At 12/17/05 05:59 AM, -Shadow_XII- wrote: Guys like you inspired this thread, you simpleton asshole.
Simpleton... bah
racist.
Shakespeare would probably beat you in his drunkeness for that.
At 12/17/05 05:58 AM, Sarai wrote: Good :) I like you ;-) (((destroy!)))
Merci Beaucoup. *wipes sweat*
Mostly. With some real thoughts thrown in for good measure.
Ya, I assumed so. Because you write what you know, of course.
For example, you'd be pretty silly to sit around all day planning to destroy guys,
Well... some ppl are just crazy. Others slef-enduce a dosage of exaggeration daily.
but at the same time, there is truth in the matter that society does place an expectation on some men about how women will behave and so forth.
The difference between Gender and Sex would be the core.
In my non-narrative voice for example, I've obviously been living in a repressed country for quite a large part of my life.
I actually didn't know... where was that (curious)? China (as somewhat noted below)?
So yes, part of me has a fight between cultures and part of me does believe in certain 'negative' trends often associated with men's thoughts to women. I AM happy to stay at home with kids, or to cook dinner most nights. I enjoy it (it's probably a mental disease!) :)
Haha. No, in all actuality... hormones do the trick. Some things are inate. You cant help it. Most woman, in fact, enjoy the more 'traditional' role, whether it be part or full time. Intuitively almost. However, I guess we could blame that on conditioning... maybe in 100 years it will be much different.
I don't understand the word 'diction', but I presume you mean language. Sorry, I tried to write in a style I've not used before :(
Diction is like vocabulary, but in literature, not speech.
And the style is fine. The caps bugged me a bit. ; )
But, it was a cool voice. I liked the facade put on.
Sometimes things just bewilder me...
but...
they say join the revolution, and im tired... so I conform.
check my profile favs for GOOD flash. ; )
At 12/17/05 05:51 AM, Bahamut7 wrote: Congrats to Thedu on UOTD.
Congrats from me also.
I still havnt seen someone I know o nthe BBS in ages though.
At 12/17/05 05:47 AM, Sarai wrote: I might as well annoy the people who hate me anyway and perhaps challenge a few of the better people to make an attempt at disputing what is obviously a pretty messed up post.
Ya, ya... okay, but I am still curious...
Narrative voice?
Actual thoughts?
A lot of what is said is probably true, and some of it valid/good points. The rest is pedestrian writing with a whiny tone and unclever diction. Thats my stand...
but what eats me... is the question above.
My parents wouldn't care even if I did live at home still.
"What is that you are on?"
"NG"
"Oh, hmm... have fun."
Then again, I am probably a bit older than some of you others. But even when I was in highschool, the only shit I would have gotten was being up too late or something on a school night. Otherwise, I dont think id be put in that situation.
I can tell you... the potency of my annoyance would be high if it had of ever happened though.
At 12/17/05 04:29 AM, M-A-R-C-U-S wrote: And thus, this evening I have attained the second last b/p rank, Elite Guard General, giving me a voting power increase of 0.47.... ticking me up to and over 10VP :D
Congrats man. It seems you did some levelling up since I last saw you as well.
Can I just hope that this a narrative voice?
At 12/16/05 07:33 PM, XwaynecoltX wrote:( i guess i should post here more to findout whats going on...
I am tryng to catch up as well... so I can have something to say...
...instead of sitting in this corner... all quiet...
with no one to talk to
At 12/17/05 05:26 AM, Myst_Williams wrote: He just seems streaky because everyone once and a while someone other than McCabe does something on defense.
*He just seems streaky because every once and a while someone other than McCabe does something on defense.*
That typo was more confusing than the others. Thought I'd fix it. I am tired. It is 5:28am. Heh.
At 12/13/05 02:14 AM, -Gooch- wrote: True. Belfour can be a streaky goaltender at times.
I wouldnt quite put it as streaky. To me that means he has a streak of good games and then a streak of bad. It may seem that wyab ecause that is the way the Leafs are in general, but Belfour himself is more floppy than that. Bad game, good game, bad game, good game kind of thing. He just seems streaky because everyone once and a while someone other than McCabe does something on defense.
As far as Tellqvist's experience, you're right on that, too. He just needs more of it, and he'd be more comfortable carrying the load for Toronto. He just might become the next David Aebischer. Let's just hope he doesn't end up playing like Aebischer's playing this year.
Aebischer stepped it up, and the just lagged off. I see Tellqvist doing good things once he gets some experience (as you said) under his belt. I see him as a tender with HUGE potential. He isnt the next big goaltender, but he will hold his own in the NHL for sure. He just lacks experience, and gets shaky because of it. We have all seen him play very well, and I think most would agree that with experience he can play even better than the best we have seen from him.
At 12/17/05 01:14 AM, G-MAN490 wrote: BOO!
Shit. I havnt seen you in ages.
haha, sorry did I scare you.
No.
yes
I dont know if you guys remember me but I used to post here like almost a year ago. I kinda got all depressed and suicidal and left because everyone was ignoring me here, but I looked over my ancient posts here and saw how annoying and pathetic I was.
I dont remember people purposely ignoring you. And, I dont remember you being pathetic.
Hey,didnt you support my RP for a while there?
well I think I've changed, anyway if you guys want me back I'd be happy to post my poems again, if you guys still do that.
Of course!
At 12/16/05 11:07 PM, deathtuna wrote: Alright, Myst, I liked the mafioso feel to the verse, the description was excellent, great diction. Some words felt forced though, Duvet for instance doesn't exactly fit into the mafioso motif.
Ya, actually... for some reason... that is just what I call it... lol... im such a pooch. I'll fix that for sure.
Also, At the end of your fourth big stanza, I believe you accidentally changed the subject from 'he' to 'I', which throws off the reader for a few moments.
Eech... I had that problem all through writing. I kept mixing myself up at the end and beginning of stanzas... I thought I cought them all. Thanks for pointing that out.
Aside from that, just basic tidying up: I don't know if you intentionally left out alot of puncuation or not, but that kind of stuff.
Ya, punctuation is basically non existant except for the italic stanzas. Mostly because it is meant to mix and match the pace. The italics being slow thoughts, and the rest having bit of a pick up. I will revise that as well then. Thanks.
I hope I was of some help. I'm usually not much for this sort of thing, because generally the way a writer writes is the way the writer wants it to be writ, if that made any sense...
Ya, that makes sense... but... I dont necessarily believe that. At least, not for me. As I am still experimenting, trying to leanr and trying to improve upon what I already know and the skills I already have.
I appreciate it. Thanks for reading and commenting.
At 12/16/05 04:25 PM, anotherguy wrote:myst-williamsi would comment on your poetry but i don't know the slightest thing about it.
I don't care if people dont feel they are lnowledgable in the field of poetry. even just a comment on plot, story, flow, or how well it reads would help some. = )
At 12/16/05 09:14 PM, gumOnShoe wrote: Want to help judge the contest? I only need a judge for this round currently... Anyone?
I would... but
I am in the contest
This isnt quite complete. I am asking for actual criticism. You don't have to comment on the technical, even just how well it reads would help. Thanks.
backwards
death isn’t something
I dread, or tear over.
death is a fetus-man
crying
in a black corner.
he stood there in that dark room
with his hands in his pockets
maybe without a care in the world
he simply stared foreword
he never looked back
even when he saw that faint
reflection in the window
he never looked back
before he could gather thoughts
he found himself falling to the floor
the wood floor beneath him was cold
or maybe that was death rushing
over his body in an instant of pain
his face – his face had a smirk
just for moment
before he finally relaxed all his muscles
and lay limp on the wood floor
it didn’t hurt anymore
he could feel blood pool beneath his cheek
he always thought he would die instantly
but it was if he was viewing his own departure
he wasn’t scared
he lived to die
time murders us all
in the end.
time is a goldfish
you lost,
but never sought.
he entered his home
everything was pitch black,
but instead of turning on the lights
he simply waited for his eyes to adjust
he slumped himself on his couch
he saw a few streams of light attempting
to squeeze through his window covering
it was then he heard a knock at the door
it was then he began second guessing himself
he opened the door, but no one was there
he turned around to find a gun at his head
“no wait!” he said,
“I do not want it to end this way.
Just take your money and leave.”
the man said nothing, and seized his money
he uncovered his window and let the streetlights
and the moon and the stars fill the room
with just the weakest of light
but enough to make him smile
he placed his hands in his pockets
maybe without a care in the world
and then he saw the man in the shadows
money aids society’s
true burden.
money is a dead pond
with a limestone
bottom.
he looked around the scummy hall
the pool tables were more disgusting
than the ground that he walked upon
the room was quite full with large men
most of whom were drunk and little threat
he immediately walked towards the back hallway
the bartender tried to stop him
“washroom?” he asked
he walked past, but instead of turning to his right
he took the door to the left
walking in as calmly as he could
the men around the poker table all stopped
and most of their hands headed towards their guns
one of the men told them to hold off
he walked forward towards them
“you fucked with the wrong man”
“you got nothing on us”
“I have a dead family and reason to believe-“
“you got nothing on us”
he placed his hand in his jacket pocket
the men at the table tensed
placing their hands on the butt of their guns
he pulled out his gun and started firing
one shot, two shot, three shot, four
they all fell like water from a sprinkler
the fifth man fell like a log
he left them all dead and walked out
no one said a word, but they all watched
he got in his car and drove home
there was no blood on his hands
he walked up his driveway
he grabbed his key and entered
it was darker than the night behind him
criminals were hard
to find, but easy to kill.
people are the grungy
base
of a dry well.
he sat in the diner and watched the sun
from the window to his left
it was just starting to fall
night was arriving faster than he expected
finally, a man sat across from him in the booth
“are you my man?” he asked
the beastly opposition nodded
“here is 20% to make sure you know I am serious.
the rest you will receive after the job”
he pushed the folded brown envelope forward
“I want you to kill me.”
The man seemed curious, but by no means shocked
“the address and time is in there with the money.
I would like you to treat it like a regular hit,
but surprise me. I want to die with a scared look.”
the man picked up the envelope and left
the diner door jangled as it closed.
he got up out of the booth and headed for his car
he drove a few blocks into the city
until he found his desired destination
the sign said “Frankie’s” above the door
why are people so stupid as to name
a place like that with their own identity
I entered the pool hall with a creak.
no sinner of these deeds
would go free.
freedom is the elastic band
suffocating your wrist,
and the tattoo left behind.
he stirred in the hotel bed
even in his sleep he could not think
everything was torturous
the things he wanted to escape for a moment
were the things haunting him
like that of guilt, always by your ear
in his sleep he gained no rest
and woke up tired than before
his eyes glossy, and his hair thick and unclean
he slipped out from under the duvet
he shook like a fearful little boy
images ran through his mind
like a jabbing dagger at his thoughts
and like the long blade of a knife
they prolonged the minutes in his mind
that string of fragments
shattered glass upon the floor of his conscious
deathly faces screaming for mercy
blood across the white walls and leather couch
a phone ringing in his head
“your family” distorted words
until all that consumed him “is dead”
tears and scars flash across his body
revenge sums the power of his quest
throwing on a shirt he leaves the room
he walked into a diner with a jingle
he found himself the fifth booth on the right
I knew I would
get revenge.
grief is the inside
of a tunnel, and an echo
that will never fade.
he sat down with his files spread and forlorn
on his mind was the events of the past week
the murder case, and the threatening phone calls
that day he found the source to all his anguish
the day he found the tear of clothing
by the victims open door
a small amount of blood that seemed miniscule
compared to the puddles about the room
he itches his head as he reflected
about matching the blood sample
that led him to believe that Frankie
murdered those children and their parents
the man who had then started phoning
threatening to kill whoever turned in the evidence
he slammed his fist on the table and thought again
about the day he came home late from work
and found his wife and children slaughtered
he remembered being taken off the case
and the bloody evidence going missing
the pain he felt, and how badly he wanted revenge
he had nothing to live for – nothing
it was time he acted and moved on
to a better place
he looked at the bed to his right
and knew he needed his rest
he had not slept for three days
the worst part of death
is you have to live.
hell is
the colour red,
honestly.
This isnt quite complete. I am asking for actual criticism. You don't have to comment on the technical, even just how well it reads would help. Thanks.
backwards
death isn’t something
I dread, or tear over.
death is a fetus-man
crying
in a black corner.
he stood there in that dark room
with his hands in his pockets
maybe without a care in the world
he simply stared foreword
he never looked back
even when he saw that faint
reflection in the window
he never looked back
before he could gather thoughts
he found himself falling to the floor
the wood floor beneath him was cold
or maybe that was death rushing
over his body in an instant of pain
his face – his face had a smirk
just for moment
before he finally relaxed all his muscles
and lay limp on the wood floor
it didn’t hurt anymore
he could feel blood pool beneath his cheek
he always thought he would die instantly
but it was if he was viewing his own departure
he wasn’t scared
he lived to die
time murders us all
in the end.
time is a goldfish
you lost,
but never sought.
he entered his home
everything was pitch black,
but instead of turning on the lights
he simply waited for his eyes to adjust
he slumped himself on his couch
he saw a few streams of light attempting
to squeeze through his window covering
it was then he heard a knock at the door
it was then he began second guessing himself
he opened the door, but no one was there
he turned around to find a gun at his head
“no wait!” he said,
“I do not want it to end this way.
Just take your money and leave.”
the man said nothing, and seized his money
he uncovered his window and let the streetlights
and the moon and the stars fill the room
with just the weakest of light
but enough to make him smile
he placed his hands in his pockets
maybe without a care in the world
and then he saw the man in the shadows
money aids society’s
true burden.
money is a dead pond
with a limestone
bottom.
he looked around the scummy hall
the pool tables were more disgusting
than the ground that he walked upon
the room was quite full with large men
most of whom were drunk and little threat
he immediately walked towards the back hallway
the bartender tried to stop him
“washroom?” he asked
he walked past, but instead of turning to his right
he took the door to the left
walking in as calmly as he could
the men around the poker table all stopped
and most of their hands headed towards their guns
one of the men told them to hold off
he walked forward towards them
“you fucked with the wrong man”
“you got nothing on us”
“I have a dead family and reason to believe-“
“you got nothing on us”
he placed his hand in his jacket pocket
the men at the table tensed
placing their hands on the butt of their guns
he pulled out his gun and started firing
one shot, two shot, three shot, four
they all fell like water from a sprinkler
the fifth man fell like a log
he left them all dead and walked out
no one said a word, but they all watched
he got in his car and drove home
there was no blood on his hands
he walked up his driveway
he grabbed his key and entered
it was darker than the night behind him
criminals were hard
to find, but easy to kill.
people are the grungy
base
of a dry well.
he sat in the diner and watched the sun
from the window to his left
it was just starting to fall
night was arriving faster than he expected
finally, a man sat across from him in the booth
“are you my man?” he asked
the beastly opposition nodded
“here is 20% to make sure you know I am serious.
the rest you will receive after the job”
he pushed the folded brown envelope forward
“I want you to kill me.”
The man seemed curious, but by no means shocked
“the address and time is in there with the money.
I would like you to treat it like a regular hit,
but surprise me. I want to die with a scared look.”
the man picked up the envelope and left
the diner door jangled as it closed.
he got up out of the booth and headed for his car
he drove a few blocks into the city
until he found his desired destination
the sign said “Frankie’s” above the door
why are people so stupid as to name
a place like that with their own identity
I entered the pool hall with a creak.
no sinner of these deeds
would go free.
freedom is the elastic band
suffocating your wrist,
and the tattoo left behind.
he stirred in the hotel bed
even in his sleep he could not think
everything was torturous
the things he wanted to escape for a moment
were the things haunting him
like that of guilt, always by your ear
in his sleep he gained no rest
and woke up tired than before
his eyes glossy, and his hair thick and unclean
he slipped out from under the duvet
he shook like a fearful little boy
images ran through his mind
like a jabbing dagger at his thoughts
and like the long blade of a knife
they prolonged the minutes in his mind
that string of fragments
shattered glass upon the floor of his conscious
deathly faces screaming for mercy
blood across the white walls and leather couch
a phone ringing in his head
“your family” distorted words
until all that consumed him “is dead”
tears and scars flash across his body
revenge sums the power of his quest
throwing on a shirt he leaves the room
he walked into a diner with a jingle
he found himself the fifth booth on the right
I knew I would
get revenge.
grief is the inside
of a tunnel, and an echo
that will never fade.
he sat down with his files spread and forlorn
on his mind was the events of the past week
the murder case, and the threatening phone calls
that day he found the source to all his anguish
the day he found the tear of clothing
by the victims open door
a small amount of blood that seemed miniscule
compared to the puddles about the room
he itches his head as he reflected
about matching the blood sample
that led him to believe that Frankie
murdered those children and their parents
the man who had then started phoning
threatening to kill whoever turned in the evidence
he slammed his fist on the table and thought again
about the day he came home late from work
and found his wife and children slaughtered
he remembered being taken off the case
and the bloody evidence going missing
the pain he felt, and how badly he wanted revenge
he had nothing to live for – nothing
it was time he acted and moved on
to a better place
he looked at the bed to his right
and knew he needed his rest
he had not slept for three days
the worst part of death
is you have to live.
hell is
the colour red,
honestly.
At 12/15/05 07:30 PM, SantasHo wrote: I'm supper! Thanks for asking! ^_^
Supper is a meal.
Super is how you feel.
Life is pretty good. Nothing to bitch about.
That is good to hear! = )
It is holiday joy... that is what it is.
Snowjob me?
Hmm?
Please?
Will ya?
Give me a good... snowjob-a-roo?
Hmm?
Funniest User:
DirtySyko, because he is the only person who can make me laugh everytime he is trying to be funny. though I can think of a few others who make me laugh all the time.
2005's Attention Whore:
BonusStage as always. Sometimes people over rate him, sometimes under... but he always is there swapping whatever he can for attention. This guy will say anything it seems.
Never Logs Off:
Quisty is one everytime I come on. My visits are sparse, but I find it a little odd the timing is so perfect, so I conclude: she must be on ALL the time.
Most Underrated User:
Nike_Dunk is very cool and even though has a lot of respect in his most frequent areas of the forum, on a broad scale I would say he is highly underrated. A very good guy.
Best BBS Moderator:
Denvish is my favourite mod, bur he is up there with a few. So don't get your head high man.
Best Topic Starter:
Anderson has a nack at such things. I always find his posts entertaining, or a good start to a good conversation.
Best Overall User (Male):
-TheDcotor- would be my choice. It may be a biased choice, but no matter what he posts it either makes me laugh, makes me thing, or makes me want to read like heck (his prose that is). Even his short lamost spam-like posts entertain the hell out of me.
I'd like to say that Coop83, Scribbler, Tri_Nitro_Toluene, gumOnShoe, and Mick_the_Champion were all considered by for nomination. I just couldn't find the place to put them. These guys are good runner ups, and great all around people on NG.
At 12/15/05 07:26 PM, Andersson wrote: Aha, it sucks so I thought it was American. ;-)
no, its just french
that is why there are no words or speech, because it is done in quebec and no other canadians will watch a show where everyone is freaking out in french
At 12/15/05 07:04 PM, SantasHo wrote: Bingo!
oh shit!
...prize?
How are you?
I am tired from exams and eager to go gome for the holidays.
How about you?
At 12/15/05 06:58 PM, Andersson wrote: Just for laughs you know.
of course I do, its a canadian show.
kidding (Just For Laughs is a french canadian show around here)
At 12/15/05 06:58 PM, SantasHo wrote: I have a penis?! OH GOD NO! *cries* make it go away!!!
I actually have no idea who you are (so I didnt think to try and make it sex open), but now getting the sense of a female.. in the late night lounge... and the ** stuff.... Quisty?
At 12/15/05 06:54 PM, SantasHo wrote: Myst- Awesome work, as always. Andersson just sent me some good work, too ^_^
Thanks man. Much appreciated.
…(continued)
Kelly smiled and agreed and they went about their way. The street lamps were all decorated with holly, wreaths and coloured string. The buildings were all ornamented with lights that speckled throughout and gleamed. Passer-bys were cheerful, children ran and played, and the eldest women smiled as they watched the snow fall lightly on their knitted berets. The white was such a canvas for the beautiful colours of Christmas to portray.
Now, before I carry on, I want to quickly explain. Kelly is not worse off than some others, but her story is important to note. Prepare yourself for very sad news, or at least news to you, for Kelly’s problems extend far longer than just her occupation, and the green within her purse.
Jonithen placed his hand on the door handle, and felt a sudden chill. As much as it was the atmosphere, he knew it was something else. He immediately put on his biggest smile and walked into the room to see Michael resting well.
“Hey Michael. How do you feel?” he asked.
“Good,” he said, as he pulled the white sheets towards his cheeks.
Kelly walked in and leaned over Michael in the bed. She paused, then gently kissed him and spoke a few quiet words.
As I was getting at before, Michael is quite sick. At the age of six years old, he developed a tumour, a brainstem glioma that has him confined to the hospital bed. The worst part about it is that the survival rate past five years is extremely low, and as you can tell, his time is nearing end.
Michael looked at the two adults that peered over him distraught, and he sat himself up with a few words in his mind he wanted to say, “I spent the day with some of the other children, and we talked about Santa Clause. Now I know I really never believed in him before, but I wanted to write him a letter. I was hoping, mom, that you would read it before I send it to him up north.”
“Of course, dear, where is it?”
Michael pulled it out from under his sheet; it was a little wrinkled from his grip, and he handed it to his mother while hoping for the best.
Kelly opened it gently and looked inside. She was so happy that he wrote it, for he usually barely said a word. And in two simple lines it read, if I could have anything for Christmas it would be a father for me, and a husband for my mother.
Kelly paused and stared at the letter before her sudden tears. She could not help but be amazed, for Michael knew his time was up, and was looking out for his one true love. He was growing into a young man, and she was dreadfully proud of him. Her cheeks felt flush, and her body just as warm as her lungs grew tight and hard.
And just as a tear dripped off her soft cheek and blended with the blue lines of the paper, Jonithen turned to Kelly and said, “and this is where I change your life.”
He kneeled down on one knee and pulled a small brown box from his pocket. Kelly had her hand to her mouth, but the lemon could be seen at the edges.
“I know it hasn’t been long, but I love you more than I could ever imagine. I love the compassion you hold, and the beauty that is both your appearance and your person. I especially love that contagious smile,” he said as he caught a glimpse of her glee and couldn’t help but beam, “and I love Michael too,” he winked at Michael, and Michael quickly winked back. Michael was so proud of himself; he had the cutest smirk.
Kelly spoke without hesitation, “yes, don’t go on or I’ll cry forever. I’ll marry you, I will.”
They kissed, and it was beautifully pleasant.
Even though Michael feared his death, he knew his mother was in good hands, and he got exactly what he wanted for Christmas.
Christmas comes and goes, but the memories last a year, for when the morning finally comes the smiles of your children are perfect during that day. The children scream and run to the tree that stands so very tall, they grab their first present and rip it open quick, and seem shocked and certainly awed. They 'thank you' and they laugh, they kiss you and they play; it is just one of those beautiful things that is worth it in every way.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Okay, I lied: a miracle may occur (as it usually does) - we’re not quite done, for next Christmas at eleven years old… Christmas was at home.
…(continued)
Kelly smiled and agreed and they went about their way. The street lamps were all decorated with holly, wreaths and coloured string. The buildings were all ornamented with lights that speckled throughout and gleamed. Passer-bys were cheerful, children ran and played, and the eldest women smiled as they watched the snow fall lightly on their knitted berets. The white was such a canvas for the beautiful colours of Christmas to portray.
Now, before I carry on, I want to quickly explain. Kelly is not worse off than some others, but her story is important to note. Prepare yourself for very sad news, or at least news to you, for Kelly’s problems extend far longer than just her occupation, and the green within her purse.
Jonithen placed his hand on the door handle, and felt a sudden chill. As much as it was the atmosphere, he knew it was something else. He immediately put on his biggest smile and walked into the room to see Michael resting well.
“Hey Michael. How do you feel?” he asked.
“Good,” he said, as he pulled the white sheets towards his cheeks.
Kelly walked in and leaned over Michael in the bed. She paused, then gently kissed him and spoke a few quiet words.
As I was getting at before, Michael is quite sick. At the age of six years old, he developed a tumour, a brainstem glioma that has him confined to the hospital bed. The worst part about it is that the survival rate past five years is extremely low, and as you can tell, his time is nearing end.
Michael looked at the two adults that peered over him distraught, and he sat himself up with a few words in his mind he wanted to say, “I spent the day with some of the other children, and we talked about Santa Clause. Now I know I really never believed in him before, but I wanted to write him a letter. I was hoping, mom, that you would read it before I send it to him up north.”
“Of course, dear, where is it?”
Michael pulled it out from under his sheet; it was a little wrinkled from his grip, and he handed it to his mother while hoping for the best.
Kelly opened it gently and looked inside. She was so happy that he wrote it, for he usually barely said a word. And in two simple lines it read, if I could have anything for Christmas it would be a father for me, and a husband for my mother.
Kelly paused and stared at the letter before her sudden tears. She could not help but be amazed, for Michael knew his time was up, and was looking out for his one true love. He was growing into a young man, and she was dreadfully proud of him. Her cheeks felt flush, and her body just as warm as her lungs grew tight and hard.
And just as a tear dripped off her soft cheek and blended with the blue lines of the paper, Jonithen turned to Kelly and said, “and this is where I change your life.”
He kneeled down on one knee and pulled a small brown box from his pocket. Kelly had her hand to her mouth, but the lemon could be seen at the edges.
“I know it hasn’t been long, but I love you more than I could ever imagine. I love the compassion you hold, and the beauty that is both your appearance and your person. I especially love that contagious smile,” he said as he caught a glimpse of her glee and couldn’t help but beam, “and I love Michael too,” he winked at Michael, and Michael quickly winked back. Michael was so proud of himself; he had the cutest smirk.
Kelly spoke without hesitation, “yes, don’t go on or I’ll cry forever. I’ll marry you, I will.”
They kissed, and it was beautifully pleasant.
Even though Michael feared his death, he knew his mother was in good hands, and he got exactly what he wanted for Christmas.
Christmas comes and goes, but the memories last a year, for when the morning finally comes the smiles of your children are perfect during that day. The children scream and run to the tree that stands so very tall, they grab their first present and rip it open quick, and seem shocked and certainly awed. They 'thank you' and they laugh, they kiss you and they play; it is just one of those beautiful things that is worth it in every way.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Okay, I lied: a miracle may occur (as it usually does) - we’re not quite done, for next Christmas at eleven years old… Christmas was at home.
consuming christmas
Christmas is the inside
of a pocket
filled with chess pawns,
and two fingers
slipping one away.
Another Christmas Story - Not Quite a Mircale
The birds have ceased their singing being courteous to those who also serenade. Wind has come and gone, and will come and go again. In riddles, the breeze will whistle and paint the tune that travels past your ear, it will bend the stars that navigate the homes, and it will sneak between your layers, giving you that chill of Christmas morning.
A pessimistic world suddenly grows eager to please, like a flower in the spring, each begging to be picked. The chance to bestow that grinning gift – for all the people nearing Christmas seem to gain a certain jolt, and nod and gesture all day long until a plastic lemon grows on every face – and on the morning of, only one gift can redisplay that certain tired smile they held all through the week.
And the feast is always special to the families that gather in joy. Turkey, ham and sweet potatoes drowning in gravy and sauce; dressing, cranberries and brandy butter softening up each tongue; and do not forget the pumpkin pie, whipped cream, pudding and cake, for not a Christmas meal can go without a taste. Each slumbering guest rocks about the household and slumps in every chair, for the weight they gained during dinner is far too heavy to bare. Though what aging parents never realize is that just before Christmas day, they lost a few pounds somewhere between the rushing mall and the snowball fight out back their home. And somewhere in that igloo, or snow angel across the lawn, they made a Christmas special for their children and their spouse.
And as the family laughs and eats, and parties once the children sleep, the Christmas tree by the front window witnesses the first star of the night, and the angel carefully ballets across the tip of the green in delight. The reindeer on the lawn next door light up the silver cheeks of your elves, and the lights across their roof tumble down like icicles. Carollers sing, and maybe even dance, as they travel home to home under the snow that only just begun. Buggy rides along the main street of those simple little towns, and stockings warm by fire, as the twisting and turning family seem to gain a sleepless night.
Although, as much as I adore the season, not every Christmas is so kind, as some people in your area are without the spirit at all. And it is hardest to say that not every Christmas a miracle occurs. As I blink the sun away in my study by the darkening window, I say to you that the story I possess is not what you expect, but instead, a story of Christmas glum.
Kelly was a single mother of only twenty-eight. She always did quite fine raising her ten-year-old son, but recently, upon hard times, life made Christmas less cheerful than before. As she stood in the row of pawns and held tight the few gifts she had, she thought about the colours that Christmas always brought. She loved the greens of lasting trees, and loved the reds of lights; she loved the whites of snowfall, and the silver and gold tinsel throughout her son’s room. And then she grew depressed at the thought of little Michael’s face.
However, she scavenged up a smile, when Jonithen approached her from behind, and whispered in her ear, “Michael will be fine.”
He always knew what she was thinking, and it was uncannily pleasing to her ears. It comforted her just as much as his arms around her, and his cologne about the air. Jonithen was a good boyfriend, and the thing she loved the most about him was the way he loved little Michael just as much as he loved her.
Kelly was so sad because she recently was fired from her working place downtown, and had been searching for a job for weeks, but nearing the festive season no one was willing to hire. She just could not afford her bills.
“I say we go visit Michael right now. I think we got most of what we need. I did most my shopping a month ago, as I did not want to be here like this on Christmas Eve.”
…(continued)
consuming christmas
Christmas is the inside
of a pocket
filled with chess pawns,
and two fingers
slipping one away.
Another Christmas Story - Not Quite a Mircale
The birds have ceased their singing being courteous to those who also serenade. Wind has come and gone, and will come and go again. In riddles, the breeze will whistle and paint the tune that travels past your ear, it will bend the stars that navigate the homes, and it will sneak between your layers, giving you that chill of Christmas morning.
A pessimistic world suddenly grows eager to please, like a flower in the spring, each begging to be picked. The chance to bestow that grinning gift – for all the people nearing Christmas seem to gain a certain jolt, and nod and gesture all day long until a plastic lemon grows on every face – and on the morning of, only one gift can redisplay that certain tired smile they held all through the week.
And the feast is always special to the families that gather in joy. Turkey, ham and sweet potatoes drowning in gravy and sauce; dressing, cranberries and brandy butter softening up each tongue; and do not forget the pumpkin pie, whipped cream, pudding and cake, for not a Christmas meal can go without a taste. Each slumbering guest rocks about the household and slumps in every chair, for the weight they gained during dinner is far too heavy to bare. Though what aging parents never realize is that just before Christmas day, they lost a few pounds somewhere between the rushing mall and the snowball fight out back their home. And somewhere in that igloo, or snow angel across the lawn, they made a Christmas special for their children and their spouse.
And as the family laughs and eats, and parties once the children sleep, the Christmas tree by the front window witnesses the first star of the night, and the angel carefully ballets across the tip of the green in delight. The reindeer on the lawn next door light up the silver cheeks of your elves, and the lights across their roof tumble down like icicles. Carollers sing, and maybe even dance, as they travel home to home under the snow that only just begun. Buggy rides along the main street of those simple little towns, and stockings warm by fire, as the twisting and turning family seem to gain a sleepless night.
Although, as much as I adore the season, not every Christmas is so kind, as some people in your area are without the spirit at all. And it is hardest to say that not every Christmas a miracle occurs. As I blink the sun away in my study by the darkening window, I say to you that the story I possess is not what you expect, but instead, a story of Christmas glum.
Kelly was a single mother of only twenty-eight. She always did quite fine raising her ten-year-old son, but recently, upon hard times, life made Christmas less cheerful than before. As she stood in the row of pawns and held tight the few gifts she had, she thought about the colours that Christmas always brought. She loved the greens of lasting trees, and loved the reds of lights; she loved the whites of snowfall, and the silver and gold tinsel throughout her son’s room. And then she grew depressed at the thought of little Michael’s face.
However, she scavenged up a smile, when Jonithen approached her from behind, and whispered in her ear, “Michael will be fine.”
He always knew what she was thinking, and it was uncannily pleasing to her ears. It comforted her just as much as his arms around her, and his cologne about the air. Jonithen was a good boyfriend, and the thing she loved the most about him was the way he loved little Michael just as much as he loved her.
Kelly was so sad because she recently was fired from her working place downtown, and had been searching for a job for weeks, but nearing the festive season no one was willing to hire. She just could not afford her bills.
“I say we go visit Michael right now. I think we got most of what we need. I did most my shopping a month ago, as I did not want to be here like this on Christmas Eve.”
…(continued)
haha... fun shit.
I noticed you used all people who can take a joke. Good thinking considering some ppl on Ng are uptight as hell about stuff like this.
Anyway... funny little blurb.
At 12/15/05 04:28 AM, Coop83 wrote: Good to see you again Deathtuna, welcome back. I see your poetry still hasn't lost its edge :)
Ya true.
anyway, I just wanted to say I wil ldo the collab after my last exam on sat... so it will be up this weekend most likely.
and thanks to anderson for nominating me for the bbs awards stuff. Appreciate it man.
Uh...
see you later/study time
if anyone is interested in my 'philosphical thoughts' - check my dA page (see sig links) and read my journal entry there. Comment here if you dont have an account. = )
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