Woah... I had to catch up on a lot of writing. Some of which is really good. I am glad to see this place too busy for my exam schedule to keep up with... haha... : )
If any of you have been wondering where I was, I was busy with other things. Anyway I will make a few announcements then review something.
1: First off, my new ver of issue #1 is no different because I forgot to save my book after fixing everything.
2: I decided to just have the 2 issues here and let you find out the rest when I publish the book.
Now I will review Word of Fear.ouldn;'
Pretty good poem, I also couldn't find anything wrong with grammar or spelling. But two things to keep in mind are:
1: When rhyming, two words that are the same word don't rhyme.
2: Also, you should try harder to rhyme on every pair of lines, or two lines with one in between, whatever way you rhyme.
Please leave a comment
Kevin felt an odd tilting, as if the bag he was in was swinging to and fro. He listened and heard the garbage truck. He tried to find a way out but he couldn’t see, so he stepped on a piece of glass accidentally. Kevin swung his paw carefully to relieve the pain without hitting something else. By the time he recovered, he heard the garbage truck driving away. Cautiously, he swam up and eyed an opening in the bag and poked his head out. He saw the trees go by as the wind sailed through his fur. The truck lurched forward when it stopped. Kevin’s face landed in a pile of garbage that felt as if it were bags filled with water.
He sunk in the garbage once again. After he surfaced he caught his breath, which made him want to go back down. The dump smelled of many unpleasant things that Rick didn’t even want to think about. After being attacked with the rotten, putrid stench, he tried not to collapse. After feeling a bit light-headed, he wandered around the dump, avoiding anything that could hurt him if he stepped on it, or anything that smelled especially awful. After about half a mile of exploring, Kevin took a rest.
At 11/24/05 09:36 AM, Andersson wrote: So, you wanted a copy?
Well, you could post one on here, then everyone can read it.
At 11/24/05 03:40 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: But anyway, I'm just throwing stuff out here, at the end of the day it's your story, so do things as you see fit.
You throwing stuff at me is helpful though :P Gives me ideas and inpisration :P
Woah, thats a lot of poetry...
Heed
he believed it would end
a death he was also a victim of
and with the reason of remorse
he grieved
purpose was fucking with society
he knew the truth
hope was the freezing ocean
he knocked on the ice
fate was the colour of downfall
his temple dripped
he wanted to fly without wings
fall to his fucking death
and leave that hatred behind
he was an angel
Clinical
Their hallways are colourless
and their symmetry ideal.
Their motions are honed
and their places situated.
White meets white.
Their parallel is identical
and their brood obsequious.
Their comfort is wholesome
And their being innocent.
Red meets red.
Corridor
A creaky staircase to the far east room
brings the mind-numb of signals
to a doom of unrest within your bones.
Through the walls lie screams and cries
that beg for knee-mercy
to be given that final try to sing
The darkest corners seem to never fade
but as vigorous motions are seen
many shadows have already decayed.
The beauty of silence is no longer
as your breath-moment
smothers your sodden gaze-wall
And watching the sudden entrances
your smile-heart condones
the artistic allusions to worship
The crackling candles burn in pairs
to further coerce the symbol
that situates two empty chairs
In the deepest corridor lies your partner
Cheek Mark
I sit uncomfortable in my booth
Eating my lunch on my break
When I catch the sight of a stranger
As I boyishly pig on my steak.
She was sun struck like a maiden,
And I could not help but stare.
I thought of the words I’d say,
And all the ways I could care.
She turned her face towards me,
And I noticed the mark on her cheek.
I looked down at my food,
And finished without another peek.
With time I assume she grew angered,
And sat across from me in my booth.
I looked up for a slight moment.
Then instead murmured to my food.
“Why is it you look away?”
she asked me, knowing very well.
“You know we cannot speak”
I replied, trying not to tell.
“Is it the mark on me that scares you?
Is it this right here in my face?”
“We both know it is illegal
For me to talk to you in a public place.”
“Then let us go somewhere more private
We can be alone someplace else.”
“As much as I would like to
That is not really allowed as well.”
She looked at me almost crying,
And I looked at her disgusted with myself,
But I could not break the law
As much as I hated the mark itself.
“So let the government weed you out.
It is not like a care a damn!”
“Please, don’t make this more than it is
Whether or not you are Uncle Sam’s.”
She gave a little giggle and smiled.
I hated being afraid and a pawn.
I did not want to be left inferior.
I did not want to die to Neo-Paragon.
“Let’s go,” I said with a smile,
My home is just a few blocks.”
We walked out the front doors,
And it was then that I took two shots.
Neo-Paragon
you see the people conform
their tired legs tracking the city
as their eyes stare towards the ground
and their hearts towards the heavens
though secret is their faith
you see the marked
the government supports them
their heads are held high
and their hearts are patriotic
though secret is their loves
that mark above their cheek bone
that single symbol of class
the government created drones
supposedly perfect in everyway
though empathy will be their downfall
the officer approaches you
his hand towards his side
he grabs your face and tilts it
and throws you to the ground
you unfortunate soul
More poetry:
Vocation: Writer
the fireplace of my abode
and the turning of the flames
bring the heat for tomorrow
like the powder of tonight
the leisure of my divan
and rejection of my peripheral
bring discovery for my centre
like the passing of fantasy
the molding of my hand
and the birth of the vision
bring a lifetime of fulfillment
like the conception of Christ
but I Just want to write.
Even After (the periods would be spaces)
If ever I am needed . . . . . to tend to the sick
revenge the defeated . . . . . in sickness or death
pray by a bedside . . . . . return mid-pith
request for a favor . . . . . find the bright light
stop the rain and tide . . . . . kiss a forehead
consider the plight . . . . . change an outcome
catch all the sadness . . . . . plague the wicked
or exist by your side . . . . . my spirit will arrive
in templar pace haste . . . . . to be by your side.
Drive Away
“What can I get you, sir?” the lady asks.
The man faces her, eyeing waist to brow
“Tea to start. I am awaiting company.”
She nods and strides to the back,
But as she steps behind the door
Her gaze grasps his appearance also.
His short, dark hair is perfectly trimmed,
His face smoothly shaven,
His suit a stark black, and his white shirt clean.
His deep green eyes look up at her,
She quickly closes the restricted door.
Our well-kept man grabs his leather briefcase.
Placing it on the busy table with a peek inside,
He glances towards the men’s washroom.
He leaves the briefcase on his seat,
And walks towards the marked door.
He opens the entry slightly,
Presses his face against the wooden grain,
And takes a peek inside.
The reflection in the mirrors says no one is there.
The young waitress walks out from the back,
And he grabs her, bringing her into the washroom.
He locks the door and lifts her onto the counter.
His lips meet her neck.
His hands slide up her waist under her shirt.
The shirt hits the floor.
She kisses him harder - their tongues collide.
His soft lips run over her collarbone and shoulder.
Her hand runs over his pants.
She moans and pants. Her bare back against the wall.
Her legs wrapped around him. She wants more.
Through the hallway and out onto the floor
The briefcase has disappeared.
A blonde haired woman crosses the street,
And jumps into her sports car.
The package is on the leather passenger seat.
She drives towards the lights.
Of all nights, this is the one she chose.
She fixates her sunglasses,
And she stops on signal, “fuck.”
Through her rear view, the van breaks.
A masked man gets out of the side door.
He walks towards the car. The female is startled.
His finger suggests, and she hands him the parcel.
Rubber on tar, the scream calls,
And in the back seat, the briefcase is opened.
Six eyes watch the black mask of the man
Dazzle in lights of many colours.
The briefcase is closed, “identified.”
“Good. Four more blocks,” the driver answers.
He grabs his cell phone from his jacket pocket,
And dials the number from his memory.
“We have it. Delivery is on schedule.”
A dark, rusty voice is heard, and considered.
Four blocks pass.
The van pulls up into the parking space.
The thief gets out, package in hand.
Though the commercial building says Closed,
The door opens, and new hands take on the task.
The male, in his workplace, sits beside his subordinate
And then he asks, “What time is the courier coming?”
“Few minutes,” is the quick reply. The fat man scrambles.
A honk is heard as bright lights impede on the glass.
The door opens, and the parcel is grabbed off the floor.
It is placed beside the driver in the front, not the back.
Another drive at night. Another delivery.
The woman moans our fine character’s name.
A cry for the lust he provides.
The cell phone rings. In time, she answers.
The words of the dialer cannot be heard.
“Thanks. I appreciate the call,” she finishes,
“I have to get back to work,” she looks at him.
He smiles. They kiss. He leaves the washroom.
He sits down at his table. She brings his tea.
He enjoys his meal and leaves with a number.
Almost forgetting his briefcase, he turns back.
Picking it up, he travels to his car. He drives away.
Somewhere in the city a cell phone is hung up.
The officer looks at his watch, and turns on the news.
Reporters cage the country’s leader.
He speaks his mind, and says what is best for his people.
The reporters outbid for attention.
The officer’s child sits on his lap.
His darling wife is in the kitchen.
His daughter, finally home from work, enters the home.
His phone vibrates. He looks at his watch once more.
“The country, no, the world, stands at attention.”
Silence heads. People stop. Cars glide.
At 11/24/05 10:58 PM, ElectroMagnetic wrote: Please leave a comment
Kevin felt an odd tilting, as if the bag...
Nice story. Perfect grammar, spelling capitalization, just remember to indent on paragraph beginnings next time.
Myst, calm down. I am reeling from this broadside of peotry my eyes have been bombarded with.
Where are we upto on the collab?
At 11/26/05 10:04 AM, Coop83 wrote: Myst, calm down.
Cn't *panickly shakes* <_< >_> <_<
I am reeling from this broadside of peotry my eyes have been bombarded with.
Sorry... were any of them at least good? hehe = )
Where are we upto on the collab?
Mick still I beleive.
Thanks to Life-Stream for the sig.
The meeting of the Gods & Goddesses, were YOU at the London meet 2009?
Hey guys, some of you may have noticed I just started a theology club (link in sig), so it seems that here is as good a place as any to whore it out to any of you people interested in religion (or a lack thereof).
Failgrounds.
At 11/26/05 01:18 PM, _Shadowed_ wrote: good poems man, whats your inspiration?
Everything, I guess. I do not have one sinpiration. Sometimes music, sometimes movies, sometimes other literacy, sometimes dreasm, sometimes things that happen to me... or sometimes... eratc thoughts... heh... w/e works.
At 11/26/05 01:23 PM, -TheDoctor- wrote: Hey guys, some of you may have noticed I just started a theology club (link in sig), so it seems that here is as good a place as any to whore it out to any of you people interested in religion (or a lack thereof).
I love world beliefs and discussing/debating them. I already posted man. = )
At 11/26/05 02:56 PM, Myst_Williams wrote:
Everything, I guess. I do not have one sinpiration. Sometimes music, sometimes movies, sometimes other literacy, sometimes dreasm, sometimes things that happen to me... or sometimes... eratc thoughts... heh... w/e works.
hahah, thats cool, mines normally a person, a dream or a movie.
Thanks to Life-Stream for the sig.
The meeting of the Gods & Goddesses, were YOU at the London meet 2009?
Hey guys.
Lately I haven't been writing at all. I'm in a slump, you could say. I'm not reading as much either. I wouldn't call it writer's block, because I don't necessarily believe in writer's block, as I do have the ability to come up with ideas, but I just don't have the will to write.
Any ideas of what I should do? Should I continue to stay on my break and wait for the desire to write to return?
I've been refurbished and reissued, prepackaged and precooked, decontaminated and deloused, but I still smell, sound, look and feel like shit.
New to the video game forums?
At 11/27/05 02:24 PM, DirtySyko wrote: Any ideas of what I should do? Should I continue to stay on my break and wait for the desire to write to return?
Well if you have the ideas, and it is just that motivation you are missing. I advise one of two things:
1) Don't force it. Wait it out. Maybe there is some odd reason why you havnt had the will, and until it passes you won't be able to write comforatbly, so why make things difficult.
2) Find what it is that inspires you. When I have that problem. I listen to a certain kind of music, or watch my favourite movies. That usually has me motivated to do something just as amazing as that artist did, even if it is a totally different concept or genre than the inspiration.
I am freaking out. there is this little game where this program reads your mind on this site. I took the test 8 times, 8 different thoughts, 8 different outcomes... and the damn thing was right everytime.
I can't stump it.
People, go to the webpage below and tell me if it read your mind accurately too.
At 11/28/05 01:21 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: http://www.psychics...ictests/mindread.htm
haha, I figured it out. Tell me if you did. Stupid tricky program. Pfft. It almost had me convinced.
At 11/28/05 01:23 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: haha, I figured it out. Tell me if you did. Stupid tricky program. Pfft. It almost had me convinced.
Because the answer is ALWAYS the sum they have given you. The number you though of is irrelevant.
At 11/28/05 01:23 PM, Myst_Williams wrote:At 11/28/05 01:21 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: http://www.psychics...ictests/mindread.htm
haha, I figured it out. Tell me if you did. Stupid tricky program. Pfft. It almost had me convinced.
Heheh, I used to do that one on people back in school, great for a laugh.
Failgrounds.
I'm confused, I'll be damne dif I can work that psychic number thing otu at all.
Put me out my misery and tell me please.
At 11/28/05 02:32 PM, Tri-Nitro-Toluene wrote: I'm confused, I'll be damne dif I can work that psychic number thing otu at all.
Put me out my misery and tell me please.
Since the sum subtracts the number you thought of, it always ends up with the same number. It has removed the only possible variable, thus making it a constant.
I was here a long time ago and asked for reviews on a chapter in my story.After that I got banned for a until a little wile ago.Anyways,I want more reviews on the rest of the chapters.I made where I was going to put all the stories I write.Here's the link-
At 11/29/05 01:49 PM, Mick_the_champion wrote: Ehh...right well, for my film class we were learning about Noir.
Oh snap!
You may have noticed that's what I'm writing at the moment, classic Noir, but with robots.
Script was pretty good, I'm no film critic, but it looks like that scene would fit in well with the Noir genre. Was a bit short, but I suppose if it was presented in the context of a whole movie that wouldn't be a problem. One thing that might be worth adding are more stage directions, a bit more indication of the posture/expressions of the characters during the dialogue would be nice.
Failgrounds.
At 11/29/05 02:12 PM, Mick_the_champion wrote:
Good shout man, like instead of just saying he was sitting mentioning the way he was sitting and all.
Yeah, that's the stuff. When I did those kind of excercises I found it helped to write out the whole scene in prose, then cut out and apdapt specific bits into stage directions.
Failgrounds.
At 11/29/05 03:25 PM, Mick_the_champion wrote: One we had to do at college was write a monologue as an object of some sort e.g. pencil, knife, light .etc. - and you only reveal what the object is on the last sentence.
Sounds cool. I might give that a go. It depends when I get my Art History final done. Art history essays are a bitch...
School is driving me nuts, I have to say. But my novel has made durastic changes... my biased eyes like where it is going. It has changes so much. It isnt even pop fiction anymore. Wierd.
Hmmm, I've been a bit busy (And lazy) so I don't feel like posting the mould now. But I will post it later.
Anyways, I have actually started to write some in Swedish again (Poetry) which felt wierd in the start but now I really feel how much better my Swedish is compared to my English.
Ah, the words just flow out. Even though it's been a while since I used my talent in Swedish (Heh, more than six months).
However, I am just saying hey and checking how everything is going, and damn that was alot of poetry Myst_Williams. ;-)
Hehe. =)
At 11/29/05 05:16 PM, Andersson wrote: However, I am just saying hey and checking how everything is going, and damn that was alot of poetry Myst_Williams. ;-)
Alot of GOOD poetry... heh... okay... maybe not... but experimental poetry doesnt have to be good.
Hehe. =)
= )
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