post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 21:32:13 +0000

No need to say anything about what's above you: just post something, anything, that you like, from what you've written recently. I feel like posting something kinda sappy... Elsa found solace in the back yard. Tulsa, Oklahoma was a pretty dry locale, but it got enough rain to support some planted trees. Next to the patio grew a big sycamore: Elsa loved its white-and-grey patterned bark and the generous proportions of its leaves—supple and strong enough, when green, to make good blankets for little toy animals and other treasures. On one side were tall rose o' sharons with their intriguing soft fuschia flowers, banks of pink and white hydrangeas that were oddly chilly in their beauty, and lush-textured violet morning glories that she learned she had to look at before she went to school, or miss the chance. On the other side were two different kinds of peach trees: one that was tall and straight with pretty flowers, another thick, short, and twisted, with a few big fruit every year—not as sweet as the ones at her grandparents' in Illinois, but special all the same.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Shem-the-Penman — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 22:28:06 +0000

Very poignant, Fiona! lush-textured violet morning glories that she learned she had to look at before she went to school, or miss the chance. What a great way to show another of the many ways Elsa defines herself and her life through her surroundings. Here's my MC lost in the hall of mirrors: Aram ran ahead, and turned the corner to face two of his own reflections running toward one another. A kid in a green sweater ten feet away became two, then vanished. Aram bumped into another pane of glass trying to get to where the kid was, then turned and ran around a curved corridor into another dead end. He and two reflections split up and retreated. -Shem

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

mrawrites — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 22:33:51 +0000

Shem: I love this! The way you captured reflection and the confusion of a child's mind when faced with it is positively poetic (alliteration). ---- A little demonstration of American bigotry in the 1920's- logical validation of the Sacco and Vanzetti case. It's all very sarcastic; in no way am I expressing my actual beliefs about immigrants here. I know it's long, but I love it so much. ----- “Say,” the first man said, eager to show his knowledge to his clearly more competent and informed neighbor, “what do you think of that old case, those two immigrants that robbed that store and murdered that man?” The figure, now sunken in his nausea into his coat, hiding his face for the sake of easing his roaring belly, perked to attention, his curiosity piqued to hear the opinions of these two men, whom he already despised. “Well, clearly they were guilty,” the second man said. “Two Italians- of course they were guilty, must be used to that sort of lawlessness in their country. They may know art and cuisine, but their aptitude for the law is laughable at best. I hardly know how they operate as a nation; wouldn’t surprise me if they fell to some Communist or other soon, and then where’ll we be? In the pits, that’s where.” “What were their names again? Sock-ho something or other, right?” The second man nodded gravely, such would be their names, don’t even want to be in this country, you can always tell because they wouldn’t change their names to something proud and American, like me, Smith, my name is. Just out to take our jobs, regular antagonists to our great nation, they are, only want to bring us down- jealous pigs, that’s what they are! The other man, whose name was Peters, exhaled sharply in relief as the other name popped into his head, Sock-ho and Van-jetty, that’s what they called themselves! “You know why they did it, don’t you?” Smith said. “They were anarchists, they only wanted to bring America down to their level! Didn’t even fight in the War. Got their German friends to blow up a bomb in Paris, damn near killed twenty people! And, you know what they said, when they were strapped to the chair? I heard that that Sock-ho character looked straight into the eyes of the man about to press the button and said, in Italian, mind, ‘Long live anarchy!’. That’s what the Times printed up, anyway, I believe it; and of course they professed their sentiments to their wives and kids after, in English, trying to prove themselves martyrs.” Peters snorted in agreement. “You know they tried to argue in court that it was a class war, that it was the rich and white looking down on the immigrants for being foreign? Had the damn nerve to call us racist! Like it was our fault they were driven to kill and rob! Didn’t even speak proper English, didn’t even try to look American; no wonder they were so easy to find after their sin was done, they looked the part of the regular criminal!” Smith let out a squawking chortle, and slapped his knee, finding the humor. “And before they were put down, they had the nerve to think themselves saintly for getting caught! You know what they said about themselves? That they would, in the event that they weren’t caught, have lived out their lives unimportant and nameless in history books, but because they were caught, their deaths would be their greatest triumph! That riled up their fascist supporters, all right. Demonstrations in the streets! Chaos! Anarchy! Just what they wanted!” “What these men don’t understand,” Peters continued, “is that such lawlessness doesn’t simply demand punishment because it is a crime or a sin. One must think of the consequences of one’s actions! They stole good, hardworking men’s paychecks; should they be punished for the act of stealing it?” “Absolutely!” Smith said. “Wrong, sir, and I’ll tell you why. You see, it was not just blank dollar bills that they took, and not simply an anonymous man’s life that they took- it was the livelihood of families that they stole, and for their own benefit! Without the money from those paychecks, the workers they stole it from won’t be able to provide for their families, and say they had a sickly child. That child will die now- another life taken at the hands of the two criminal Italians. The man they murdered will never go home to his wife and children; in her grief, his woman might take her own life, leaving her poor and defenseless children to drown in poverty. This is why they are punished; not for murdering the man and taking the money, but for slaughtering the hopes for the future that all of those workers held, that their families held, and that is a far more reaching crime than the simple act of pulling a trigger.” Satisfied and breathless, Peters leaned back in his seat and laced his hands while Smith pulled a cigar form his breast pocket and lit it, coughing a little as the black smoke filled his lungs and the poison cloud left his lips in several small, perfect rings.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Project18 — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 09:05:43 +0000

Writing a zombie-ish novel told through the journal of an especially lucid infected man. I like this section because I let my main character complain, and that's all he really wants to do (besides eat people): For the most part, I am thankful that I am not a decomposing soulless monster. I am grateful for the compassion I still have and the reflection and rationality that I am still capable of. There are still some days when I would prefer it were otherwise. I suppose if you have read this far you know me well enough to see why I would be so careful not to think this way. It’s verging on blasphemy in some strange way for me to question these gifts or prefer not to have them, but they do make life hard. We killed a family today. It’s not like they weren’t shooting at us and doing everything in there power to harm us. They were. It was two parents and a young girl. All three of them were trying to kill me, and I had to kill them to eat them. I know that. At the same time, some days it is so hard to continue doing what I do, and I know that that is because of how reflective I am. If I was just the raving maw of hell, with no free will and no semblance of consciousness none of this would be challenging. I would kill and eat and eat and kill. I wouldn’t read every night, and I wouldn’t need to struggle with these acts. I enjoyed eating them, all things told. I wonder if that would make them feel better. Probably not. It only made me feel better for a little while. If I was the reapers mower, and all humanity was chaff to be struck dumb from the earth with death, I would reap and reap and the chaff would blow in the wind over the threshing floor, and I would not be capable of remorse or intense guilt. I would be the arm of something greater. I could fulfill my destiny without having to consider it. As things are, I am not a member of a shambling horde. I can’t even hide behind some kind of majority. I am simply a man with all knowledge of good and evil. Now before you give me shit about Nietzsche and slave mentalities, let me cut you off. I believe Nietzsche was saying that you should value something (namely what he wanted you to value for some reason), and ignore ideas about good and evil, because they are simply the argument of the weaker, made to enslave the greater. Well I do have values, and they don’t match up with my predilections. Maybe you would argue he didn’t care about values, per se, but that he wanted us to replace our moral system with an aesthetic system. Well what kind of Aesthetic system am I imbedded in? Do you think I love being covered in blood and the tears of children and parents? If you are so interested in Nietzsche I would redirect you to Heart of Darkness. If you want to see the Nietzschean hero in all his glory I would point my bloody finger at Kurtz. There he is, limping to a boat to escape only to turn back several miles out to return of his own will, torn between his aesthetic appetitive predilections and his sense of Nietzschean superiority. There is your hero. How far have we fallen as a culture if only a fool would want to be a hero? How eroded are we socially if the best benefit for society would be that heroes stop being born?

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

MutableTiger — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 16:09:42 +0000

Great stuff so far! I love these sneak peek excerpts! ----- Crazy smiled warmly. It was one of the few times Lawrence had actually seen her do it. It softened him – and for the moment and all the beauty that was captured in it, he had forgotten all the horrible things that he had done – he had forgotten about how badly he had failed at his life with his children, how he was responsible for the smashing of their souls and bodies into a fiery crash of burnt metal and life. The thoughts of sorrow and pain and despair melted away as he stood witness to the sweetness and innocence found in a simple moment – a moment where time meant nothing, where want meant nothing – it was a moment of love and it was beautiful.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

DangerOLeary — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:54:09 +0000

(Don't know how to italicize. Things in asterisks are thoughts.) The parking lot was vacant save for a single other car, so I expected to be in and out in no time. I walked inside to find one person in queue ahead of me, so I pulled my phone from my pocket to check my emails. As I began to read the most recent, I heard someone come in the door behind me, but naturally I paid them no notice. The gunshot, however, got my attention. Immediately, I turned around to find the source of the noise. Standing just inside the door was the bank robber; he was wearing nondescript clothes aside from the black ski mask and oversized sunglasses, and he was just lowering his gun from the air having just fired it into the ceiling. **Are you kidding me right now?** “Good afternoon,” the bank robber exclaimed, distorting his voice by talking in a grunt-like fashion. “Would all patrons please…” and he hesitated as he surveyed we two patrons before he continued, “Um, get down on the floor.” **Why the hesitation, buddy? Address your captives with conviction or we’ll take you less seriously.** I was annoyed, but my aversion to having a gun pointed at me convinced me to lay face down on the floor. My phone was still in my hand. “Slide your phone to me, please,” Bank Robber said. At least he asked nicely. I slid my phone to him. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. **I really hope he gives that back**, I thought. He walked around the counter and pulled a plastic grocery bag from his pocket. He pointed his gun at the register where the teller was standing, and with a sweeping motion, pointed the gun at his bag and said, “Fill it up.” The teller seemed much more calm than I’d have expected if I’d tried to imagine how a bank heist would go prior to that day. She was attractive, probably around my age—mid-twenties or so—with light brown hair and a narrow face. Her expression was rather stoic, all things considered. I was impressed with her composure, but mostly I just wanted her to hurry up. When the register was empty, Bank Robber tied the bag shut and began heading toward the door. The man who was ahead of me in line and who was laying facedown a few feet from me turned his head to the floor so as to avoid looking at Bank Robber. I, however, kept my focus on Bank Robber. As he walked toward the door, instead of stepping over me he put a foot directly on my derrière and stepped directly on me. **What the fuck. Was that necessary? How strange.** As soon as he was out the door, I saw him take off running toward the left. When I figured he wasn’t coming back, I stood. “Well that was interesting,” I said. “I activated the silent alarm when I saw him coming in,” the teller said. “I have to ask that you both stay so you can give the police a statement.” The other guy, probably in his forties and dressed in business casual attire, was visibly a wreck. His hands were shaking like he had Parkinson’s and his face was white. He almost looked like he was going to puke. Then he puked, right there in the middle of the bank lobby. **Gross.** Four hours later, I was allowed to leave. I walked out of the bank and toward my car. I got in, put the key in the ignition, then noticed something was laying in the crack between my hood and windshield. It was my phone.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

DangerOLeary — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 19:01:46 +0000

Really cool! I have this idea to write a zombie romance. It would be a short story, but my working title will be Phalanges for Two: A Zombie Love Story.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

lindsey1295 — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 21:54:15 +0000

In the summer they spent most of their time indoors, and occasionally they went to the river to escape the heat that made the cement sticky and smelly and turned everyone's skin into the slimy epidermis of geckos. One night, when James's family had gone to the movies, the two of them ran cold water in the bathtub and slipped into the water in their underwear. They submerged themselves for a glorious hour until they heard the family clicking the key in the door, the whine of the three younger brothers and the high-pitched snap of the mother's voice. Laura went home that night with her wet bra and panties rung out and shoved in the bottom of her purse.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Honeybadger12345 — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 01:46:00 +0000

This is from the very middle of my novel, Strange Land. Take a look: It was a picture of her and Jack wrapped around each other against a wintry expanse, taken at the shore in mid-January. In the background, the wind ripped across the sand and pulled up the blankets of the few who sat nestled in the dunes. Winter had brought a vast grayness over everything, like smoke settling over a landscape with no breeze to disperse it. Despite the evident frigidity, they hadn’t seemed too bothered or uncomfortable. As the waves had pressed up the beach next to them, Jack’s pulsing red fingers were lovingly entangled with hers, while Lena playfully kissed him on his ruddy cheek, raw from the harsh cold and winter ocean mist. She remembered his skin feeling so soft then. But now, photocopied and sharpened, it appeared as hard and cold as that frosty winter day. How could she not know? Lena further examined the photograph, eyes strained, desperate to find a sign, a gesture, a weak glimmer of insanity aflame like a campfire in Jack’s amber irises. But there was nothing. He was perfect. ||||||This is another thing I wrote that I kinda liked, but it's a continuation of my current story rather than a part of it (I'm planning on doing a series)|||||||| Every time Will looked at Lena now, every time a lock of her raven hair or a twinkle in her steel-blue eyes caught his glance, his concentration became deeply impaired. He couldn’t explain it. All Will knew was that the night they had spent together, as he had lay next to her, kissing her hair and tracing winding patterns on her back, new feelings had been born—urges. His inattentiveness had died down substantially with each passing hour, but Will could still feel the desire burning dimly inside of him—unwanted and unwavering—like a forgotten ember in a fire pit that, if provoked, would burst into a roaring blaze at any moment in time. It was the fact that he knew things now, that he could easily envision every curve of her silhouette if he wanted to; it was fueling his lust like kerosene. Will now knew what it was like for his fingers to get lost in the goose bump maze of her body…to be so close to Lena that he could count all the gleaming craters and tangled squiggles in her irises. He knew what it was like to savor the subtle softness of her rising flesh… the heart-shaped birthmark over her chest…the passionate bite of her lips… It was terrible.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

carlyamiller2014 — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 02:42:00 +0000

“HI.” “Hi.” Eva stands before Laurel. Her arms are swinging at her sides. For once she doesn’t have something witty to say. They’re grinning ear to ear. Both of them. “I’m glad you could still come,” Laurel says, “I’ve been excited.” At this she blushes furiously. “I mean . . . er, I’ve never had a student before. It’s, it’s exciting. It’s new—“ Eva laughs. “I know what you mean, Laurel. I understand what you’re trying to say.” “Um. You do?” Eva winks, but makes no reply. She sits down and kicks off her boots in the grass. Peels down her stockings to reveal dainty white feet. She’s in leggings again with another long boy’s shirt on. “Is that your father’s?” Laurel asks. “Those shirts you wear. Do they belong to someone?” Eva looks up. “No. They’re my brother’s. He shares.” Unselfconsciously, she reaches up and starts to unbutton the shirt. Laurel tries to keep her gaze away from the widening collar of Eva’s shirt, busies herself by sitting next to Eva, and taking out her ballet shoes. “Your brother, is he home or is he. . ?” “He’s not fighting if that’s what you mean.” She slips her arms out of the shirt and throws it on the ground. Underneath she’s got on a white tee shirt. There’s several rips in it. The flat muscles of her belly, the arch of her hips, is just visible enough to be alluring. Even so, it’s not decent wear for the public. Eva knows this, and Eva doesn’t care. “He’s got a lung condition. It’s manageable here, but not on the front, you know? Nah, he’s too busy helping Ma and Pa and chasing the boys away from me.” She laughs. “Of course he doesn’t know that I have no interest.” “Oh.” Laurel feels her throat tighten, and quickly rakes her eyes over Eva’s face, trying to figure out what the girl is trying to tell her. There’s plenty of women who have no interest in men, especially ones as young as Eva. But Eva is so loud, so real. . . So could she mean that instead of an interest in men she holds an interest in women? Laurel’s secret comes to mind. Butterflies roil in her stomach. She scours Eva’s features, trying and failing at unraveling her words. That’s when she notices the bruise over Eva’s left eye. “Oh.” She reaches out without thinking, tracing it with the edge of her thumb. “What happened?” Eva shuts her eyes, smiles knowingly. “Nothing,” she murmurs. Placing her hand over Laurel’s she feels the soft, callous free skin. The skin of hands who know no pain, who’ve never had to beg or work for bread. Innocent hands that know as little about love as they do suffering. Tilting her cheek, Eva allows the heat from the gentle slope of the inside of Laurel’s wrist to wash over her. She can feel her pulse against her aching, discolored eye, can smell the sweet waft of perfume on her skin. “Are you okay?” Laurel asks, still concerned. Still oblivious to what’s happening. “Sh, darling. It’s nothing.” Eva leans in, hesitates. Her eyes find Laurel’s; they’re wide and scared. Suddenly, Laurel understands. The spike of her pulse sounds like thunder. She wants it, and she doesn’t. She’s scared, oh, she’s so scared. But Eva sees this and doesn’t give the fear a chance to win. She smiles gently. “Sh, darling. It’s okay. It’s okay to be different.” And she wraps her hand around the back of Laurel’s neck and kisses her softly on the mouth. It’s a perfect kiss shared by two strangers. A perfect, brilliant, electric kiss, that is, until Laurel comes to her senses. She jerks her face away, mouth crumpling. Knees fold up on the insides of her arms. Within seconds she’s locked away, shaking with the gravity of what she’s done. For a moment, Eva sits perfectly still. She sits more still than she’s ever sat before, lips red, eyes trained on Laurel, burning for more. “Let me kiss you.” Laurel looks up, incredulous. “Let me kiss you,” Eva repeats. Her words are soft, gaze steady as it bores into Laurel’s. Laurel glances around at the people around them. The people who could look up and see at any time. The people who could judge her, ruin her, make her more worthless than she already is. She squeezes her eyes shut, wipes at a tear with her palm. “Why are you crying?” Eva has scooted over. She’s got a dainty hand on the small of Laurel’s back, rubbing in smooth circles. “Did I do something wrong?” “N-n-no. That’s the problem.” Eva reaches out, takes ahold of Laurel’s chin. Thumbs away her tears. “Open your eyes. Open your eyes and look at me.” Laurel opens her eyes. “Now tell me, then, what’s wrong.” “Nothing was wrong, that’s what’s wrong. God, it was perfect,” Laurel sobs. “It was so perfect.” A long laugh escapes Eva’s throat. “Why are you laughing?” Laurel asks, aghast. “And why are you crying?” comes the retort between chuckles. “I. . . I don’t know. . .” she says shakily, and within moments her tears turn into a few shaky giggles. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m crazy, I’m, I’m—“ “Shh, now. Don’t overthink it.” Eva sweeps a strand of hair off Laurel’s forehead. “You know the best way to cure crazy?” she asks with a crooked smile. “How?” “A kiss.” But this time, Eva doesn’t go for Laurel’s lips. She reaches out, taking the same hand that touched her black eye and raises its palm to her mouth. Slowly, her lips move across the achingly soft skin. She pauses on the wrist, let’s her tongue slide across the crease of it. A shiver travels down Laurel’s spine, and satisfied, Eva presses her small mouth to it once more, and places it in the grass. “You know what your problem is?” “What?” Eva leans in, letting the words curl against Laurel’s ear. “You need to be loved, darling. The right way.”

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

jschaub — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 16:22:17 +0000

Charles Hirsh was in the living room reading the newspaper after dinner. Ed sat down on the couch next to him. “Hi son. Want a section?” Ed had always liked the way his dad looked in his reading glasses. Since Ed could remember, his dad had always worn them while reading anything. Ed remembered him wearing them when he had read Ed bedtime stories; sometimes Ed would lose track of his dad’s voice as he stared at the glasses. They made him look wise, and kind; he looked just like Gepetto, with his wavy hair and the delicate chain hanging from the glasses. Ed sometimes imagined his dad carving him out of a block of wood, gently tapping his chisel along Ed’s lower eyelid, his hand steady and true at just the right depth, taking special care not to scratch Ed’s eye. And when he’d cleared the final small wood wedge from Ed’s eye, he’d lean in close and gently blow away any remaining dust or splinters. Then he’d move back, holding Ed’s face in his hands, and smile at the son he’d created, maybe tears pooling in the corners of his own eyes.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 18:10:09 +0000

Nice...

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 21:49:33 +0000

This is rough, because I just wrote it, but I'm curious to know if it conjures up a vivid visual impression...it's hard to write about experiences had in the ocean, because I never know how much is obvious, how much to explain to a reader who may not have done anything similar. Elsa was online once when people were posting their favorite Thanksgiving memories. She posted hers with the caveat that it might've sounded a little strange, because she had grown up on the Texas Gulf Coast, where it tends to be warm on Thanksgiving. "The water, especially, stays warm," she wrote, "Later than the air does." It was a similar Thanksgiving to many others: Elsa's family got together with another family and rented a beach house, a big sprawling place with a huge back porch, right on the beach. It was 1968: Elsa was 13. What made it special for her was her best friend Joan got to come along with them. They had a turkey, but what she always remembered best from those Thanksgiving day meals was the traditional oyster stew her mother made, and the crabs caught fresh that day and simmered in beer and spices and Gulf water (which tasted good, that year at least), which they pounded open with nutcrackers and gorged on, right out of the shells-- out on the porch, looking out to sea. Her favorite memory, though, was what Joan and she did that night-- late at night, after everyone had fallen asleep and the beach was completely deserted. At first they were inside the beach house, but they found they were laughing so hard at the jokes they were whispering to each other, they had to run outside to avoid waking people. They ran down the beach like wild animals, the wind snatching the laughter out of their mouths. The sky was overcast, so it was unusually dark. All of a sudden they noticed that their wet bare footprints were glowing bright in the darkness: "It's luminescent plankton," Elsa cried. "Oh wow!" They could also see swirls of brightly glowing particles in the water coming up on shore, so impulsively they ran right into the ocean, dressed in T-shirts and shorts. The ocean water was inviting because it was warmer than the air that night. As they walked deeper into the water, up to their waists and above, they got a bit spooked: it was pitch-dark, and they couldn't see the waves massing up in front of them. But they were still so excited, they thought it was a pleasure to be spooked. As if of one mind, they started singing the theme from "Dark Shadows" (their favorite TV show) together, and found themselves laughing again. Suddenly, in the darkness before them, they saw a long, bright, pale, horizontal band-- twisting and writhing like a ghost in front of them-- at the height of their chests, then their faces, then above! then SPLASH! they were completely tumbled by the wave whose breaking crest they had been watching, all full of bright-glowing plankton, and then whoosh! swirl! they were completely enveloped in the amazingly bright plankton-- their heads popping out of the warm water only...SPLASH! to be tumbled all over again by another wave of glowing water. In between waves they could see each other's faces-- even in the darkness-- because they were lit up by the glowing water. They saw each other's faces, grinned from ear to ear, and started laughing all over again, in glee over the delightfully weird experience they were having. And then another wave would come crashing down. Elsa had known Joan all her life, had kept in touch with her for four decades. She didn't think they'd ever loved each other so much, though, as at that moment-- sloshing around and struggling to get their footing in the wet sand under the water-- overpowered time and time again by big warm waves-- neon-bright watery wonders everywhere they looked.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

iymcool — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 20:34:53 +0000

I needed to create an introspectic chapter of some sort so that my FMC could attempt to grasp what has happened to her. I ended up really happy with the rough cut: There is no God. There is no Influence. All there is in this world is me. My empty prayers come from an empty mind that had never even begun to fill. There are no Rasa. There are no numbers. There is no understanding. Evelyn opened her eyes to a world upside-down. She was no longer on the floor of Deephaut’s energy factory, but staring now at the ground atop some sort of tower. As panic gripped her and she began to fear that gravity would greet her with a smashed skull, she began to realize that she was floating. However, she was only floating in place. Nothing in this world was moving, aside from the veil that had remained on her head. Before she could realize what was happening, her body made a jolt as if pushed from it’s peak. There is no control here. There is no reason to move. Gazing upward at her feet, she was able to see that she been bound to a plank of wood. Her ankles looked red, even through her stockings, and were tied with strands upon strands of glass beads. Looking to her sides, the nun realized her arms shared similar fates. Oh great being in Heaven. The cross gave another quick jolt, as if its screws that kept it steady on the tower were stripping themselves of their weight. With another wordless prayer sent down towards the sky, the cross-bound nun fell from her perch. A prophet once ascended, while a disciple returned to earth. Before she crashed, she could make out people gathering to watch the shooting star that was plummeting towards them. The bespectacled Rasa gazed upward, their numeric markings covering their privates, shining in the light of the sunrise, as the cross fell from the white church’s bell tower. The force of the descent was minimal, yet eternal. As she leaked into the ground, her veil catching little of her fluids, the nun could feel her blood dripping below the soil, falling into a pit of boiling charcoal that seemed to scream in high-pitched agony. There is no truth.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

carlyamiller2014 — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 04:32:17 +0000

I know I already posted something but I REALLY like this one... Even more than the last. So here you guys go : .” And there’s those stupid tears blossoming in my eyes again. I break his enchanting gaze to look over my shoulder again for my incompetent fool of a father who couldn’t bother himself to show up for his own daughter’s funeral on time. This time I see him come in. Relief washes over me. Better late than never, for if he hadn’t come at all Mom would have probably flown her ass straight to New York, stick and all, to personally make sure he never went anywhere again. Loathing him, or not loathing him – one funeral was enough funerals for a fifteen year old girl to attend.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

LilyLily — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 04:34:51 +0000

I'm not stopping, re-reading or thinking much to be honest, but I liked the part I'm posting below. Oh, my grammar SUCKS! He didn’t rub her back. He took both sides of her face into his hands, the strong, big hands she had studied before. His palms on her temples and his fingers in her hair, he started to touch her. He rubbed her forehead. He touched her eyelids. He traced her lips with his fingers. He ran his fingers through her hair. His hands were sure and certain. He touched her like he wanted his hands to memorize her. He leaned down and rubbed her neck, putting his face right next to hers. She could smell his coffee, she could feel his hair on her cheek and he was breathing her in. She closed her eyes. Her body was responding. Her back was full of shivers and her legs had gone from being straight out in front of her to bent and turned towards him. She could feel every breath he took on her neck. She could barely breathe. She was trying to fight the urge to reach her hands up and touch his head and pull him in to her. She wanted his hands to find other parts of her body. He paused and asked her to sit up. She did. He straddled her from behind and started working on her back. He alternated between touching her lightly with his fingertips and working the knots. She leaned back into him and he brought one of his arms around her. She smelled the soap on his skin and the laundry detergent he used. She was breathing him in. He ran his hands up her spine to her hair and pulled her head back. He put his lips to her shoulder and she froze. She willed him to kiss her. Wanted him to kiss her, but she hoped he didn’t kiss her. He continued to touch her. He touched almost every part of her body. He touched her feet, her collarbone, her ears, her nose… He gave her an intense, warming backrub and he still didn’t kiss her. He put his mouth close to her face, whispered in her ear that she was beautiful and nibbled her lobe. She should have stopped him. She knew, in her head, she should stop him. She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to lay there and have him touch her and tease her for the next week. She didn’t want to leave. He stopped for a moment, laying his arms along hers and holding her wrists in his hands and said softly “Please let me draw you.” She had let him draw her. She looked back at him. She looked right into his eyes. His light brown, flecked eyes with long lashes quizzically. “You have drawn me.” She stated. “I want to draw you. Without your clothes on.” It hung there between them. Melanie wanted to do this. She was dying to have him draw her like that. She had dreamed about it, but she was afraid. She had children and her body showed it. He might think she was beautiful with clothes on, but she knew he wouldn’t think so once the mystery was gone. This day had been magical so far. She felt good and beautiful. She wasn’t ready to expose herself in this way. She shook her head. “No.” she said “I’m not ready for that.” He put his head close to her face again, nuzzling in to her neck and said: “I’ll wait.” He continued working every part of Melanie’s body with his hands until she was the most relaxed she had been in a long time. The light had faded from the room. It was getting dark outside and Melanie still didn’t want to leave. She wanted to walk outside with Jack and hear the leaves brush against the sidewalk as they walked through them. She wanted to walk to the closest bar, have a drink with him and sit as close as she possibly could to him. She wanted to stay there and feel that way for the rest of her life. She had forgotten about work, her house, her husband, her children and anything else that ever caused her to worry. Jack had made that happen in one afternoon. She hadn’t been able to make that happen nor had anyone else in her lifetime. Melanie was peaceful. She willed herself out of the bean bag. She stood up to her full five foot ten inch frame and stretched. She didn’t want to leave, but she was afraid to stay. He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. He had been doing that all day, but she had never once held him. She did now. She returned his warmth and his embrace. She buried her head into the crook of his neck and inhaled him. She wanted to remember his smell and the shape of him. She put her hands to the back of his neck and his head and kept herself from pulling his face to hers. Almost as if he had read her mind he turned his head so he was eye to eye with her: “No kissing.” She said.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

dsherman19 — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 20:14:56 +0000

Here's a cemetery scene. Josiah is a bounty hunter who's finally captured a Moriarty-like villain. He is visiting the grave of his love who was also an unfortunate victim of this villain. Let me know what you think. I hope it isn't too long! [quote= ] “I caught Thorne today. I suppose you know that. You knew I would. But it’s strange, Elise. I don’t feel happy about it at all. Why is that? Why, after all these years, why don’t I feel a single positive emotion about having caught that menace? Even if I couldn’t save you, I probably saved thousands of lives today. And every day that goes by with him in prison, another thousand people will be safe. But it doesn’t help. Why is that?” Josiah paused. The stone continued to listen. A typical November wind gusted up and swirled leaves around Josiah’s feet. It warned of the coming winter with a doleful howl. “I think if you were still alive, it would be different. Of course it would be different, but that’s not what I mean. I mean if you were here, you would be so happy for me. And then, I think, I could be happy too. Because then you would be here with me, sharing in my triumph along with thousands of others. Maybe then I could enjoy it.” Josiah stopped again, and then slowly got to his knees. This was the second part he had promised himself (and Elise, at one time) he would do. “I’m only going to do this once, Elise, so make sure God is listening.” Josiah took a deep breath and released it. He was glad there was no one else out here to see this. It was humiliating enough as it was, but then again, this was all for his own healing, wasn’t it? The fact that it was humiliating was part of it, too. After all, how could anyone dare to approach God in any manner but knee bound? [/quote] A half-sarcastic plea for God to show himself follows this.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

shanshan17 — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 21:17:51 +0000

I just want to say I love the way this flows! It's so simple, but it's beautiful at the same time. It pulled me right in. Good luck with the rest of your novel! I'm sure it'll be great!

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

shanshan17 — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 21:19:09 +0000

The above was @LilyLily. But to @dsherman19, I love the dialogue! Really intense. Good luck to you too. :)

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

lindsey1295 — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 04:18:29 +0000

Sophia Tun sat in one of a row of orange plastic chairs, across from a woman who was breastfeeding her baby. Sophia was an older woman, almost 64, brown and strong with ropy arms and a face that looked like wet clay. She wore a dress she had owned for a dozen years and her haired was in two braids that merged into one down her straight, broad back. She looked completely incongruous in a modern airport, in a way that a photographer might notice--her presence was an interesting irony in itself. She was dozing when the smiling mother sat down across from her. Her baby, whose sex Sophia couldn't guess, had the cashew shape of a newborn. The corners of Sophia's mouth turned as she wondered whether air travel was safe for such a tiny creature. She had been told that her ears would feel like they were expanding, and she hoped the baby could handle the pain, prayed it wouldn't have any permanent damage.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

bibliosylph — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 05:48:19 +0000

Been avoiding this forum til I wrote something worthy of it. Fiona, your descriptions are always very sensory for me. This is a bit of nonsense I wrote last night. "Grilled Salmon con Salsa de Mango, hm," Jack said. I think I'd pair that with a lightly effervescent yet reflective Pinot Grigio, how about you, Violet?" Violet giggled with surprise. "Well, let's see. I might wish to start with the Clams Oreganata, and then I'd select a warm-complected California Chardonnay with cliched psychological complexities and a slight hint of pear from a weary old orchard on a forgotten farm just north of Sacramento." Laughing, Jack replied, "All right, then perhaps the zuppa de pesca paired with a full-bodied yet ambivalent rosé, jejune in spirit, yet slightly fatigued on the nose." They both chortled, then noticed the waiter standing over them patiently. "Let me tell you about our daily menu items," he said, and Violet snorted with laughter. He continued, "And you'll find the actual wine list here," he flipped her menu over, "on the back. Perhaps a starter, for now?" Jack composed himself and said, "You can skip the recitation. We'll have Clams Oreganata, and a bottle of your most eager Pinot Grigio."

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 09:39:38 +0000

This is... =laughing= ...hilarous! I so much want to get together with that couple for a foursome with my husband and me. Next Saturday, our place? They can bring the wine?

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 09:44:05 +0000

....oh, and oddly enough, Pinot Grigio has been my libation of choice, when I've needed a bit of a nip while writing Bride of the Monster.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

bibliosylph — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 04:25:12 +0000

I actually think that one's okay, though I have a hard time with white wine. I'm kind of a philistine about that. But I like to read about them and get the basics, and it cracks me up when the descriptions go way beyond reasonable context. :-)

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Goerge — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 06:03:16 +0000

Breathing was uneven, beating of the heart as well, his mind would not stop running, but it refused to get off the treadmill to do so. How long had he been standing in front of that small sculpture? It occasionally would catch his attention and he would pass some thought upon the evocation of humanity that was captured in those two pieces of steel that were slightly bulbous and perfectly smooth, reaching towards one another and yet not touching despite the fact that they worked to wrap about one another. One of the dealers of the art had stopped by at one point wanting to know if Joshua was wishing to purchase the piece, and if so he was sure he could convince the artist to part with it. Purchase was not the desire of his heart now, just to stand and stare, once again his eyes were far beyond what lay in front of him, but rather than traveling away they had traveled inside: it was equally as dark though. His feet were wet. His ankles were wet. The umbrella he held against his leg was wet. He was wet. Rain fell a lot in London. Rain fell when it wanted. Rain was the condensation of the moisture already in the air becoming so heavy that it was incapable of resisting the pull of gravity. Rain was the opening of the windows of heaven. Rain was God crying. Rain was tears. Tears were on her cheeks. Rain was on her cheeks. Death was what he was expecting next: sheer coincidence was ruled out in its entirety. Something, be it God, fate, or nature was pulling strings, it was the only way to explain how his day had crumbled in a heap, how his brain was starting to struggle in a way that was supposed to have been forgone. It was dark inside, but he could still sense the shivers that were running through the dark cavities of thought. Tremors of the threat of emotion, the deadliest power of the heart that could be afflicted upon a person. Two smooth, slightly bulbous, pieces of iron, nearly intertwined, and yet were never touching, incapable of touching now, not until their current form was destroyed in immense heat could they ever dream of touching, and then they would no longer be the same. Change was a frightening concept, no one wanted to be too close to a furnace, burns were excruciatingly painful. How had the sculptor received the courage to come close enough to the heat to make the piece of work? Surely there would be burns on the skin: unless a superiorly constructed safety suit had been worn, but that would seem to create too great of a distance between the work and the artist. Art was to be organic—a communication of the state of humanity, could a person communicate the human soul when there were so many barriers between them and the piece of art? Barriers and walls could be good though, sometimes things needed to be kept out, or held in. Damns were amazing creations, and that was a lot of layer between the creation and the creator, if there were any less than it would mean the destruction of the creator. Destructive force that is simply poised, waiting for a moment to break forth, amplified by the significant amount of Potential Energy constantly in effect: gravity never ceases. All things must come back to earth, unless it is the intellect and the soul, things that contain no mass and so are free to rise above the pettiness of the world. Two pieces of iron, perfectly smooth and slightly bulbous, wrapping about one another and never touching.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Arik Dondi — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 08:26:00 +0000

http://www.whatamiherefor.co.uk/national-novel-writing-month-16-the-waiters-story-cont/

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 08:57:21 +0000

I really like the play of ideas in this excerpt—the way his mind goes outward and inward and outward again, almost as though his mind were breathing...

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

LilyLily — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 14:20:05 +0000

[quote=shanshan17] I just want to say I love the way this flows! It's so simple, but it's beautiful at the same time. It pulled me right in. Good luck with the rest of your novel! I'm sure it'll be great! [/quote] Thanks! I really appreciate the feedback.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Arik Dondi — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 19:13:49 +0000

The next day we set off for the walk up Mount Etna. It was a hot day and after the cool hours of the early morning, the sun was burning down on us once we had got out from under the pine trees. We had walked for an hour or two of walking more or less in silence along the ridge in the midday sun and were resting to drink water. The opening of the volcano was in sight. Very suddenly and very briefly something came over me. It was like the feeling you have of falling just before you wake up from a nightmare. “Are you alright?” Zoe asked me. She must have noticed. “Yes, yes, fine. It was just… weird… I felt like I was falling.” “Drink some more. What were you thinking about on the ridge? You were looking very serious.” “Empedocles. His stuff about the perfect sphere, love and strife…” “He died here didn’t he? He jumped into the volcano?” “Yes, they say he wanted to prove that he was a god, no longer a mere mortal.” “Is that what you think happened?” “I hadn’t thought about it. But his philosophy was incredibly deep. He practically founded ontology, cosmology, physics and chemistry. He cured diseases. He was the most intelligent man of his age. He wouldn’t do anything that foolish, would he? It’s easy to be misunderstood if you’re that far ahead of your contemporaries. No, he wanted to progress further into the mysteries of the universe. Get to the bottom of things. So he let himself fall. He didn’t want to prove that he was a God, but he was mortally frustrated by the limits of human understanding.” “Sounds about right.” “What were you thinking?” She smiled. “A snake came to my water trough on a hot, hot day, and I in my pyjamas for the heat…” “What the hell is that?” “Lawrence.” “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom? I don’t recall him wearing pyjamas in the desert?” “DH, not TE, you idiot! It’s a poem set in ‘Sicilian July, with Etna smoking’ in the background.” “Oh yes, I should have spotted it. A snake at the water trough! Very DH, not very TE.” “There’s nothing phallic about that snake. It’s just a description of something that actually happened. He had a villa near Taormina. It wasn’t about sex. Just about a snake.” “For once…” I had the last word, but as far as Lawrence was concerned, she was obviously better read than me. I didn’t know him well enough to understand the connections. But the truth of the matter was that it wasn’t just Empedocles I had been thinking about. The image, the very brief dreamlike hallucination that had come over me, looking at the volcano as I had the feeling of falling, was of Marius making the leap into the depth.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

rcp35 — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 23:32:06 +0000

On the mantlepiece, in amongst all the ‘Well Done! You did it!’ and ‘Congratulations! It’s a boy!’ is a card with just plain black text on a white background. The text reads ‘You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could've, would've happened... or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.’ Tom looks at Hope with surprise. As far as he can see, nothing about her has changed. His son is clamped to her breast, there’s a dream catcher in the living room window, and a mug of herbal tea on the coffee table in front of her. She’s every inch the calm, peaceful hippie she always was. He gets up, strides across the living room, and gestures at the card. ‘This doesn’t seem like you’ Hope looks up at him. He realises that in his head, she’s become a bit like the virgin Mary. His brain cannot process the fact that the baby she’s holding is his. He cannot accept that once, or in fact, many more times than once, he was inside her body. Did he love her? He has no idea. Did he love her sister? He’s even less clear on that. ‘It’s not,’ she says. ‘Yet. But I’m getting there’. What can he say to that? Nothing will come out of his mouth apart from ‘Oh’.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Goerge — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 06:00:18 +0000

Thank you, the last two paragraphs are a bit more cumbersome than I would like, but this part meant a lot to me because it is the first time my character exhibits the propensity to care.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

RambleOnRye — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:06:04 +0000

It was fittingly pouring rain, and everything seemed to be passing me by like I was looking into a rearview mirror. I could tell you how I got here from many different directions. Really though, I was born, and I grew up. I endured the ridicule of many, when I only tried to keep to myself. What can I say people are cruel. Cars, towns, memories, my mother, my brother, all seemed to be behind me now and the only thing that stood in front of me was a man who has done nothing but make me feel inadequate, worthless, and totally depleted. I had nothing left to do but confront him - about everything. The rest of my life would have seemed void of any real meaning, if for once I didn’t stand up to this man. This man I had to call my father, who was anything but that. It wasn’t for selfish reasons, or even for vengeance, but for once, my father would finally know who I was, and that - he couldn’t ignore. I would not let anyone down anymore, not even myself, and especially not Dusty. So here I was.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Crissytrap68 — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 02:33:32 +0000

This is a passage I kind of like. I don't know how recent it was. Everything is in no particular order. Jolene hid in the tent. She sat perfectly still. Through the mesh top she could see the trees and could see the sun coming through the canopy of leaves in flashing lights, like giant fireflies. Somewhere, she knew she would be found. She knew she’d be dragged from the warm walls deep into some place where she knew there were no butterflies. They didn’t live long there at least. They didn’t live long anywhere. They came and went and floated. She remembered seeing a big butterfly half dead on the cement outside her grandma’s house. Its wings were faded and torn at the edge. Still, it moved its wings in periodic quick snaps, but it wasn’t enough for lift off. It wasn’t enough to take flight and disappear, to find a place quiet and beautiful like that canopy of leaves to die in. Jolene heard the shouting. She feared for her grandma. She saw the scary mask of her dad’s face. It wasn’t her dad at all. It was someone pretending to be her dad. She never remembered her dad’s face so contorted with anger. It reminded her of one of those fun house mirrors that stretches the face and makes part of the head bigger or smaller. She never new faces could do that for real. She never realized how scary a face that did that could look. Her dad appeared out of nowhere. He wasn’t supposed to come near the house. Her grandma said there were court papers that said so, but he came anyway. He came screeching his tires and grandma quickly shooed Jolene out back. She went for the tent in the woods. She knew he could find her there, but she figured her grandma would keep him from getting back there. Jolene heard their voices, his loud and fierce and full of anger. She crawled back into the corner of the tent trying to become small and drawn in like the monarch’s chrysalis she watched at school. She had a blanket in the tent and wrapped herself in it. She wrapped it tight around her, trying to muffle the shouting voices, trying to become the butterfly she always was. The blanket was soft like she imagined the wings of a butterfly might feel all pressed up against her. She felt like wings were sprouting from her own back. She thought she could feel the point where they attached to her back. Through an opening at the top she watched the sun twinkle through leaves. She watched the leaves, fluttering like butterfly wings. She wanted to fly up. The voices of her dad and grandma swirled like wind about her. She thought for sure her chrysalis would be blown from the branch. She thought she would most certainly never emerge. She knew she wouldn’t. The voices grew louder, turned into screams. She heard her grandma shout no. Then she didn’t hear her any more. She heard the door slam. She heard the footsteps in the grass coming fast. Then she heard them stop somewhere outside the tent. She couldn’t see. She only saw the sparkling sun and the leaves and she knew were wings were there. She knew if the blanket gave way she would be flying, floating high up into the leaves, into the sparkling sun. She heard the footsteps again. They moved around her. She felt disoriented. Suddenly she was moving, up and up, floating and curling. She’d turned. She was the butterfly moving toward the twinkling spots of sun. From her vantage point she saw her house and the flashing blue and red lights of police cars. She saw the school where she’d released the monarchs and they all flew away. She would see them now. She was one of them now. She saw Meredith’s house and knew she would fly one day, too.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

ceramiccoconut — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 20:09:02 +0000

My MC is in the house of a Goddess who has taken the form of a 10-year-old girl. He's having a bit of a personal crisis. This is what comes of it (he starts off): “I was always taught that there is only one God.” “Who said there isn’t?” “Aren’t you and, well, this entire village—aren’t you all proof that there is more?” The girl’s smiled widened a little. She lifted her hands and extended her fingers, showing all of them clearly. She wiggled them. “You have ten fingers,” she said. I nodded slowly, not sure where this was going. She stood up and walked into the living room. I stood and followed. She sat down at a piano that I could have sworn wasn’t there before. “Do you know how to play?” she asked, her back now to me. “No. My sister does, though.” She put her fingers to the keys and began a slow tune. “I’ve always liked the piano. It requires effort from every part of your body, not just your fingers and feet—for the pedals,” she clarified. “Every finger plays a different key, and no two fingers would be used to play the same key. Sometimes they work together to create a larger note, but for all intents and purposes, they are an extension of the body, each with their own key that helps play a bigger piece.”

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

October Sea Breeze — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 20:35:47 +0000

My MC was looking back on the execution of his lover... With scrambling up it seemed like thee tried to gather yourself back together and my tears were no longer unshed and held captive in a tower behind the closed window. They had escaped from the windows of my soul and they had rolled slowly down my face, every tear making a crack in the uncaring and maybe even stoic mask I sometimes wore according to some people. -- I loved it, though I still need to edit it heavily to create it's perfectness :D

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

mrawrites — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 21:25:00 +0000

I know it's just a sentence, but I thought it was great. A little cliched, but great. "At the end of the road, the man found a fork; he picked it up, polished it with his coat, and examined it."

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Straffi — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 04:25:27 +0000

Here is a little something I've added this morning - - - - - - - - - Anthony sat back down, easing himself into position after reaching across the circle to pass the bong back to Garry. He looked upon the faces of his friends who each seemed as puzzled as he was, but in addition to their puzzlement was a fresh resentment they appeared to have towards him. Not full blown contempt, but the kernel of something that could develop if fostered over time. An uneasiness lifted inside Anthony’s trunk as he imagined Garry had only served him first so as to turn the rest of the crew against him. As if Garry knew they were sat there waiting for him to pass them a bong, and that if he were to pass it to someone who hadn’t even been waiting as they had, they would turn on that person. Anthony imagined Garry developing many more convert tricks such as this, tricks that would help in chipping away at the friendship he had formed with the rest of the crew, taking his time to deconstruct what had recently been created, working to undermine their bonds just so distance was established, a distance as a result of resentment. All of a sudden, Anthony foresaw this process as taking place over many months, Garry working to slowly erode his position in the crew, making him suffer instead of attempting to cast him out in one foul swoop. Working to get underneath Anthony’s confidence and so ruin any chance he had of forming friendships with anyone in the future. The impact he would carry with him for the rest of the life as he struggled to gain qualifications, a job and a wife, all because of the systematic undermining of his self esteem by one crypto-fascistic hash dealer who had taken an immediately disliking towards him. He saw himself cycling home that fateful night in the future when the levee had burst and there was to be no more journeys back to the village to hang out with the crew, not after they had revealed their true feelings towards him, feelings nurtured by their good friend Garry, the friend they had made before they were even able to walk. He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks as they were cooled by the oncoming breeze, a wind ever quickening as he pushed to place more and more distance between him and those who had destroyed him. Ryan burst out laughing as Rosie recoiled away from one of his advances. The sudden shriek of Ryan’s scattergun laughter jolted him out of his fantasy. Anthony reminded himself to stop being paranoid.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

quietly-making-noise — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 21:45:41 +0000

(Rapidly translated - rough cut...) We wish the other patrons a good evening and say goodbye to the owner (I thank her profusely once more and kiss her cheek), and we leave the bistro. This is the most content I have been in a long time. The air is smooth and silky, and the sun lingers in the glowing sky. The perfume of the countryside surrounds us, and even the blind Mr Léost murmurs, in a long sigh, "Qu'est-ce que c'est beau ce soir..." Yes, Mr Léost, it is beautiful. The sky is beaten gold and the shadows caress us. This young man abandoned by chance has rediscovered his faith in humanity. The church bells are still ringing.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Oregon_Rain — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 04:35:37 +0000

That's excellent description. You include many senses, from the glowing sky, the perfume, and the ringing bells.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Fiona W — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 05:03:29 +0000

Straffi, I don't know if that is intentionally funny, but I laughed out loud at the final line. Anthony's long spiral though redundant ideas about Garry's influence into a state of utter lugubriousness builds beautifully toward his abrupt realization at the end—a kind of moment that this reader, at least, is very familiar with—the moment when you realize that the strong dope is carrying your brain around according to its whims, instead of your holding the reins and controlling the ride. Well done!

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

bibliosylph — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 17:48:23 +0000

That's lovely. I'd like to read it en français. I'm not expert at the language, but appreciate its written essence.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Bewitched.Rhapsody — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 18:22:44 +0000

I've gotta say, this makes me smile.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Bewitched.Rhapsody — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 18:29:36 +0000

I've got no idea why, I just like this small little thing: “Next time,” Ella says, “take less time to write stuff.” She looks pointedly in my direction. “Especially if it turns out as short as hers.” My face burns. Ella opens the door. Before she walks out, she catches my eye and says, “Your pitiful excuse for a short story kicked some pretty good ass, though.” I don’t know what surprises me more—the use of the word “ass” so blatantly in a library or the unexpected compliment.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

skinnybee — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 04:59:51 +0000

Silence for a while. Close to silence. The sound of settling dust, maybe the rustling of mice or something else in the rafters. The sound of something shifting. The sound of wind and something in the distance, maybe traffic, maybe voices out on the road, maybe the lake lapping at the muck and brambles around its edge. Richard is the one who breaks away, walks further in to the house, leaving footprints in the dust behind him, shoving chunks of crumbled plaster, fallen ceiling, old pieces of furniture and the nests of beasts out of his way with the toe of his boots. He’s remembering. And this is what he sees: A woman with a bottle of gin in the pocket of her apron, filthy but floral, stands in the doorway wielding a rolling pin, dropping flour on to the floor. It’s all just so much dust. On the rug in the middle of the room, a little boy is playing with a toy tin train. His fingers are inky and some of them are bleeding, bleeding on his Christmas presents. In the corner, a wilted tree strung with broken lights. Opposite, a chair with the stuffing knocked out of it, holding in the skin and bones of a heartless man. His heart? Knocking around in the apron pocket, next to the gin bottle.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Straffi — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 14:06:10 +0000

Thank you for taking the time to comment, and for your kind words. And yes, I had intended it to be funny, so I'm glad it had the desired effect!

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

jschaub — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 19:25:34 +0000

I really like this. I think silence usually provides a rich vein to mine with writing. You treat it beautifully, and this passage evokes despair and bleakness. I also like the repetition of dust across time.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

skinnybee — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 00:59:29 +0000

Thank you so much. I've been a little bit "blah" about my work all day today and this has picked me up.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Macabeak — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 21:38:12 +0000

Incredible! Especially that second half of the last paragraph. The images, the abstract feel of it all... Bravo! Don't doubt your talent!

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Macabeak — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 21:39:19 +0000

Abraham has just shown off his newest musical composition to Chene. [quote]Abraham leaned back and beamed at Chene, ready to reap the praise. “…is this what you choose to play, sir, at your concert?” Abraham’s eyebrows shot up so high, even the skin around his eyes seemed stretched. “Are you that beside yourself that you’ve resorted to ‘sir’ again?” “…if that’s how you wish to put it.” Abraham folded his arms, spun in the piano stool, and glowered at Chene. “Be frank with me.” “I will refuse to have any part of that concert if that’s what you’re playing.” Unfortunately, his master’s pride was stubborn, and was now determined to spin everything as praise. “Meaning?” His head waggled encouragingly. “It has moved you?” All attempted subtlety was rapidly fading. “It was not your best, sir.” “Not my best?” The frown from Abraham was impressive. “Surely it could be with a little polishing, yes?” “…no.” “No?” Chene shook his head. “No.” [/quote]

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

LilyLily — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 00:08:38 +0000

One more...a continuation. My MC had an affair: They walked back to his room. Thunder sounded outside. She went to the large front windows and opened the plantation shutters. The sky had a pewter hue to it. Thunder sounded again, followed by a flash of lightening. “It’s going to rain.” She observed Jack was pulling out his supplies, but stopped and came over to look out the window with her. They stood watching the storm approach. As they watched, Melanie absentmindedly twirled her hair around her fingers. She sat on the ledge of the window, pulling her feet up and bringing her knees into her chest. She loved watching storms come in. The wind picked up and the large Oaks that lined the street branches twisted in the wind. Leaves that had fallen swirled over the pavement and between the houses. The sky grew darker still. Jack stood behind her and she leaned against him, keeping her eye on the storm. He hugged her and she sighed. “I’m going to draw you.” He said. He reached down to the top button and pulled it open. He kept moving down the shirt until they were all undone. He walked around and pulled her to her feet. She stood and he unbuttoned her jeans. She was nervous. He worked her jeans down and stepped her out of them. He slowly brushed his shirt from her shoulders and it fell, quietly, to the floor. A large clap of thunder startled her and lightening sliced through the darkened sky. He walked all the way around her. She brought her hands to her stomach. He knelt in front of her, pulled her hands away and kissed it. He looked up at her “you’re so beautiful” he said and continued to look at her. He stood and held her hip as he walked around her. He stopped again behind her and undid her bra. He left it on her. He was in front of her again and he kissed her as he slid the bra from her frame. Melanie was shaking. Jack was reassuring her. She felt so exposed and vulnerable. This was not her preferred state. He slid her panties from her hips and let them fall to the floor. He took her hands in his and held her arms out, away from her body. “Melanie” he whispered softly, “you’re beautiful.” She didn’t believe him. She wanted to, but she didn’t. She tried to have her mind take her somewhere, but it didn’t work. No matter what she couldn’t escape she was in Jack’s room, naked. He led her to the bed and she laid down on her stomach. She positioned her body in a comfortable sleeping position. Jack lightly ran his fingertips down her back and backs of her legs. She shivered. He turned on some lights and positioned them. The furnace clicked on, the thunder sounded, the lightening flashed and Jack sat down and started to draw her. She was thankful she didn’t have to look at him. She couldn’t believe she was completely nude, with lights shining on her and being drawn. She was anxious to see how he saw her. She hoped he would be able to capture on paper what he claimed to see in her. At least she was comfortable she thought. The next thing she knew, Jack was whispering to her to wake up. He was laid down next to her. She woke, smiled sleepily at Jack and asked to se his drawing. He got up and brought it over to her. Melanie held it and looked. It was her, but she almost couldn’t believe it. “Oh.” She said softly. “Is that good?” he asked. “Jack. I love the way you see me.” She said. He smiled then, taking the picture away from her and putting it away. He came back and Melanie circled her arms and legs around him. “Thank you for showing me how you see me.” She said. Jack held her then, rocking her back and forth slightly. Melanie was almost in tears. In this mans eyes she was beautiful. She could see it. She felt full. She felt joy. She buried her face into Jack’s shoulder and whispered over and over “I love you.” He couldn’t hear this and she didn’t really want him to. Those words have consequences, but it’s how she felt. They began kissing again. It was gentler, softer and less urgent than before. Melanie kept her eyes open, looking at Jack, seeing his expressions and willing him to see, in her eyes, the emotion she wasn’t willing to say. “Please.” Melanie said. “Jack, please.” She repeated. With that, the last boundary Melanie had vanished.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

DangerOLeary — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 21:00:14 +0000

Here are a couple recent things I sort of liked, short unrelated snippets: I gave the flask a couple taps through the pocket of my jeans, thanking it as I walked to the school bus stop where my two new stepsisters were already waiting. The very nature of what is unexpected makes expecting it difficult at best and impossible at worst. In my dream, I could feel Charlie existing--some essence of myself detectably dwelling inside of him--and even took a moment to consider from how far away I could still feel him, and when I woke somehow the ethereal feeling, which hadn’t been there the day before, remained. Note to bank robbers: Address your captives with conviction or else we'll take you less seriously. We all took yet another round of ecstasy and spent the remainder of the drive listening to techno music and trying not to think about the jail time we’d be facing if we were ever incarcerated for the evening’s sins. Davey was in better shape right now than his aggressor, and I figured the whole ‘burning alive’ situation was sufficient repentance. I normally wouldn’t condone acts of arson, but these people pissed me off so I was willing to look the other way. Once inside, I went back to the cocaine pow-wow going on in the kitchen, offered myself another larger line this time, and turned to the stairs to see Carter bounding down triumphantly with his shirt tied around his head like a turban.

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

skinnybee — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 22:18:00 +0000

This basically made my week. Thank you. :)

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

rparker — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 16:31:30 +0000

I don't know if I like this or hate it. That's my problem. I wrote 3/4 of this excerpt during NaNo 2009 and the other 1/4 yesterday. [quote] The summer she turned fifteen Nora Black went crazy. It wasn’t cinematic. When the school year ended she felt fine. By August she was a mess. She was certain of the month because that was when the album had been released. And when she had written the letter. She forgot how to sleep in June. It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep, but rather that she had difficulty doing anything else. Ten, fifteen, twenty hours: she slept. She was too tired to be alarmed. She blamed the dreams because they made no sense. Writing them down didn’t help. They just disappeared faster. The words didn’t match the experience. Soon she was losing time. That was the only way she could describe it. Seconds and minutes at first. Imperceptible until it wasn’t. She thought it might be her memory. Disruptions in sleep damage the brain’s ability to process memories; her sleep was disrupted therefore her memory was fucked. It was subtle enough that she wasn’t even sure that something was wrong. But as the minutes became hours and days the reality was impossible to ignore. The worst part was the awareness that something was wrong. She felt like a spectator. Helpless. Fucked. She couldn’t tell her parents. They already thought she was crazy. It would be kind of funny if it weren’t so pathetically stupid. It made her want to puke. A weak stomach was apparently a side effect of losing one’s mind. Was she losing her mind? It was the only explanation that made sense. Except crazy people didn’t usually realize that anything was wrong. She wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been for the blueberry iBook. She almost hadn’t answered the door. No one else was home and whoever it was wouldn’t be looking for her. And she was tired. When the doorbell rang a second time she had hit the pause button on her stereo. A man in a purple shirt and shorts was walking away. She had opened the screen door. “I thought I’d have to come back. You need to sign for this.” She had glanced at the package. “This is for my stepdad.” “Your signature will be fine.” He tore off a piece of paper that had been stuck to the door. She could call Richard’s cell phone. But what would be the point? The package was from a computer store, so it was probably something for work. She had left the box on his desk. Flopping down onto her bed she had reached over and pressed play. Knocking. I struggled to open her eyes. The cd had stopped spinning. The door opened a crack. “It’s time for dinner, dear.” “I’m not really hungry.” “Don’t be difficult.” “It’s not like I’m saying it just to piss you off.” “Language! Just come down, ok? We have something to tell you.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. Grilled chicken, baked potatoes, green been casserole, salad. Disgusting. Except for the salad. Of course Richard had to comment. “Since when do you eat vegetables?” I shrugged. Margaret looked concerned. “I hope you aren’t on a diet. You’re too thin already. Remember what the school nurse said?” “Mom, that woman is a moron.” “Try to eat at least one piece of chicken.” She reached for the platter of meat. “Gross.” “Please?” “I’d rather have a potato.” “Well...ok. As long as you’re eating something.” “Like you have room to talk.” A few green beans and half a piece of chicken were the only things on Margaret’s plate. “Well, that’s sort of what we wanted to talk to you about,” she said twisting her wedding band. “There’s a reason that I haven’t had much of an appetite...” “Oh my god, you don’t have, like, cancer or something do you?” “I’m pregnant.” The potato was overdone. “Ok.” “I understand if this is a bit of a shock—” “Can I be excused?” “But you’ve barely—“ “I’m really not hungry.” I stood up and walked over to the door to the garage. “Nora…” “What?” “Where are you going?” There was a touch of panic in her voice. “On a walk.” “I don’t think that’s the best idea, dear, not after—“ “You know the rules, Nora,” Richard interrupted. Margaret’s concern and Richard’s disapproval were suffocating. “Fine. I’ll take a nap then.” It didn’t matter. I just needed to get out of there. She woke up hungry. Disoriented. The same thing had been happening all summer. Fatigue and hunger on an endless loop. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock. She had missed the Simpsons but not the X-Files. The kitchen lights were off but weak sunlight still filtered in through the windows in the dining room. Richard was loading the dishwasher. A blueberry iBook sat on the counter. “What’s that?” “Your birthday present.” “But my birthday was a month ago.” “Sorry. This was the quickest I could get it.” “This is from you?” “And your mother.” The laptop glowed in the fading light. I hesitated to approach it. “It won’t bite.” “Is this, like, a bribe or something?” “Not directly.” “But indirectly?” “Would it help to think of it as one?” “I guess it would depend on what it was for, you know?” Richard didn’t say anything so I continued. “I mean, if it were a bribe to make me ok about the baby, that would suck.” “Uh, huh. But if it were for something else that would be ok?” “Kind of. I mean, if this is your way of apologizing for marrying my mom and making me move… Well, I could live with this as compensation for those things.” “I see. I’m not going to apologize for marrying Margaret.” “How about for making me move?” He sighed and closed the dishwasher. “I suppose it would actually be kind of fitting for you to view this as compensation for that.” “What do you mean?”  “Well, you know why I didn’t want to move into your house, right?” “Yeah, some crap about our neighborhood having inadequate access to broadband blah blah.” “I think after you’ve used your iBook for awhile you’ll have a little more respect for the ‘blah blah’ as you so eloquently put it.” He pushed a few buttons on the dishwasher. “If you say so. Um, so do I have to, like, plug this in or anything?” “The charger is in the box.” “But the internet?” “It has a wireless card that should pick up our home network pretty easily. Around town, well, it will depend on whether or not you can find a strong enough signal. Or you can use an ethernet cable.” “Sounds complicated.” There were still a few dirty pots on the stove. He took the largest of these over to the sink and filled it with soapy water. “It isn’t really, but you could read the manual.” “Nah. I think I’ll wing it.” “Suit yourself.” “I guess I should tell you congratulations or whatever.” “Not if you don’t mean it.” The water swirled around the pot as he scrubbed it with a little brush. “Don’t be such a baby. I could care less about you two having a kid. Just answer one question.” “Maybe.” “Was this on purpose?” “Was what on purpose?” “This baby! Is that why you married my mom?” “Well, yeah.” “Gross! I didn’t expect you to keep it in your pants or anything, but yuck.” His face was slightly pink. “I really don’t want to have this conversation with my teenage stepdaughter.” “You should have thought of that before. I suppose this was the reason for the shotgun wedding.” “You think that we got married because we had to?” “Isn’t that what you just said?” “This isn’t the 1950s.” He rinsed out the pot and placed it in the drainboard. “But...” “I said that we got married because we wanted to have a child.” “Um, how pregnant is she?” “Eight weeks.” “That’s, like, 2 months. Wait, that means...” “That she couldn’t have been pregnant in April.” He picked up a damp rag and began to wipe off the countertop, carefully lifting the iBook to clean underneath it. I took it from him gingerly before he could set it down again. I figured that I would go back to my room and mess around on the internet during the X-Files. “Where is she anyway?” I asked. “Upstairs taking a nap.” He tossed the rag into the sink. “But that reminds me. Hold on one sec.” He opened a cabinet, took out a water glass, and filled it at the sink. “Shit. I was hoping you’d forget.” He handed me the glass, opened another cabinet and removed an orange bottle. “Fat chance. Margaret wouldn’t agree to lay down until I promised that I’d make sure you took this as soon as you woke up.” He twisted open the childproof lid and shook a pill into his palm. “Thanks a lot.” “This isn’t fun for me either.” He sounded tired, but I felt no sympathy. “You could lie to her.” He looked at me reproachfully and held out the hand with the pill on it. I set the glass on the counter and took the pill from him. I only hesitated a moment before popping it into her mouth. [/quote] This is a fraction of what I have written total and is still very much a first draft. Basically the only revision I've done is that I've cut about two thirds of the words that were there in the zero draft. I have some specific concerns with it, but I'm not going to name them because I want to see to what extent they jump out to other readers. My basic question is: based on the 1,500 or so words here, would you be inclined to read another 50-100K of the same novel or is it TL;DR?

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Rowan-in-ruins — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 04:17:04 +0000

"Cadence, you have to get up." Her mother's voice, impossibly distant. It was warm here with her face in the sun. But also too bright, now that she was awake. She rolled over to put her eyes in shade, so that she could open them. The quilt was sliding off the bed; she pulled it back up, snuggled into its warmth. Soon, her mother would go to work. Her father and brother had already gone. Then she'd be able to sleep undisturbed. Sleep healed. Sleep knit up the fucking ravelled sleeve of care, and no one was going to tell her otherwise. The death of each day's life (forget that part), sore labour's bath, balm of hurt minds. Balm of her hurts, mental, physical and otherwise. Sleep, sleep, sleep. "Cady!" Knocking at the door now. "Cady!" Opening it. "You cannot spend another day in bed." "She held herself, getting warmer still," Cady said, and did as she said. "'I can,' she said. 'I will.'" "Cady." Her mother sat on the bed. She brushed back Cady's hair where it had fallen across her face. "Cady, you need to get up. I'm staying home today to make sure you do. I'm going to make you a nice breakfast. I know you like breakfast." "OK. All right. In a bit." "No, not in a bit. I don't want to go through all this again. It's nearly noon!" Outside, the sun was lighting Autumn trees, lighting them in fire colours. What was that song of Caitlin's? Red leaves? Yes. Red leaves are falling. I heard you calling; I don't understand. Red leaves are falling; I saw you falling: you were bleeding, and I held your hand. Someone had held her hand. The one that could be held. It might have been Vanessa. Or was that part a dream? "Cady, please." "OK." OK meant eventually; OK meant I won't forget. Her mother pulled at the quilt. "OK!" "Now then." Cady rolled over to put her face back in the sunlight. It was so warm. And then the quilt was pulled completely off, and her mother was saying "Now, Cady! Not some time this afternoon." It was like being twelve again. It was like being seven. It was like ...

Re: post something you like, that you wrote recently

Rowan-in-ruins — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 04:28:04 +0000

I like it. A lot. One thing: in the first paragraph the sun is coming through the leaves like fireflies, and then she's thinking of butterflies. That threw me a bit, that sudden transition -- fireflies, butterflies -- but I don't think it was meant to be jarring, and from then on, the imagery is all butterflies. So I'd be happier without the filreflies.