Writing Threats

Well, I kind of like writing now and again, as much as you can like anything. I'd like to read stuff any of you had written, frankly. As well as having some of you splendid folks read some nonsense I've scribbled down. I searched for an existing writing thread, and I didn't see any immediate candidates. So I figured I'd go on ahead a create one. THANKS winilula, for suggesting that. So, please post stuff you've written. I'll start us off here in a second, please lay into my shit with strength, because I know its worthless and that's how you have to go about it to improve. Or something.


  • edited March 2012
    It's probably not worthless. It's also probably not made of gold. I wrote something about this on here recently; it's hard for most people to accept, especially with American youths' ever-increasing bombardment with cultural messages that dictate that they [i]must[/i] be an individual, that conformity is [i]not an option[/i]. A group in which everyone's a leader is just a bunch of gathered idiots who won't be able to get anything accomplished. That trend of specialness makes a bunch of people's not-really-that-special but still quite alright and perfectly valuable abilities and creative output get treated by the persons to whom they belong as positive or (usually) negative extremes. But most of the time neither of those things are true, and neither of them will be true unless one allows themselves to step out of the mental confines of dispirited mediocrity and really just do what they can with it without being obsessed with judging it and rating it as an overall concept that can neatly fit into one's personal vision of oneself. The more one can bring their creative work down to reality, the more deeply they can accept that despite talent and positive feedback and the voice in their head telling them "it's really just shitty", that it's not shit and it's not earth-shaking and that there's a long way to go toward creating a true, personal vision of their work if they do indeed choose to take that path, the better of they'll be. Now, it's time for me to take my own advice.
  • well-said, Dave. Here's some lousy shit I wrote down last night while drunk. This is actually what is happening in mu life WRITE now, but I didn't use any real names, even though I'm sure it doesn't matter one bit. It happened when Jackson and I were just sitting round, having our smokes. We were on the front stairway, hardly a stairway, only 3 stairs and all. All of the sudden jack bauer showed up with a fucking full-grown, adult pigeon (dove?) in her savage mouth. What a fucking champ, she truly earned the title “big cat”. I don’t even know what I’m writing about or even for, but the fucking caps lock is right next to the shift button and I ALWAYS hit her when I’m typing. It does irk me somewhat. Anyways, she brought the bird to us and then it departed from her mouth and simply flew away. No questions asked, she was out of Jack’s mouth and into the woods, to do bird stuff I suppose. Still, what a sight. Well, good old Jack proceeded to have a lie in the lawn there, and roll around. I figured I oughtta go congratulate her on her fine hunting prowess so I gave her some petting, scratching the head, rubbing the body and the like. Boy, she ate it up. That cat seemed more human to me then that any human people did, people only thought of themselves. I’m talking about majorities here, though. Some people are alright. I think the problem lies more within my own head than with other PEOPLE’s behaviors and tones, dialects, and the like though. It’s really all the same to me though, I’ll just live for however long and then die and then GOD knows what. I like to think I don’t really care, but I do care somewhat. That’s the most troublesome part of all. What can you do, though? I actually kind of like the idea of death, release, freedom. When you’re trapped inside you’re little body there’s only so much you can do, I mean yr stuck. Maybe when you’re dead you get more freedom, without being limited to residing inside some cruel form. I dunno though, probably not. When you die, that’s probably that and that’s probably it. So be it, good riddance to biological vessels. There goes that goddammed caps lock again, maybe I’ll just leave it on when I accidentally hit it, and things that I hadn’t meant to be emphasized will be emphasized anyways. FUCK I genuinely despise this keyboard on my laptop here. This sonofabitch is a real nightmare. Maybe I’d be a better writer if I left it alone. This is a real horrorshow anyhow, and I really don’t have much to say. MAKES NO SENSE THAT I’M EvEN WRITING ANY OF THIS. There she went again. Holy fuck, this is beginning to piss me off something fierce. It’s almost like Burton’s girlfriend is here, like she is everyday, simply repeating quotes she hears on the TV BOX, not excluding commercials, an all-inclusive fucking nightmare event. I just shake my head and think quietly to myself how incredibly lousy she is, as a person, a human, a homo sapien, whatever. To think that she may have lived here is still quite unnerving, and I am so very much glad that I nullified that option. I mean, I kinda feel like an ass, but Burton has his head shoved so far up his asshole he may as well have been staring at his intestines. So when I think of it that way, I don’t really feel much. It’s hard too sometimes. Anyways, our landlord, JIMMY, and I got a nice and pleasant relationship going on. Nothing gay, mind you, it’s just that I get his rent to him on time each time he comes by inquiring about it. No big deal. So Cheeseburger told me that Burton was gonna have his lady pal move in to our house. That BASTARD didn’t even consult anyone living here at the time. He was just kinda counting on doing it, but sure enough, Cheeseburger let it out if his gigantic mouth soon enough. That lousy bitch had been hanging round our spot constantly lately, it was almost as if she didn’t even have her own place (even though she did). What a lousy drag. Frankly, I was becoming very tired of it. And the idea of her literally living here aggravated the living shit out of me. Clearly I had to do something, take some course of action. I couldn’t just idly sit by while this whore moved in and proceeded to lounge around, sneering, whining, and blathering on about absolutely nothing. It just wouldn’t do. I wasn’t having any of it. So our landlord, JIMMY and I had developed quite a nice relationship. I always paid him the first day of each month, when he would come to our (his) home, knock about 5 times, and yell out HOOOOOO! We all knew the drill. I always paid him though, with my parents money of course. I was in COLLEGE, that was my excuse. I was rotten to the goddammed core, but its hard to care some times. OH WELL. Anyways, I talked to Burton one morning when I had only just woken up, and I decided I would have some gin. No big deal. I thought, I could eat later. You can only drink when you want to. I’d been reading Bukowski, too, so that didn’t help. You can call drinking a lot anything you want, alcoholism, bumming, strutting, whatever. It’s just words is all, semantics. Anyhow, I got my gall and confidence up with some smokes/drinks and I noticed JIMMY was back at his shed, most likely getting high. It was early, to the church crowd, maybe around 10 30. this had to be taken care of though, this wasn’t the kind of thing you could slack on. This was my very livelihood we’re talking about here, I can’t have some giant, nagging bitch constantly laying round my house whining about this and that, in that nasally voice, always talking but saying nothing. She talked a lot, but rarely said anything worthwhile, and that’s what I couldn’t stand. Plus, Burton paid her close to no attention, so when she would nag away at him, he would simply ignore her, and everyone else (ME) would be left to deal with the annoyance. THE GALL. I wouldn’t be able to stand it. I would have to move to a fucking iceberg and just eat ice all day. Who knows, that might be a happier life for me. But with the frostbite, I dunno, its all a hypothetical sham anyhow. Well, I scampered over to JIMMY”s shed and sure enough, I found him there smoking an old-fashioned joint. I got right to the point, no hesitation. He was high up in the sky, big time, so I had no problems getting right to the point. I revealed Burton’s little plan, very slyly, foxlike, and pointed out that Burton probably had no intention of telling good ol’ Jimmy about it. I was being more vague than usual, reaaaal subtle-like. Trying to make it seem like I didn’t care and more like I was just trying to do Jimmy a favor. Well, I sure knew Jimmy, and he genuinely liked me. That’s the impression I got anyways. Who knows, or cares, what he really thought of me. He got his $$$$ from me on time and that was just about that. Money really is important. Jimmy explained that he would raise the rent slightly, although I suggested raising it to 1,000$$$ split 2-ways. Jimmy’s son, 30-something, really had a hearty laugh about that. He even chimed in and suggested an even higher price. I was making it clear that I didn’t want that phony ass curmudgeon moving in. I was spewing out whatever I could. I didn’t press too hard, though. Well, I started to sense that Jimmy wanted to get back to whatever he was doing. I was a good kid, from his point of view. I made an empty threat about moving out if she moved in, talking about the strain and whatnot. Well, then I just kinda took a rather long drag on my smoke, or so it seemed, and wished him a swell day. Then I sauntered off to the homestead. I needed a drink anyways.
  • edited March 2012
    There were some funny bits in there, I loved your battle with the caps lock key and JIMMY. It's like a stream of consciousness journal entry story. It could be neatened up and moved in either direction. You use the capitalized letters for humor and emphasis, have you thought of using spacing, as well? G.O. is quite the master of spacing. I find it makes things easier to read, makes plots easier to follow, and can be used for emphasis and de-emphasis. JIMMY!!! I liked it.
  • p.s. I love the title of this thread. It sounds dangerous. Words as weapons!
  • Thank you, winilula. Its garbage, rubbish, but its real and I feel like thats hard to come by sometimes nowadays. You are right, it's very much stream of consciousness. I've just been recording my thoughts linearly, pausing on occasion to find the right word, or turn off the pestlike caps lock key. I guess professional writers think alot more about what they're typing, I guess thats why i'm not one of those.
  • I don’t really enjoy observing Cheeseburger and Burton’s interactions terribly. Cheeseburger is only a pawn. Burton has complete, entire, unquestionable control of Cheeseburger. When I see it, I don’t even feel any pity for Cheeseburger. Each day, he looks more and more like a massive cheeseburger to me. It fucking sickens me. I need to vomit, I’m dying, that’s my excuse. Matter of fact, Cheeseburger is just ambling around the goddammed house, seemingly accomplishing nothing, humming some dumbass tune, or, even worse, actually singing some worthless lyrics. It’s a haunting affair. I don’t much care for it. I guess I must just be extremely irate most of the time. I don’t seem to ever write anything positive, and all my writing is is an extension of my thoughts, so that’s that. Jack’s sleeping on my bed, nestled in, rolling around, stretching out, relaxing, licking, doing it all. I’m gonna miss that sonofabitch whenever I eventually move out of here. I think about taking her with me all the time, but she’s so accustomed to this area that I think the shock would be overwhelming, and she’d be unhappy. Now I would never do anything to upset that cat, it was almost as if she was my life. If I harmed her, I’d just about die, which could be a good or bad thing. There’s just no telling. Noone’s ever died, travelled across that plane, and come back to tell humans about it. It’s just a great unknown. But Chesseburger, that kid, I don’t get him. I don’t know, I am just fucked every which way. When I moved into this joint, my good friend junior lived here, and Al, Bo, Jo, and Mo. Those boys were alright by me. They didn’t cause much trouble and I was just kind of there, present, existing. JR was my favorite. He was allergic to cat DANDER, whatever that was, so the cat wasn’t allowed indoors. That was somewhat of a drag for me, cause I loved the shit out of that cat. But JR could drink like a madman, and anytime I handed a bottle of whiskey to him, he would not refuse a swig. I liked that quality in him. I’d known him since we were children, he used to be chunky, fatty, in his early youth. Then in high school he became lean again, big time. He was a champion swimmer, we used to joke and say he was half amphibian, I think, who knows for sure though. We didn’t have a fucking stenographer recording our conversations. Who did? It’s not really that important. I could use a smoke. You can only tolerate so much writing on a piece of shit keyboard. Should be writing for school, but instead I'm writnig this nonsense which will erode away in time and turn into nothing. CRITIQUE me, dissect me, i'm not good at writing, tear me apart!
  • Well, I can tell you one thing! If you persist in telling us to be mean to you, no one is going to say ANYTHING. First of all, that's not What We Do Here. Second, it's an annoying, off-putting request. So, there! I tore you apart. Just share and get out of the way. I think it's awesome that your cat is named Jack Bauer.
  • OK, done and done, I understand to a T.
  • I like your style !! Honest and interesting- just the way it should be. I was so hesitant on putting myself out there on this thread.. But here goes Yeup, I'll be there when it happens. I'll be there when the sea urchin gets married to the captain. I'll be the one in the back with my face up on the rack of jeckles laughing. I'll be the mine locked in the box of loose lips slowly flapping. Prepare the cannons. Fire !!!! It's a 21 gumball salute. Pirates made me walk the plank while dressed up in a parrot suit. I escaped by only hanging from a long string on my boot. I've got my foot back in my mouth and think I'm ready, ready, shoot. Cause it's a nice day for a pirate wedding I'll be that medium between what's good and what's happening. Staggering drunk on the brink of panhandling. Got a soul to spare, sir ? I can't remember when I sold mine, but I guess whoever bought it got the discount of a lifetime. I wont lie, I've lost my nerve, but I'm slowly learning to accept the things I know I deserve. Seldomly purturbed by the slightest of the ignorant, I think I've gotten past my point, I'm 2 drinks past boligerent.
  • Superb purps. i did enjoy reading that, sincerely
  • Thankyou..we must keep this thread active, it's a good one to have around. Its an interesting concept
  • I'm gonna follow Wini's lead and tell you that when you request that I "tear you apart" and to "lay into [you] with strength", all I think about is how weird a request that is, and that becomes a much more real and interesting thing to me than your writing, which pales in comparison to that strange and intriguing choice of words. And then you get me writing nerdy little dissertations on the psychology of why someone would consistently tell the people around them that their writing is [i]total shit[/i], and why, if they [i]really[/i] believed that, that they would continuously push it on other people. Is it an anti-aesthetic sensibility, like Werner Herzog or Frank Zappa, in which you feel contempt for your audience? You don't come across that way, if that's what you're going for. Or is it just an unconscious swing in an extreme direction that feels satisfying to write but has no basis in reality outside your own emotional perceptions? Because people who honestly believe there's no merit to their work don't tout it in public and call attention to its quality, all the while requesting criticism. So is it essentially dishonesty or is it some kind of unusual aesthetic? Just be real. Lose the facade. Overstating yourself to draw attention to a point you're trying to push the importance of is an ineffective tactic; it ends up drawing attention [i]away[/i] from your creative work and onto yourself. If that's what you're going for, then I'm sure there will be other people who will continue to find some level of entertainment or fascination in writing about your behavior. You demanded brutal honesty. There ya go.
  • Thank you Dave, that was insightful and real. I liked that, honestly. Thats what I'M LOOKING FOR,
  • haha fuckin' a dude. I'll read your writing later and let you know what I think.
  • I think your style can be a little hard to follow sometimes but overall I thought it was decent for what it is worth. I mean it could be improved upon by making it a little cleaner and maybe you could add in some more details and what not, but i'm not the one to judge good writing. My writing is sub-par, but occasionally i'll have a good story.
  • edited March 2012
    I like your second bit way better than the first. I think your stream of conscious style is really interesting but as Peacefish said, it is hard to follow. Obviously someone could choose to tear it apart grammatically, and I would likely suggest using less periods and more commas because sometimes the flow of it is really choppy, but that's coming from someone that writes sentences that are way too long. I guess I just wonder, what is the point of writing like this, for you? Bukowski was always to me like a book of confessions (Confessions of a Dirty Old Man is aptly titled), and I am forever blown away by his brutal honesty and those moments where the perfect sentence would come together that would shake my core. They are sentences that say something about the world and people as a whole, instead of just him. He's a perfect depiction of a particular lifestyle. You have moments where you almost get that, or at least the general feeling of that, but then you start talking about your keyboard and I slip right out and you're building the atmosphere all over from the beginning. I guess ultimately I'm left feeling like you're writing this entirely for yourself, and that's okay until you start suggesting that other people read it. I have no idea who (or what) cheeseburger is. If you want people to read your writing there has to be some compromise towards your stream of conscious and getting your story across with some clarity. I guess I didn't really mean to be harsh, and this is certainly not a comment to get you to stop writing because if you enjoy it so much then you should do it and you definitely have something. You have stories to tell and a unique style and that's so much better than so many people. I'd love to keep reading as you keep writing because I have a feeling that it's going to be really fun to watch you progress. As for me, well, I tend to talk all the time about wanting write professionally, and i'm really going for it. I don't mind sharing my writing but if you post it on the internet in any kind of public format it is technically "published" which makes it harder to sell to any magazine, publishing house, ect. so I avoid doing that. Currently i'm writing a book, and almost finished, and am writing short stories to submit to contests/magazines, which is a new exploration for me. edit;; also, here's an awesome quote when applied to writing. “All that happens means something; nothing you do is ever insignificant.” ― Aldous Huxley, Crome Yellow It's awesome when not applied to writing, but I think writing little gestures can be really important to fully picture and understand a character.
  • Well, I can't really say for sure why I'm writing, I don't really think I have a reason. It's just something to pass the time that seems more worthwhile than other things I could be doing. I think I also do it so I'll have some record, some physical manifestation of my life. I began to drink heavily last year, and have been going strong, and I lose track of things pretty easily. Writing things down, I can go back and see what I was feeling/thinking about, things that would have been lost permanently otherwise. Although, I'm finding more and more that what I'm writing is mostly negative, and maybe it would be better if those thoughts did just fade to black and I didn't backtrack and dwell on them. I really don't know. As far as my begging to be torn apart, I just wanted anyone reading not to be fake about what they thought about it. I know I, and probably lots of you people, hold back often and only say nice, neat, little good things. Just to save face. And I am also aware that I've only just began to write things down, and my vocabulary is lacking. My grammar is poor. So I realize all of this and wouldn't want anyone to say something nice about it just for the sake of being nice. That's all.
  • You're right about me in that I will say nice things unless otherwise asked for constructive criticism. Thank you for explaining your motivation! It really brings it together for me, and I now feel as though I have a clearer understanding of your request. I still have not read your writing, but I intend to. It's coming.
  • I look forward to it Dave, you seem like a sharp fellow and anyone can appreciate that. Tigers, thats quite an accomplishment. I don't think I have it in me to write a novel. I'd love to read it if you wanna PM me so as not to have it technically published on the intrawebs. As you all have seen, my writing is more similar to ranting and doesn't lend itself to lengthier bits. I'm gonna try and write something once a week and post it in here, I feel like it keeps my mental health more on point. Mentally, I am very unhealthy and I'm having to deal with the repercussions of that WRITE now. Oh well.
  • Planks! I hope I didn't sound harsh at all; those are questions that I often ask myself when I start to write. Unlike you, I have to have a strong purpose to what I am writing to feel like i'm writing anything of worth. I really like your reason for writing and I find it as simple and clear and if I envy anything in other writers it is the ability to be simple and clear and beautiful without the use of multiple adjectives and semi-colons. I also find myself writing a lot of negative things too, and I find it to be a good and a bad thing. To write something down kind of...expels it from me, and i've found it a good way to deal with negative things that have happened in my life. I also end up getting into ruts when I write something dealing with those negative events because my mind goes so heavily back to it. At this point i'm reluctant to share my novel with anyone because it has so much editing that needs to be done with it. I'm at the point where i'm just writing chapter after chapter until I have it all down and then I'll go back and edit heavily (admittedly i've gone back already and done some). But, it is always great to have someone around that is interested in reading your works, and I'll happily share my novel with you once i've had it finished and done enough editing on it so I don't feel like i'm sharing utter crap with you (there's always that feeling that it is utter crap, and Dave talked about that somewhere around here, that feeling, so well). It's really hard to find readers, anyone that is willing to put in the time to read pages and pages is valuable.
  • Excellent, I concur about the expulsion through writing, it's good to get it out, especially if you have no one to talk to about it. Which, personally, I don't really. The fellow I consider to be my closest friend lives in a distant city, and talking on the phone is something we have never done, and it would feel strange and uncomfortable trying to initiate that kind of thing. But yeah, I just appreciate the honest criticism. No one is going to hurt my feelings, really. And if you could manage to do that, then congratulations to you. I would welcome it. I know things I write are lacking, and I'd rather be critiqued then pampered like some insane phony plastic person. Not that I intend to pursue writing as a means of living, I just like to see what people think of things I scribble down. It's quite self-centered of me, but I'll read anything anyone writes in here too and attempt to respond to it genuinely.
  • "Got a soul to spare, sir ? I can't remember when I sold mine, but I guess whoever bought it got the discount of a lifetime." Purps, I especially enjoyed this little bit. I liked how abstract the rest was as well. Fuck, I've been demanding criticism in here and I can't even dish it out. I'm trying my best to be sincere, and I think I am. I guess I'm not drunk enough yet to be that real.
  • I totally lost purple's writing in this thread. I really enjoyed it and it ends up reading more like poetry instead of prose and that makes me wonder if you really wrote it for the prose format, purp? there's some really good stuff there, like what planktons highlighted. There are definitely things that have happened in my life that I don't even want to talk to anyone about and twisting them into fiction plots is definitely the best way I can deal with them. Writing is such a dear form of expression for me. Most everything we do as people is based in self-centeredness and those selfless people are so rare and beautiful. I might be overly cynical there, but I think it's at least half-true.
  • My roommates have molded themselves into a neat little faction AGAINST me. I saw this one coming, and I realize that most of the time I am not a very pleasant human to be around. Much less to live with. That’s the way she goes, though. I stepped outside to have a smoke and tell Cheesy that I would pay for his keyboard. Last night was a real horroshow, I was too drunk and high for my own good. That’s when people start to turn on you. It all comes back to Burton deciding he was gonna have his bitch move into our pad, without any consultation. I wasn’t ok with it. She was the most obnoxious person I’d ever been around. I tried to change, to adapt to her, but I knew I couldn’t eventually. Well, last night I was really out of control. That’s what one of my roommates said to me, when talking about my drinking: “You lose control”. I don’t know if that’s true or not, because I don’t remember. That’s what the liquor does to you. It’s not a healthy affair. Anyways, they all came over and laid into me. I was expecting it, and I already had a cold brew, gently nursing her periodically. They said they wanted me to move out. I had a laugh about that. Imagine, living somewhere for some time, and then a whole new crew of fucks moving in and deciding you were out. It was very angering. Cheesy was trying to iterate thoughts from his mind, and made up a word, “angerness”. I’m an asshole, and I promptly explained to him how making up words is ok and funny when it’s intentional, but if you do it often and accidentally, you’re worthless. He didn’t like that. It really is all me. I’m the problem, I need to live alone. I hated about 99% of people. I can’t believe anyone could even put up with me, drinking, always drunk, at all. It was a marvel. Anyhow, I was quite upset, because Jimmy had stopped by last night and told me we were at capacity here at the house, and that the one couldn’t move in. I was ecstatic, I was gloating, touting my victory all over the godammed place. I became the nagger, the very thing I despised, and told Burton the news. He didn’t buy an ounce of it, so I figured I’d consult the pawn. These people are really getting under my skin, I didn’t ask for any of this. I guess I was out of control at this point, because I told Cheeser to tell Burton what I had accomplished. Cheesy had heard the whole bit, heard Jimmy announce that we were “at capacity”. He wasn’t having any of it. I was a real scumbag. Then I decided I’d have a cigarette indoors, in the den. I knew that would really get to him, and sure enough, it got right to him. He approached me, wrestled the smoke out of my hand, breaking it off, also spilling my drink. Nothing else sets me off quite like that, so I demanded he replace my smoke and drink while strutting back to his room, threatening to poor what was left of my beer on his keyboard. I was really just a toddler, irrational, stupid, dead. I guess at some point I threw my bottle of beer at him and hit him in the face. There was a little bruise underneath his right eye. I didn’t remember that part, but the evidence was there. He pinned me down in the hallway, and that only doubled my anger. I guess you can’t do much to quell a fucked up individual, there really aren’t two ways about it. So then I went and, in my drunken fury, poured a liquid into his keyboard. I was a mess, they wanted me out. It felt like an intervention, it might as well have been one. “You’re attitude sucks lately.” “You’re out of control.” “You get wasted too often.” OK mom, thanks. I’ll take that into account next time I’m wondering what I want to drink. Apparently, this has been going on for a while, and is gradually getting worse. Fuck, I believe it. I guess I’ll just hole up in my room, I can only bite my tongue so much. None of them realize how often I have to do that. If I never held back, that’d really be something else, it would be a show. You could charge 20 clams to see that kind of a performance. It would be different every night. Cheesy complained about the insults I directed at him, no one realizes it’s a two-way event. I give out a lot of shit, but also take a lot of shit. No one acknowledges that part. Well, I don’t think Jimmy would kick me out. As much of a lousy person I am, I’m a stellar tenant. 5 people aren’t going to just up and move out of somewhere all of a sudden, no matter the problem. I could count on that, and so could Jimmy. So that’s that.
  • Ranting and raving over here, big time.
  • Several of us seem to be going through that phase right now. Don't worry, we are extremely tolerant.
  • Sure doesn't feel like we are right now.
  • Sundown. Miami was thick and a purple hue was drawn onto it. The painkiller clinics were closing at this time but the fast food places would hustle all through the night. Some places you could go out back and hustle in another way with some employees if they knew you well enough. We were headed over to my brothers house because we heard there was gonna be a low key party there, but if there were girls comming it wouldn't be low key for long. We started to walk towards the gravel paths going through the backstreets when we saw my brother. I ran towards him unable to contain myself running up to him yelling. "N**** I knew you weren't havin' no party! It's at Kals again ain't it?". His face looked stern as a dormant tree. "Yeah, well shut your bitch ass up. I've got somthin better planned for us tonight." Travaan and Dam caught up at there own pace watching with mild curiosity. They were older than me but they knew my brother who had ties with king pins, rappers and politicians alike and the respect just kind of trickled down to me I guess. I'd complain about it but I look up to him too so I figure it's fair, if I don't he'd shure as hell show me how to respect him. He wouldn't even need to use his fists but just with his face he can conjure authority amoung any men. "My boy Coo Coo Cal just got out of the watershed for the rocks and I'll tell ya that place is a god damn resort. Fuck I'd get into that rock shit if I thought it would take me there. Before he goes back to Milwaukee, he wants to do some recording first. IVM is all filled up though." We all simultaniously caught on to what he was about to say. Our faces were lined with unending grins. "He going to the backstreet studio at 8 and he invited me to come with him and his associates." We were jumping around like little white school girls at a Jonas Brothers concert...in a most respectable manner of course. "Hell yeah! You should show him your spit power bro! Maybe get featured on that tape? Maybe get a record deal? You rap with Kal and You fittn' to get at least a platinum motha fuckin track!" Travaan already knowing that if my brother was going that he was going talked down on me who does he think he is? "Chill your shit Travis, you go in there actin all cocky and shit then you leave they all be laughing at you when you're gone, you know what I'm saying?" You wanna listen more than speak to get respect ain't that right?" My brother nodded and the cornea of his eye was barely visible in the jamble of his expensive desighner sunglasses. He always wore them, the fiery ball bouncing on the horizon was gone and he was still wearing those damn glasses. It was cool though. He really dishes out his image though not for his own ego. He dishes it out so other people know that he's prestined and should be treated as such. My brothers car was a mile down Jacobson so we went to the bus-stop. End of part one?
  • Sweet, I like your creative similes and metaphors. Watch out for their/there/they're mixups.
  • We are all booked. 1 over-work 2 boredom 3 being out of your league 4 temporary vitality low 5 dietary imbalance 6 inadequate sleep habits 7 psychological blocks 8 excessive sex life or no sex life 9 frustration and lack of love 10 lack of exercise 11 lost confidence 12 anxiety 13 depression and moodiness 14 hunger 15 laziness 16 dwelling in hate 17 drug indiscretion 18 excess alcohol l19 over-eating 20 inadequate education 21 lack of decisive action 22 being without a goal to accomplish 23 failing to make a route to the future 24 mental incompetance 25 lack of incentive   If I was to fall, how long would it take ? What would the clouds be like ?
  • don't forget loneliness. I love especially the last questions at the end.
  • How could I forget that..
  • I am a lonely man; my solitude is true!
  • lost in the clouds up in the skies oh but down there i found my golly day sir prize!
  • SAGE!!! That was great! Did you really write that? Pottle- I found myself wanting to respond to your quiz/questions...what was that? Loneliness is way overrated.
  • edited April 2012
    I don't know what that was all about, when I'm in a bad mind set things just come out. What would've been your response Wini ?
  • Saturday night lonely writing party, I like the term "death rattle" much. I’m sick and tired of people, overall. Humanity is really something else, its hard to write about it when you are considering the endless components and facets of the vast thing. People just simply repulse me; my repulsion is steadfast and true, unwavering even. Of course, they are out there. Folks who you can relate to, who are on the same page as you, think like you, share similar thoughts, and on and on. It’s just that they’re so incredibly rare, you’re lucky to find one in a complete lifespan. Forget about finding one of the opposite sex, though. That will drive you directly up the goddamn walls. I look into peoples’ withered, sagging eyes and see only death. Their faces are lonely and depraved, even though most of them remain unaware. I guess I need to start looking elsewhere, because looking into people is a real drag most of the time. I’ve been living for 23 years, and I can already sense what lies in my future. Lonely old man, with cats and dogs as solitary companions. Cats and dogs are wonderful, if you treat them with kindness they understand and reciprocate. Well, not cats so much, they have their own agendas. Which is very respectable, and part of the allure of that peculiar species. Actually, it’s not so peculiar; dogs are the peculiar animals, so intent on human activity and interest. I remember when I was a small little thing, I had a remarkable golden retriever variety who was the most sensible, practical, and sensitive being I have had the privilege of knowing. She was astounding, and a deep sadness wells up from within me even now, as I write this down. Sorrow manifesting itself within and without me. Well I used to visit my grandparents with Sadie. They had a nice place out in the countryside with lots of land and trails to explore. We took advantage of that, Sadie and I, and we usually had a splendid time of it. Sadie loved to run around in the forest, naturally, as did I. I also received pleasure from observing her happiness, a capacity I developed more and more as I aged and multiplied our forest outings as incrementally. Anyways, on one occasion, we stumbled into some trouble. I want to say I was around 8 years old, even though I was most likely older, and offer a younger age as an attempt to rationalize and justify my cowardice. We were down a ways past one of the barns, running across some bales of hay neatly organized into a row. So much fun, without the chemical crutches I seem to need to experience happiness or complacency these days. Well, we hopped down off the bales, and noticed two wild dogs approaching us from the woods. A sense of fear crept upon me rather quickly, and I knew something terrible was inevitable. Anxiety, with tangible results. The dogs displayed signs of aggression and offense immediately upon approaching us. I was terrified, and I believe I climbed back on top of one the bales. Sadie, however, was an indescribable heroine. One female dog, standing up against two (male?) mutts. They got into it, and Sadie fought like a possessed hellhound. I was perched on a bale and watched the predicament unfold, waiting for the 2 demons to lay waste to my sweet golden friend. I was paralyzed, I should have gotten a sizable stick and jumped into the fray. Well, they scrapped for probably no more than a couple minutes, and I’m pretty sure I climbed a tree to avoid any harm. Sadie held her ground and fought, and eventually the 2 backed off and rushed off to do other things. Sadie had a significant wound in her right breast, which terrified me. I’m sure I was crying at this point. I waited around, clinging halfway up my pathetic plant. After some time, I felt secure enough to climb down and walked with Sadie back to the house. I got my parents and began to sob like a madman. They inspected Sadie and promptly carted her off to a pet doctor. He stitched her up good, and then we were back at the house. That experience haunts me, it looms over me like some giant ominous cloud, and I am ashamed of the way I acted regardless of my age. Age is no excuse, that dog was a genuine saint. I treated her better and better as I matured and shook off my childish dispositions. We’d head out to national parks, and amble through the woods, Sadie always rushing way ahead of me and turning to spot me, to check on me, then rush ahead again. Never a leash. This dog was meant for freedom. The excitement when noticing the leash, the anticipation, the fulfillment of joy and happiness and love. I miss the hell out of that friend. I got exceptionally drunk the night she passed on and bawled like a distressed infant. I grieved hard that night. Well, I’ve got this cough now. I wheeze and cough up vile shit, and always feel like coughing. It’s been this way for a while now, and I can’t quite recall how it used to be. I like the term death rattle, and would like to know whoever coined the term. So I guess I’ll move forward, always going ahead through time, you can’t go back. It’s frustrating. You sure as hell can’t DO anything to change it, so I guess you also can’t cry about it. Oh well, I will just wait and sigh and shrug.
  • Rest is for the dead.
  • Cool. Just fing cool. I had a dog simular to that. The dog I have now is a bit of a letdown in comparison. I'm a cat person myself but a cat would never protect you like that. Dogs get the concepts of authority, obedience and loyalty which is their particular genious. I love cats because of their independence and uncanny ability to communicate with voice and facial expressions. I miss my dog so much. I cried much more over her death then my Grandfathers. I feel sad writing about her. Also basing a relationship off of simularities when it comes to the opposite sex would drive one crazy. If I had a girlfriend who was exactly like me I probably would not be able to tolerate her. That was a cool story.
  • Thanks sage, I'm glad I wrote about it honestly. I can't pick cats or dogs as a favorite. Dogs certainly have the upper hand when it comes to adventure, although I used to have a cat who would discretely tail me when I went on walks. They both rock, I can't choose a preference. I want to get a few kittens/pups and have them grow up together, and be compatible pals into maturity. We'll see though.
  • I also had a hedgehog that I adored in the same context of a cat or dog. He was so smart and gentle and enthusiastic for a hedgehog. For a while he was potty trained. SADSADSAD Day. He had children but I never saw them. I had him as a baby. I miss him all the time. I would carry him everywhere, even took him to school a few times. He went blind and deaf and his muscles got weak and he got sick from some skin disorder that I could have prevented and He died from dehydration. We took him to the vet but the operation had a 50/50 success rate and was more expensive than for a dog or cat. I miss Regie.
  • someday I might like to be a hedgehog breeder
  • Kerbumpity-bumpity bump! (thank you Clawed) I write too. I won a bunch of money on this teenager short story contest thing (1st and 2nd place yeah!) I haven't written lately though, probably because I'm not reading at all right now.
  • (No problem) I once got a poem published in a magazine in middle school. It sucked though.
  • You know what? I'm going to write something. Right now.
  • edited June 2012
    Post it when you are done Marz! Why do I always see the title of this thread as "Writing Treats"?
  • He is a poem I wrote, inspired by AC and aptly named "Forest Gospel" (excuse the lack of proper spacing as I am not on my preferred medium): It was a tribal beat/ it moved the feet/ Of the people lying around/ The fire upon the ground/ that reflected their faces/ into the sky/ That only held/ Stars in their eyes/ Noticing the patterns on the ground// It was a tribal beat/ That changed the people/ That were once so calm/ Listening to their songs/ That now expand through the forest/ Life of full of viscious creatures/ That have misinterpreted calls/ Their roars are mistaken greetings/ To the people moving 'round/ The fire that mimics/ Their rythmic chanting sounds// It was a tribal beat/ That changed their ways/ Into the dark/ Which kept them blinded/ From the animals/ In the shadows they lurked/ Waiting to know/ When to come/ When to join/ In the forest song
  • Somehow the poem brings up the images from ODDSAC not something from Forest Gospel, whatever the case I liked your AC inspired poem. I've got a little black book with my poems in it.
  • I liked that narnia. And peace youve spoken about that book on multiple occasions but I have yet to see or hear them
  • indeed I have, i don't like the book. When i'm a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.
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