have thought I'd end up making coffee for a living. Well, I'm proud to say I'm one of the last coffee ladies in the country and that I've been given the nickname "Lady Starbucks", but I still didn't achieve anything big. Before I got married, my husband promised me I could just go to college and that he'd pay for it, but after the wedding it all turned out to be a lie. He kept me at home for a while and when I told hem I wanted to do something with my life, he got me this job. Not that they needed a new coffee lady at the city hall. They already had one, who they were secretly planning to replace with a machine within a few years. This other coffee lady practically had more experience with working as I had with living; when she started making drinks here, I was minus four years old. When she heard I came working with her, she decided I had to become her little assistent and so she became my "boss". As her goal was making lots of coffee in a small ammount of time, the pressure was always high. Not that we had to make all that coffee, no one really liked it and people only came by to get a cup when they hadn't slept for a whole week. Most of it was just kept as a stash for if a thousand people came by all of the sudden and all needed caffeine right away and at the end of the day the entire coffee stock disapeared in the sewer. "But we've got to keep up with the machine!" The machine was by far my boss's biggest fear and in the end it started ruling my life as well. "No time for back scratching, Gabe, we gotta keep up with the machine!" "Stop blowing your nose, we gotta keep up with the machine!" "Stop sneezing, the machine is gonna kill us!" She yelled, nagged and screamed all day long and whenever I did something wrong she started making fun of me to the rest of the people at the city hall. I really started to wonder what I was doing here, while I could be in college like the rest of the 22 year olds. I think I've never been that gloomy in my whole life, not even on my honeymoon or in high school. Fortunately one day this suffering came to an end. I believe it was a month after I Was hired. The boss kept commaninding me. As I tried to hurry so I could please her, I accidentally dropped the coffeepot. It feel to the floor and broke in hundrerds of little pieces. I must say I've never seen my boss being that calm before. She just stared at the pot, she stared at me and simply stopped breathing. Her last words? "The machine!" I thought you wouldn't be surprised. The doctor said she died of a heart attack, caused by stress and working to hard. Anyways, times got better at the city hall. I only made the coffee that was necessary and I even got creative. First I put the amount of milk and sugar that people liked in their coffee, then I started experimenting with tastes and nowadays people even refuse much better jobs elsewhere so they don't have to miss my coffee, from what I've heard. Well, I did get some competition from a coffee machine. Several ones, I must admit. But no one, except for the newbies who don't know of my existence yet, ever uses them. Who would have thought this work could be actually almost satisfying? Still wish I could have gone to college, though.
    They still need to be polished.
    I was sitting outside the classroom waiting to go in, and I saw an airplane hit the tower. The TV was obviously on. I used to fly myself and I said, "There's one terrible pilot."
    - George W. Bush -


    SCUAI - 7w8 sx/sp - Chaotic Evil - Fucking Cute - ALIVE

    Blog. Read it, bitches.
    Questions? Click here
    If you don't agree about my MBTI type, you can complain about it here. I've had plenty of people telling me I'm something else, in my reputation box. That's annoying.

  4. #4
    Senior Member ubee0173's Avatar
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    i wrote this one some years back when i was a gonzo-journalist extrordinairre when i got stuck on a central kansan highway because of some random wildfire in the median.driving and daily news

    Kids set fire to southern churches
    and god turned a blind eye
    to this spectacle
    when he sent flames to ravage
    the flatlands.
    the dirge of a dying Democrat's
    diseased voice strains
    through the blown out
    crackling speakers in my
    car that was shaking apart
    as we drove further West
    towards the smoke and sirens,
    the highway coddling it's median,
    black with charred grass.
    Sun shone through a cracked window,
    while outside, the shimmering
    wheatfields and acres of sunflowers
    were pushing us farther
    into unknown territories,
    the many fenceposts passing like hours,
    we want them to go quickly...
    something better must be hiding
    behind the next plateau.
    We clung religiously
    to our notebooks
    and copies of "Being and Nothingness ",
    a pen in one hand,
    a lighter in the other,
    discussing ways to twist the words of others
    into our own truths.
    The butane flames dance,
    igniting the scorched images
    of smoldering plains and wooden beams,
    angels crucified with the
    damning politics of hope.


    this one was all sorts of country-girl-stuck-in-the-city homesick


    Traffic noise and the scent of an approaching thunderstorm
    drifts in through the door,
    naively left open,
    igniting reflections of simpler days spent
    smoking cigars behind rusted machinery
    and fallen trees in
    Grandma's field,
    and how we would take picnic lunches
    and bottles of booze
    to the riverbank, laughing
    before the fire smearing silt onto our faces and bodies,
    keeping the sun away
    as we walk across
    the waterfall, wading
    in the stagnant flows of August,
    when the water was so hot
    it felt like the whole world was on holiday,
    all bonfires and suntans
    laying us in respite from the heartache
    of the winter prarie.
    Whiskey and pickup-truck beds
    yeilding sanctuary
    from chores or the chaos
    of family.
    The same music I'm listening to now
    emanating from the
    truck's cab
    so new and full to the brim with meaning,
    while the dashboard lights
    illuminated sweetheart dreams
    of the city,
    averted eyes
    revealing the dark
    of lies
    hidden in the soil,
    and how we would leave this place
    to surrender the anonymity
    of shooting tin cans off log fence posts,
    grass stains and muddy flip-flops
    to brick tower exaust fumes
    and a cheap pack of cigarettes
    smoked in a dingey bar
    over a whiskey sour and a notebook
    covered in country flowers,
    painted fingerprints writing
    homesick sonnets to lovers
    abandoned amongst the cornstalks and glass bottles,
    80-proof promises
    conconcted in homemade stills
    and dissasembled beneath the urban twilight
    that obscures the stars
    where we pleaded
    and wished for
    our emancipation.
    Last edited by ubee0173; 09-13-2010 at 01:27 PM. Reason: truck has a t in it
    I will buy you a drink and I'll tell you what I think, and tomorrow, in the morning, I won't be sorry that I didn't sleep.


    [SIGPIC][/SIGPIC]

  5. #5
    mod love baby... Lady_X's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by Rebe View Post
    Your turn, Lady.
    i only write in my head...maybe i should change that at some point.

    love what you wrote there tho thanks for sharing. i'm going to love this thread so much!
    There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.
    -Jim Morrison

  6. #6
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Mole's Avatar
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    Smile Feels like intercourse.

    What a strange kind of question. It's as though writing is separate from what we do here. It's as though I am not writing now. Ah yes, immediately I am afraid I will be accused of being off topic, or worse, I will be accused of being off tone. But all I am doing is writing. Look, I say to my accusers, I am a writer.

    I wouldn't mind if you accused me of writing off centre, for then I could move back over the yellow line, and play the ball right down the centre for a goal. But no, you are the topic police, and then the special squad, the tone police.

    If only I could hit the right tone, I know you would love me. If only I could follow your tone, I would be invisible. But I am tone deaf.

    I write in braille and they say they can't understand me. I leave signs and symbols all over the place, and they say, don't litter.

    And I jitter-bug with words. I jitter all over the place. Just keep your words in a straight line, they say, one letter after another, one word after another, one paragraph after another, one chapter after another, and one book after another. Anything else is lame and electric. Anything else is gay.

    When all I want to do is hold your hand, to electrify your central nervous system. It's a bit like jump starting a car - we share the electricity until our engines jump into life. The only alternative is to stand dumb and dead by the road side waiting to be towed away.

    But oh yes, you now wear your nervous system on the outside - very fashionable, like wearing your underwear on the outside, the upside - tres chic.

    But it makes you ultra sensitive to the lightest touch, the slightest breeze ruffles you like the leaves of a tree.

    And holding hands feels like intercourse.

  7. #7
    Oberon
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    This is a snippet of a scene I was fiddling with for a bit. Harry is a pudgy balding guy, not real tall... picture Joe Pesci. Cupid is best represented by Paul Bettany.

    INT / EVENING / HARRY’S KITCHEN

    Harry is in a grubby little bachelor’s kitchen, microwaving some leftover pizza. As he pulls it out of the oven he hears a footfall behind him. Harry turns to see CUPID.

    CUPID
    You could do more with the place, you know. It’s an absolute sty!

    HARRY
    What the? Get out! How’d you get in here?

    CUPID
    Look, Harry, I’m not very good with the one-on-one stuff so I’ll just cut to the chase, okay?

    HARRY
    How do you know my name?

    CUPID
    You’re a pain in the ass.

    HARRY
    I’m calling the cops.

    CUPID
    Won’t do you any good.

    Harry pulls out a cell phone and dials 911.

    HARRY
    Hello? Operator?

    Cupid snatches a very modern-looking compound bow out of nowhere, pulls it to full draw and releases a hunting arrow almost too quickly to follow. The arrow disappears into Harry’s chest. Harry drops the phone and falls to his knees.

    HARRY
    Guh!

    CUPID
    Oh, you’re all right. Shake it off. You always did before.

    HARRY
    But...I’m not dead...

    CUPID
    Of course you’re not dead. That’s not my department.

    Cupid steps closer and takes a slice of Harry’s pizza from the counter.

    CUPID
    Hey, this isn’t bad. Got any beer?

    HARRY
    Who...what...

    Cupid goes to the fridge and helps himself to a Heineken.

    CUPID
    I’ll draw you a picture if you can’t figure it out. I’m Cupid, all right? Roman demigod of romantic love. There are some things we need to discuss.

    HARRY
    You’re a lunatic!

    CUPID
    I could shoot you again if that would help.

    HARRY
    No! No, that’s all right. You wanna be Cupid, you’re Cupid.

    Harry gets up off the floor, unharmed, and follows Cupid into...

    INT / EVENING / HARRY’S LIVING ROOM

    Harry’s living room is cluttered and plain.

    CUPID
    Aristotle’s ballocks, Harry, it looks like a bloody fraternity house.

    HARRY
    Who...what...

    Cupid flops into a chair and gestures at his beer. The cap goes flying; Cupid drinks.

    HARRY
    Look, I...what was it you wanted again?

    CUPID
    A little cooperation would be nice.

    HARRY
    I don’t know what you’re talking about.

    CUPID
    I haven’t got all day, so just drop the games and let’s talk, shall we? Me, I’m all about Valentine’s Day. That’s my day to shine. You, on the other hand, are the thrice-damned Ebenezer Scrooge of Valentine’s Day. You undo my work at every turn, and I want you to stop it.

    HARRY
    Oh.

    Harry looks around awkwardly.

    HARRY
    I think I want a beer too.

    CUPID
    It’s your house.

    Harry goes off camera, returns with an open Heineken.

    HARRY
    This is all kind of, well, strange. I never really believed in you.

    CUPID
    You never thought me through to my logical conclusion, Harry, but you’ve always believed in me.

    HARRY
    That’s not true.

    CUPID
    Well if you didn’t believe in me, why do you fight me so hard?

    HARRY
    I don’t fight you so much as I fight against the whole idea. Valentine’s Day is stupid.

    CUPID
    Gina Balducci.

    HARRY
    What?

    CUPID
    You hate me because of Gina Balducci. She sat behind you in your eighth-grade English class. You had a terrible crush on her.

    HARRY
    I did not.

    CUPID
    [knowing look]

    HARRY
    That’s bullshit!

    CUPID
    [knowing look]

    HARRY
    Okay...okay, I did.

    CUPID
    So why didn’t you do anything about it?

    HARRY
    What? What could I have done? You’re supposed to make it happen! You’re the god of love!

    CUPID
    SHHHH! I am NOT a god, I’m a demigod. There’s a difference.

    HARRY
    Yeah?

    CUPID
    Gods have power...I only have influence.

    HARRY
    So what?

    CUPID
    I can nudge people this way or that; I can’t make them do anything unless at some level they already want to do it. I persuade, I don’t force.

    HARRY
    So you’re not a god?

    CUPID
    No, and please never say that I am. It upsets them. You don’t want Mother involved, believe me.

    Harry and Cupid each take a drink.

    HARRY
    So why couldn’t you have made Gina love me back?

    CUPID
    I did.

    HARRY
    WHAT?!?

    CUPID
    She mooned over you like Juliet the whole year.

    HARRY
    I never knew!

    CUPID
    You never asked.

    Harry stares at Cupid, thinking hard.

    HARRY
    Is there anyone who loves me now?

    CUPID
    I only persuade. I don’t force.

  8. #8
    Giggity Vie's Avatar
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    You mean...like, short stories or poetry?

  9. #9
    Don't Judge Me! Haphazard's Avatar
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    It's fanfiction, and an adaptation of my writing, but I'm proud of it.

    [YOUTUBE="b-lcFEshL7Q"]Chapstick[/YOUTUBE]
    -Carefully taking sips from the Fire Hose of Knowledge

  10. #10
    mod love baby... Lady_X's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by vieamemusique View Post
    You mean...like, short stories or poetry?
    anything yes...stories..poetry..lyrics...
    There can’t be any large-scale revolution until there’s a personal revolution, on an individual level. It’s got to happen inside first.
    -Jim Morrison

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