The joys of freewriting.

[Supergrunch]

I'm really enjoying having a go at this every now and then... for those who don't know what it is, it's where you just start writing and see what happens. I had a go at a piece just now, and threw in a bit of surreality, second person, and tense confusion to spice things up.

 

I call this Things Stand How?

Something had been dragged haphazardly across the dishevelled floor, giving the impression that a madman with a rake had been set loose on a Zen garden of dust. A persisting ember on the butt end of a cigarette finally extinguished itself, its soul floating to heaven as a visible trail of smoke. The walls were bare, the ceiling blank, the illumination from a single point of unearthly light. It seemed any further description had died along with the room itself. This was all there is.

 

You wait, perplexed. Where is the life you sought? How could such frenzied activity be reduced to... this? Was anyone ever really here? You have no choice but to escape. Which exit? The archway, it has to be. Rising, you soar to it, and once in the air you plummet, the flint boundaries erratically spinning about your person.

 

Now here, there was someone. A man. A bench. A hint of... something more complex than all this. Speech. Where was it headed, who was it directed to?

 

“I regret to inform you that...” His speech splinters, and with it your mind. You turn instead to the surroundings: a gravel path, well maintained grass. A touch of damp upon the blades, and a drier blade, cutting into your thoughts. It is his voice; he has started anew.

 

It was not always thus.

 

Feel free to comment and/or include your own bits of freewriting.

[jayseven]

Good stuff dude With freewriting there's always a tendency to become too aware of the writing process itself, and maybe bounce from that to overwhelming and obtuse metaphors. If anything, I think it should be longer so that you can get into a bit of a rhythm.

 

It's strange how it changes each time i read it; the first time, the cigarette butt stuck in my head through the whole thing, making me think it was some sort of crime scene, or that something bad had happened there, hence the 'escape'... The lack of a concrete position for the cigarette - on a hand? on the floor? I don't know. I don't know if it matters but it was all I could think about :P

 

I can't really criticise or analyse it, but just give you my interpretation and reaction; the man at the end to me was an old, frail man who knows you, but "you" doesn't seem to know him- or remember him too well. There's an air of... forgetfulness? Of memories untrustworthy, of senses failing. I did feel as I was reading it that there was perhaps too much going on in too little a space of time, that the surreality was in danger of being too random and unlinked, but then I have no idea how much you yourself knows about the piece! What do you get from it, yourself?

[Supergrunch]

Well, I'm not entirely sure of the circumstances involved, but I think "you" leaves the first room, and the spinning flint boundaries are the walls of the building, with the next scene occuring below. Reading it gives me a sense of change, and sadness as a result of this change.

[jayseven]

dishevelled, but amused, he placed the trinket down, upside-down, on the flimsy carpet between his astride legs.

 

"I like what you've done with the place" He lied, heart half-full with jealousy. Her clothes reeked of another man, and the small faces bounding about the place were unrecognisable from his own recollections. He grazed his cheek with his left hand, and muttered some further lies about how "children are so adorable when they want attention, aren't they?"

 

His smile appears convincing these days; experience has worn the muscles down like stone. His smile is that of a sleeping man, honest but irrelevent. He tucks his tie back into his suit-jacket, re-aligns his lapel.

 

"listen..." he gambles, "I want to talk to you about last time I was here. I want to set things straight." His jaw is fragile like glass, the darkness and the rain outside irrelevant to the shuddering and the wincing in his face as he moves towards darker matters. He crosses his legs then, believing his pose to be too casual or too ardant, uncrosses them and replaces his hands upon his knees, clasp in a prayer to the reality he wishes he didn't have to continue consuming.

 

"What is it?" she glistens, babe to the breast, bottle-fed and silent, like a country mouse, "Please, don't worry about it. I just want to forget about it, ok?"

 

He notices her hair cascading across the shoulder nearest to him. He thinks that she doesn't sweep it out of her eye on purpose; as if her doing so would be some sort of provocation for further conversation. He notices the differences between this house and his own place; the light shades, the clean carpet. The clean walls - the wallpaper and the extra floors. He feels lost. He wants to smoke. He wants to drink. He wants to do anything but this.

 

"Listen, Julie, just... Listen. I'll leave you alone, I swear."

 

Her smile never falters as she bounces the infant, rubbing it's back. The child whinnies and gurgles, unaware of anything at all. her mouth doesn't give anything away, but her eyes do. They used to be blue with innocence, but now they're green with age. Grey with dullness, turning white with innocence... But at the moment, they're bloodshot.

 

"What is it?" She gleans.

[killthenet]

Emily. I am in a bizarre mood and it is very late. Scowling at my picture seems entertaining to me. My arm hurts from all the weight. And this country is going nowhere. There is a river of blood behind my eyes, and it wants to come out. They are struggling to hold it back and I cannot focus on my work.

 

Please give me a call.

[jayseven]

Crunching becomes an elongated cycle of whooshing and jarring, like some washing machine sloping down a hill sideways.

 

The wobbles of my reflections ceased telling the truth a long time ago, and any yarbles cast my way have long since missed their target.

 

It was a question of honesty - well, it was once. Nowadays, it was more a question of pride, of social placement and how well you wanted to fit in. The wallpaper puzzled glances just over the roof of your head, promising insight into entire realms freshly awakened to your sense of need.

 

There was no reason. There was never any particular stressor that activated your thought train, that motivated your mental mission to discover what they were thinking. You just decided in a split-second of a shard of time that it was necessary to dispel the flip-flops of conversation, and instead shoe-horn the flippers of intrigue onto your feet. The radius was not small, but still not many people noticed the impact as you dove into this fresh pasture of carelessness. Splaying your words and splicing their meaning, you shackled the ears nearby to the slurs of indignity. You promised the audience a grain of truth, and yet you harvested nought but insecurities, bound by little more than a whisper away from your tired lips. Focus was no longer passing through you, nor attained by whimsical, nonsensical motions, but by a flow of feeling, of truth and honesty that was exchanged without inflation, without a chinese whisper, without flaw from one being to the other.

 

I look to you. I ponder, I pause. Squints of spasms escape my palms, as smiles are transferred between us. Between the lines we embrace in unity, and observe as others pretend to know what we mean. Alike in our differences, with no need to profess or elaborate. Curtains for bedsheets spurring new innuendos for those amongst us to manhandle, as we watch on and plan escape routes uncalled for, and twist the sublime into manacles, armed and dancing to the ignorant.

 

You bottle your prospects as I drink mine away. You throw a rhythm out to the waiting faces, cherub-plucked and free, and observe their evasiveness, their ease in simply conducting their lives without obscurity, without requiring any slatted blinds to conceal or protect. Is it care-free, or is it naivity? Are we sitting here, falsely connected through ungrounded kinship?

 

The seats lower, leaving legs to wobble their way towards sorrowless fluids - liquid that would spell out your true desires if only for a morsal to be savoured before you chase the dreams uncovered.

 

You sit, and listen, nodding into the background.

 

"If I could fly, I'd burn my wings" is etched upon the surface.

[Haver]

He was followed, tracked. The first he knew of it was the groping golden fingernails, the talons with the curry-powder glaze, grasping, clawing, fingering at his satchel-strap. He was prepared, had done the run-through a thousand times, knew it would happen, one day, to day, to morrow. He had expected these moves to be pulled, these steps to be taken. Threats linger in the dark, in the always-shadowed, in these places. The robbed. Fears drive, take the wheel, run the show... In these places.

 

Bowie (Bowie!), still shocked by the act, still full of shaky hunger, that symptom of the unexpected, swung his torso one hundred and eighty degrees with two or three light movements of the feet and legs, a rehearsed pirouette, a pre-prepared maneuver, catching a blip of a glimpse at the small, sorrowful Indian, the thief, and with terrific only-once all-or-nothing effort, drawing back the arm, slapped his aggressor with Norman Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead. The Indian took it on the cheek, not expecting a visit from old dead Norm beyond the grave, not expecting the hard-backed counterpoint, and cascaded down to pavement-level, ground-level: the starting point.

 

The options. The choice-tree. First: Peg it. Go quick, with light feet. Big bounds. Switch routes, and have an end to this, to the situation. The Indian would more than likely be cautious in future, with this case, with the threat of the Bill, the threat of a Mailer sledge-hammer. Or. Stay, face him down, shoot the Nazi, take the bullet, give the lung, run the robber.

 

Bowie chose to stay, which was a resolution, a relief for the young man, knowing the answer to that question, the question. He stayed, dropping the bag behind him and glared, glowered at the new enemy. Good for Bowie. Good for him.

 

The Indian, with the purple pouches, the bruised segments under the just-washed whites of the eyeballs, pressed his palm on the loose micro-stones of the pavement and pushed off like a swimmer going for the return-leg, dragging and scagging his nylon tracksuit-trousers along the ground. Bowie was furious. Fires spat and cracked in his rib-cage, little flashes of light, pins, needles. Stupid thoughts, mostly concerned with protection of the self, guarantees that certain situations would not arise again. A big sole-full, a trainer-full. One in the gut. Maybe the face?

 

Then, more stupid thoughts, but different ones: Thomas Paine, god save Thomas Paine. The refund, the reimbursement, the rebate they, They, the less-successfuls, never got. The compensation from the well-offs, for everything, for their slice, for their plot of land, their bit of the Island. What to say? What to do in this situation, this thwarting of the crime.

 

“What the fuck were you thinking old man? This is my property! I need these things, to live and to study. Promise me you will never come back here!â€

 

Bowie settled into the role nicely, ever the talented actor. The Indian did not reply. He had Bowie figured, had his blueprint sketched, knew his parts. A smile spread under the brush-head of his wide, flared, aeronautical nose and thick grey-stained mustache. He scrambled to his feet, knowing Bowie, knowing the angles. Bowie was not a fighter, or a trouble-seeker or a go-getter. This was obvious. He was not a Mailer, going after fights on television, just a good actor. An easy actor. The Indian imagined his gut, the empty gut, the hunger, the helplessness.

 

This is it. Showtime. Bowie considered: would it be like his dreams? The slow arm, the loss of momentum, the marshmellow jab? Would he be ducked and ducked again, the Indian patiently, methodically waiting for the tiredness to hit, and then what? A knife? Death? Kicks and blows, fists, real fists, general nastiness, bites and phlegm left like a marker...to mix with the scarlet and the grit. Big bounds Bowie. Big bounds.

 

God that dialogue is terrible. How do you write convincing dialogue?

[Shorty]

I think you have to try and make it obvious. Trying to sound spontaneous or realistic never works, just write something you would happily read in someone else's work.

 

(that's not a sumbission, it's a response)

 

(Haver I saw a guy working in WHSmiths in Sheffield who looked just like you)

[Haver]

I used to work there so that is just out of this world crazy

[jayseven]

I am witness to the spreading of Havers throughout the 'Smiths accross the land! :P

 

Yeah, what Shorty said about dialogue - it doesn't sound like natural speech. I imagine there's a bit of adrenaline running when he says that, but teh commas slow the sentance down...

 

Um, but yeah, I did like reading it One of the more coherant bits of freewriting in this thread, yet still intriguing. Is it the indian saying "this is my property", and the other character is the old man? It sort of seems obvious that it's Bowie talking but at the same time it's not... I mean I had to consciously think "hmm who is saying that?"

 

I like the line "Or. Stay, face him down, shoot the Nazi, take the bullet, give the lung, run the robber." It seems to fit in with how I'd be thinking in that situation -- i mean, just thinking the key words and not really linking them properly?

 

I like "the marshmallow jab" as it perfectly describes the sensation, the inability to fight sometimes in dreams.

 

I can't say I know what is going on, just that I have a general idea (feels like it's set in the first quarter of the 20th century, for some reason). Would it help if I knew who Normal Mailer was?

 

So my catching of your drift; A guy walking, in my mind through trees or a forest, when someone tries to rob him. Now, Bowie is aware that this sort of thing could happen where he is, so he's prepared himself a little - yet he is still faced with two choices; fight or flight. He initially chooses fight, but with an attempt at communicating with his assailant. Once he seems to have decided to take on the up and coming scuffle, he seems to think that it's all going to go horribly wrong.

 

My mind decided the background to this was the stereotypical white-man-steals-natives-land, an that Bowie had just moved to the area.

 

As I said, I have no idea what it's really about :P There's 'pavement' and 'TV' so I know what I'm imagining is wrong. But hey! I mean, I imagined the indian to be a native american as opposed to someone from India! Oddities.

 

There's a lot of reiteration - "The refund, the reimbursement, the rebate they, They, the less-successfuls, never got", "a resolution, a relief", "that question, the question", "for their slice, for their plot of land, their bit of the Island" and so on, and so on. I think there is too much of this, as it weakens the meaning each time you do it. I can understand that each separate word/phrase adds a new nuance to what you're talking about, but the constant use of this just strikes me as if the narrator doesn't actually know how to precisely describe what they're talking about. It's also a little wistful; a contrast to the presumably heated moment actuall occuring - to the presumed fear that Bowie is feeling (mixed with other emotions, obviously). There's a certain ambling quality to the tone; the pace is almost leisurely. "pavement-level, ground-level" - the second part of this just seems unnecessary. Either you think the reader won't understand what pavement-level is, or you're trying to draw some sort of juxtaposition between the two levels... But is there one?

 

The reiterations draw focus to what is being reaffirmed for sure, but the weight of what is being said cannot rely only on the repetition. You have a great way of describing texture and shape, very imaginative and fun to ponder.

[Haver]

Repetition is my biggest vice, and I stole it from Saul Bellow. It's a writer's vice, the want to describe something over and over again using different word-formations, different rhythms. I need discipline, like Bellow had. That's why I'm a sucky writer :P

 

I do like some of them though.

 

I like this one: "The Indian took it on the cheek, not expecting a visit from old dead Norm beyond the grave, not expecting the hard-backed counterpoint, and cascaded down to pavement-level, ground-level: the starting point. "

 

It's definitely a music thing. I like the beats. (Norman Mailer is a dead writer, public intellectual, who stabbed his wife, loved fighting, and wrote a few decent books and a few bad ones.)

 

It's a fairly bad sketch of a confrontation, of masculinity. It touches on the emotions of fighting, fisticuffs...especially those of the bad fighter...the dilemmas of confrontations, and some fairly bad stuff about compassion for the poor ('their slice, bit of the Island"...as in the natural right to equality based on equal plots of land, which private property put an end to) . In my mind it was modern, 2008. And Bowie is young, our age.

 

My favourite line: "The Indian did not reply. He had Bowie figured, had his blueprint sketched, knew his parts."

[jayseven]

I like this one: "The Indian took it on the cheek, not expecting a visit from old dead Norm beyond the grave, not expecting the hard-backed counterpoint, and cascaded down to pavement-level, ground-level: the starting point. "

 

It's definitely a music thing. I like the beats. (Norman Mailer is a dead writer, public intellectual, who stabbed his wife, loved fighting, and wrote a few decent books and a few bad ones.)

 

It's a fairly bad sketch of a confrontation, of masculinity. It touches on the emotions of fighting, fisticuffs...especially those of the bad fighter...the dilemmas of confrontations, and some fairly bad stuff about compassion for the poor ('their slice, bit of the Island"...as in the natural right to equality based on equal plots of land, which private property put an end to) . In my mind it was modern, 2008. And Bowie is young, our age.

Interesting... You describe that line as masculine but I thought it was more femenine; the soft consonants dominating the harsher sounding 'k's and 'x's. Also the word 'cascade' to me summons the beauty of a fall; it's a very visual word that avoids brutality or indeed much masculinity.

 

The repetition of "not expecting" is a shade ironic; the terms are suggesting that the indian is capable of expecting Norm from beyond the grave -- the confrontation in that respect turns to an intellectual 'battle' rather than a viscious one. One could argue that the terminology used to describe the 'fight' is all from Bowie's perspective, which is why it is not particularly primal in tone. "fisticuffs" certainly ties the two sides together as a description

 

My favourite line: "The Indian did not reply. He had Bowie figured, had his blueprint sketched, knew his parts."

Makes the indian seem working class at the least Do you think the indian thinks in terms of blueprints?

 

So what do you think made you write this? What frame of mind were you in? I think you ought to put more stuff up I'd also like to hear what you think about the rubbish I've written :P

 

oh, and 'scagging' -- typo, or are you seriously alluding to heroin here?

[Haver]

Very little thought was put into hidden meanings or word-play. The narrator is strictly independent, describing emotions/feelings in his/her own words (undoubtedly mine). That is part of the joy of reading, having the time to dissect very quick, unintelligible moments at length. I like writers who mix the High and the Low, the broadly intellectual and the low-minded, so I guess that's what I try to do.

 

As regards masculinity, what I mean to say is the emotions rather than the words. Y'know, what happens when you're in a fight and you find yourself on top? Do you kick his head in? Or use your position for diplomacy? Will he come back if you beat him up? With friends?

 

I wasn't thinking anything particular, but I do live in a rough area. Masculinity is something unavoidable, I think. It is certainly something I like to read about.

 

Your stuff is pleasant to read. You write a little like Ian Fleming, in the first at least.

 

I like "There was never any particular stressor that activated your thought train, that motivated your mental mission to discover what they were thinking." in the second. Mental mission is good.

[Supergrunch]

Cracking under stress wasn't a fast process, though the cliched metaphor seemed to suggest this. It was endless; every day he was a little more shattered. Take this instance:

 

"They give us this food, and then expect us to eat it, even though they've run out of forks."

 

"I know, but what can you do? Here, take mine, I've finished with it."

 

He looked at the proffered implement, and took it.

 

"Thanks."

 

The following slience compelled him to do something. He looked down at the cutlery of his hand, and manipulated it towards his plate, piercing through the skin of a sausage. In that instant, that was all there was for him, until the stirring of his companion broke his concentration.

 

"Anyway, how are you doing?"

 

"Me? Oh, I'm fine I suppose."

[killthenet]

I sent someone this message on facebook last night.

 

emily.

 

ii am like drunk again, but bascially we need to talk about that message/ otherwise we'll just be awkward around each other and everything will be odd.

 

if you calcualate it wrong i'lll tackle you.

 

anyhow, talk to me. we'll work things out. even if you don't like me. i don't mind. i'll just fight some smaller white guys.

[jayseven]

both awesome :P Here's tonight's attempt;

 

I saw some broken people tonight. I didn't question them. I didn't offer them too much advice. I just told them not to get too close to anyone new. Papercuts and everything, you know?

 

I find it's so easy to finds shards these days. Trying to find someone undamaged is like trying to find a piece of hay in a needlestack. You just can't bother yourself.

 

The quick connections between the stale self and the sparkling rest of the world are fastly forged. While it is no simple process uniting the two, it is still a vast step not easily taken by anyone whose level of braveness does not exceed their general understanding of where the situation might lead. The fact is, everyone needs love. If you take a step back and gaze upon the crowd like some omnipotent nurse, you'd see just how hurt the people are, and just how in need of support each beam of humanity stands as they lean upon their drinks in hand, alone.

 

The task to entwine two strains of life is a challenge few undertake knowingly. Especially without intoxicants, uniting like-minded souls is never as easy as it should be. If the world were blind and each man were left to think out their company then we would all be rich in compatibility; to not look down upon the pretty couples is to look at our own feet and truly understand the position we weigh daily, and to ultimately be able to use the correct glasses in viewing the rest of the population, in relating to other individuals. To think that there's 'one' perfect companion out there is to overlook the hundreds, thousands of people whose lives would vastly improve with your participance.

 

But, alas, the world is vague and superficial. You can't just wander over and benefit another's well-being without just cause. Instead, romance must remain a mystery unsolveable by logic. It must require insanity to profit any such interrogation, no matter now pleasant-minded they may begin. There is no such thing as mutual benefit, and as such there is no way you can get what you want without dissapointing someone else.

 

So does that mean you, me, we should sit around and wait for someone else to lose before we gain? Does that mean that there is nothing to live for?

 

But can't you see that everything I've said, everything we do is a chance that we take, even if it's a choice we make in order to further out own anonymity; even if all we do is tread the neautral discourse, we still make the choice and influence other lives neutrally. To what extent is the positive or negative version any worse or better?

 

Surely, as a human being it is our mission in life to live out and experience as much emotion and capability as our spectrum can offer? Just what will it take for you to open up, to open yourself to the world and accept all that is horrible and wrong?

 

It is always worth remembering; the further you fall, the further you can see upwards. In some sort of paraphrasing; extend one set of boundaries to see the other sets increase, too. Being painfully depressed surely means some sort of severe happiness is suddenly possible?

 

There is no sensible note to end on, just ticking clocks and cooling bed linen, awaiting their own answer.

[killthenet]

Corcrete.

 

I've been sleeping rough a lot lately. I slept in a bed of nettles last night and it cured my head cold. I'm reminded of an incident - more of an occurance - that took place a few years ago. I was travelling on a train with friends, we had just been to see a musical performance by a long since forgotten four-piece. I was discussing the merchendise stand with an old girlfriend when the train came to a stop. But it was not our stop. A dishevelled gentleman walked onto the train, he was holding a cheap can of lager in his hand and he stumbled up the aisle, sitting a few seats in front of us. He proceeded to remove his clothes and lay naked on the train seats. He pulled a pair of scissors from his trouser pocket and began trimming his beard.

 

He was fifty years old. We did not speak to him, but watched transfixed as he treated the public transportation as if it were his own bathroom. On intervals, he would relieve itching in his testicles by scratching himself with the scissors. The train stopped again and several other dishevelled men clambered on, lager in hand and proceeded to do as the man had done. There were 7 of them, the original man was fifty years old. The others forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven, forty-six, forty-five and forty-four respectively. Their practices carried on as before, and nobody questioned them about their behaviour, we all watched transfixed.

 

The train stopped and we exited. The seven men followed us across the platform. Still naked, still drinking. They hurried to catch up with us and stood in formation in front of us. We were surprisingly calm and asked the men what they would like from us. The men all shared the same vacant expression and for a moment, they did not move and neither did we. Suddenly they began singing and dancing in unison and produced a hat into which they would drop coins and penny sweets. Their song was dark and their hat was large. It would soon be heavy. The first man held the hat aloft and began to recite to it a monologue:

 

"Bernard. In times like these we must dance for our water and sing for our food. The birds are weak and the mirror is large. The mirror is growing. The mirror has grown. Bernard, if we are to climb we need to have the proper equipment my friend. It is all and good to walk a conveniant mountain footpath, with nothing on your back but your shadow. But what will you do when you reach a steep cliff-face? We must have the right equipment if we are to continue to climb. The mirror is large. The birds have bitten and scratched themselves to death, their wings no longer function. There is no mirror. Goodbye Bernard."

 

The man placed the hat onto his head. The men walked on the train tracks away from the platform. And all I could think was how he was able to put a hat so filled with metal money and small sweets onto his head so swiftly.

[Supergrunch]

I really like the last two, especially: "And all I could think was how he was able to put a hat so filled with metal money and small sweets onto his head so swiftly." and "Papercuts and everything, you know?"

 

I had a go at some writing that's more truly free than my other attempts - I rarely even erased something that I'd written. In my opinion, it's a bit dodgy at first but gets better once I get into the flow of things. Anyway, here it is:

 

Suddenly, suddenly, that is it, and all that can be done is to look remorseful. There is no more on the plate, no apple in the sky and no fish in the barn. In fact, the only thing there is is a lamp. On the table. With bits of wire and string tied around it such that it is unable to move or escape free. Yet nevertheless, its shackles slowly unwind; they break free from the dastardly coils of metal that lock them in position.

 

The lamp stands up, looks around, takes out a lighter. It isn't aware... not yet, not yet. Somehow the feeling becomes one of decay, and the fungus breathes spores into the room, covering each persons' head with lice. This is not a situation in which I would want to be, so I choose to avoid it by no being there in the first place. Thank God. Thank God. ThankGodthankgodthankgodgodgoddd...

 

And of course, it is now thankfully no more. Kaput, it goes just as it came, or at least that's what they wanted me to think. I looked back, sheltered my arm against the blow from the eaves above my head and sang silently into the pitch darkness of self. Why did I not think of this earlier? It's the only way such things can be solved.

 

Or so I thought, but as I looked around I came upon a creature, one so demonic that I could do naught against it's snatching claws. He tore into my flesh, rendering it useless for the trials that would face me if I continued. However, would I continue? I could always just stay here, this creature isn't really too bad after all. It might even like me. In time, it might become my friend, and I its. I remain seated, while the creature causes me unbearable pain. There's no reason for it not to, really. Not one that I can see. At least, not one so crystal clear that I can smash it. I think.

 

Fuck. Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps it's here to persecute my soul, blow it away, crush it, erase it, delete it, despise it, destroy it. That wouldn't be an option I'd be keen on considering, but I suppose like all things it should be contemplated. I think. At least, I think I do. Perhaps this scalding pain is getting to me, perhaps my mental process is vanishing along with my soul. But it might be that my soul is not in fact vanishing and is just being reconciled. Then, my mind? I wonder where it comes in...

 

This situation cannot go on, not without a change. For this reason, a change comes, albeit one with dire consequences. The creature is swallowed up, perhaps by me. Maybe I wanted it to be swallowed up. Maybe I... can do that. I recall the lamp, which doesn't want to be known. It pushes back at me, its will scraping the bones of my being. I can take the toll, so I push harder, and remember it. Was is really there though? It was real enough to make me scream, that's for sure.

[MoogleViper]

I’m there. At the edge of the world. Separating the different places. Europe, America, Africa and Asia. I’m between them all. I’m ever changing yet I remain the same. That same blue water. The ocean, the sea, whether red, dead, Atlantic or Pacific. They’re all the same. They’re all me. I am a haven to many a life. The fish, the whales, the dolphins, the sharks. They swim through my belly. The crabs, the lobsters. They wander across my feet. The birds swim atop my choppy head, looking for their next meal.

For centuries man has tried to conquer my powerful waves. And in the process I have claimed many a life. Huge ships, wooden, metal. The captain, the king of his fleet. But in the vast world of the ocean, they are a tiny speck. Man now tries to conquer my brother, the skies. Massive metal vehicles soaring above me. Yet still they fall, they still fall to me.

Children play at my hands. They bathe in my fingertips as I lap against the shore. They run along my edge, screaming with joy. Some nearby teenagers play volleyball whilst I gently stroke their feet. A budding, young marine biologist examines the rocky trails that I left behind the previous night.

Yet even as this joy happens, a great evil plays out. For a few miles down the coast, a metal monster pumps its venom throughout my veins, polluting my very being. No longer may I be lived in. No longer will children hold my hands. For I am dying. The might of the ocean is being overcome by the waste of man. I am weakened. It will not be long before I am completely vanquished. I will soon die, and only then, will man realise that he cannot live without me.

[Daft]

Thats really quite poetic MV. Very good job. I really liked the ending and the whole pacing for that matter.

 

Interesting theme of age and innocence, "No longer will children hold my hands", "A budding, young marine biologist examines the rocky trails that I left behind the previous night." Nice one!

[MoogleViper]

Thats really quite poetic MV. Very good job. I really liked the ending and the whole pacing for that matter.

 

Interesting theme of age and innocence, "No longer will children hold my hands", "A budding, young marine biologist examines the rocky trails that I left behind the previous night." Nice one!

 

I wrote it in a mock exam. I was told to describe myself. The funny thing is my friend had the same exam but in the morning (it was only a mock) and he told me that he described himself as the sea as his teacher had told the class to use persona. My teacher had told us no such thing so I just stole his idea but I got the better grade for it. I got an A* so used that for my creative writing coursework instead of this which was an A:

 

 

The wind howled, swinging the crooked sign. The orange glow emitting from the grey stained windows highlighted the cracks of the worn out, cobbled street. A low murmur crept out of the tavern. Through the heavy oak doors a cloaked bunch of battle-scarred men greeted you with suspicion, their restless eyes watching your every move. Unrecognisable stains clung to the walls like a prostitute clings to street corners. The battered tables had had too many mugs slammed down on them. The lights of hanging lanterns illuminated the haunted features of the weary travellers.

The small, bony, hunched man entered the empty tavern. His ragged cloak wrapped tightly around him. His few, wispy hairs danced along his fore head, floating across his squinting eyes. His crooked nose was bent out of shape. His hunched, frail body looked like it was about to break. As he hobbled across the cracked floor his old, fraying cloak flowed up revealing a shoeless, purple foot, small and bony. As he reached for the chair, the small, emaciated, protruding hand was barely able to lift the heavy wooden frame. He sat down nervously, as if he was waiting for someone, waiting for someone that he didn’t want to come.

The black, limp container hit the ground with a thud. The dark flaky leather hung to the bag like a petrified man hangs to a cliff edge. With a little help from a light breeze, another flake fell to the floor revealing even more of the furry material behind. The once fixed shape now slumped over the objects within. Yet it gave away no clues to its contents. A mystery was the purpose of the bag.

The carrier of the bag was tall and slender. He held his head high. He was a respectable man. He walked across the room with a smile worthy of a gentleman. He reached the frail man and, with a strong noble voice, uttered, “The woods of Timber are long since gone, but the owls are still around.†He handed over the bag and without looking anywhere else, left the building.

The aged man sat there quivering, a heaped wreck shaking in the corner. Slowly and warily he opened the battered bag, he took one quick peek inside it and, with a high pitched squeal, shut the bag, snapped it up, and darted out of the tavern.

Bartimeus and I watched as the fourth galaxy collapsed into the Unknown Dimension. We rode off in our inter-galactic ship grinning to ourselves, content that we had vanquished the nucleus of all evil. How little we knew.

[Strider]

I wrote it in a mock exam. I was told to describe myself.

 

My decriptions were crap. I used to be good at writing stories and all that stuff, then when exam time came around i lost all my amazing writing ability. I only got a B for the final thing because my coursework was all A*'s.

[jayseven]

From the rooftops, the city creaked and groaned with sirens and noises that can only come from no good. Each raindrop eager to be the the one that stands out, shooting through the haze of a streetlamp in a comet-like flare; clattering off steel bin lids in the alley; landing on shoes and glasses, or the centre of a puddle. Each pit-patter desperate to steal the lightning's thunder.

 

Herman drew further into the doorway, pricking his brown jacket collar, and wiping the streams from his glasses. He was one of those characters, feeling strongly yet with no ideas to make sense with. Very dense. A bit of the Fantastic briefly rose in him, seemingly compelling the paper to stay away from his feet, scampering rapidly, in whatever direction.

 

Withered and whiskered, the husk of what was once a handsome young man now weathered by too many arguments and not enough conversations had been driven out to the street corner one last time. Teeth chattering to themselves, and lips miming some gargoyle's lament. He listened for movement from the alley to his side, but kept his eyes on the middle of the road in front.

 

All those years. Shut away, undisturbed even by dust; he was wanton and bitter. A death-trap making inmates out of both light and dark, leaving only great objects of ugliness. And now, his coarse life could no longer be lowered or contaminated. He had no more talent to waste, and had almost learned himself a happy poverty from the currency of smart hands and quick wit. An income of 'the more you look, the more you find' to keep Satan from sic'ing his soul from him just yet.

 

A flash split the seconds, revealing eyes of convincing anticipation; a meditative irony in contrast to his physical gestures of rhetoric significance. Then came the rumble - a greeting from one cloud to another. The future is in control.

 

"Don't do what they ask," he muttered, as if a curious ant had asked him for the meaning of life, from a seat on the tip of his nose, "Don't be heroic..."

 

The drizzle continued to leave perpetual compliments that wormed and squealed their way through the thinness of his greyed hair down the back of his neck, towards emotional reunions in the small of his back.

 

<that's all I can be arsed to do>

[killthenet]

You had blonde hair. You had cut it short. The clothes you wore had changed entirely, and you were rude. I made a pass at you again, but you continued to believe that I liked you. I wanted to know what you thought of my e-mails, they were weird but they were weird.

 

It was the premiere of my composition, in some run down pub in High Wycombe, I don't know why you came with your rude new attitude. There was another girl though who looked like you, only when you weren't rude but with longer hair and glasses. When you liked me you wore glasses. Can you wear them again please? I'm lonely.

 

But tonight I don't give a damn. I'm in bed with Audrey Horne and about to put on a theater production of 'Twin Peaks'. We haven't quite worked out the logistics of the red room, but you don't know what i'm talking about. You couldn't even make it past the pilot.

 

But i'm over you know. Your pregnancy, your art , your crooked teeth and crooked smile. I have left it all behind.

[jayseven]

Any real-life drama behind that, killthenet? I'd be interested to know what has influenced this, besides twin peaks of course (not watched it in recent memory)...

 

With "I made a pass at you again, but you continued to believe that I liked you." I don't see what the 'but' is doing there. It tries to make a contradictory statement from the conjoining sentance but everything after it just agrees with the first half of the sentance.

 

I like your use of different tenses to strengthen the then/now. "I don't know why you came with your rude new attitude." the 'don't' is the first instance of present tense that you write (I think), and I think you should strengthen it with "I still don't" or change it to "I didn't", which would suggest you do know now but you don't care enough to tell us.