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 Post subject: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2007 6:54 pm 
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Here's my latest. For English we had to write about if we got invited to Dracula's Halloween dance.

I woke up. I honestly don’t know why, but I did. It was only three A.M. on a Saturday morning, but I still followed my usual routine of wiping the cruelly excessive amounts of goopy, sandy whatever that accumulates as I sleep. I sat up slowly in order to assure that my head didn’t hit the awkwardly slanted ceiling of the attic. Yes, that’s right, my, how you say… bedroom is “conveniently” up in the attic. (Take note of how I placed quotation marks around “conveniently” to indicate sarcasm.) I turned and placed my left leg over the bed, followed by my right. I grabbed the dresser with my good hand in such a way that I could pull myself onto my feet and begin walking. I did just that and walked a yard over to my piece-of-garbage television, where my glasses were always placed so carelessly that the angle of the frames bent and changed every day. I picked them up and fumbled with them until they were in a decent position on my face.

I opened my old, wooden door. It was one of those vexing occasions when it becomes so humid that the wood expands and the door gets stuck. As usual, I pulled on it till it gave way and I lost balance and was flung across the room. Oh, how I wish I weighed more. I stepped foot onto the blood red carpeting that covered the stairs. It was the color after the blood dried and a scab formed, rather than the color of fresh blood. I tiptoed down the stairs so I wouldn’t wake Mother.

Plan failed.

A package was thrown right through the kitchen window. I watched in horror as the falling shards of glass embedded themselves into the dinner table right before my eyes. The following sound of a light switch being flicked on and slow, tired footsteps instantly becoming frantic, hazardous footsteps shall forever haunt me.

Mother entered the kitchen.

I stood there, babbling like an idiot, my lips moving faster than ever before but failing to make words. I stood there in fright of being blamed like I had never stood there in fright of being blamed before. Mother raised her hands to her face. All things moved in slow motion. My life flashed before my eyes. I knew exactly what was coming…

THE MACAULEY CULKIN FACE!

I didn’t know what to do. There is no defense against such a maniacal maneuver.

But then that package that was thrown through the window exploded. Orange and yellow balloons filled every corner and crevice of the room. The oxygen to helium ratio was dropping faster than the quality of NBC’s Thursday nights.

The balloons all popped at the exact same moment. All that remained was a gray index card, wrinkled and torn, sitting in the center of the room. I tried to explain to Mother, but when I uttered a single sound I could have sworn to God that I had obtained Alvin the Chipmunk’s voice for a minor amount of time. I covered my mouth in embarrassment. Mother stepped jerkily towards the card because her joints were still weary from the explosion. She picked it up as I leaned over to look at it.

Join us for the best dance of the year: Dracula’s Dance! It will take place at (name and address withheld). Please bring some sort of dessert for everyone to share.

Your Host,
Dracula

It felt kind of odd, you know, getting an invitation to some party that I’m going to reluctantly attend thrown through a window by some person or thing that had already run far, far away by the time anyone looked out the window.


That night I walked a few blocks to (name and address withheld) with a tray of Betty Crocker brownies that Mother had prepared. I wasn’t expecting much of anything interesting to happen that night; it was a cold, gloomy night and the moon was hidden behind the rain clouds that looked ready to start pouring. I went in average clothing, which for me usually consisted of a black t-shirt with a band or album logo on it and a pair of faded jeans that were torn along the bottom and at one knee. I had torn them on purpose, but made the hole small enough that it looked as if it just became thin and worn out over time.

I arrived. I paused before entering so I could observe the environment that I was subjecting myself to. The (name withheld) building was instantly recognizable as a stereotypical run-down church that was only holding this party as a fundraiser. I figured I’d go in, hang around for half an hour, realize I didn’t know a single person there, drop the brownies and run. That was my game plan.

I entered.

The room was bursting with energy for some unexplainable reason. There was a huge stage with some band of four chicks who all looked like Courtney Love in one way or another, yet still looked different enough from each other that if they all told you their names you’d be able to recognize each one correctly. I wanted to listen to the music, but the unanimous screams coming from the mosh pit made the music sound like just a bunch of unarticulated minor-key chords. Unless, of course, that could have been what the music was in the first place. The world may never know. The room was poorly lit; lamps filled the room, but such a large portion of them contained light bulbs that probably blew out years ago and no one ever noticed or bothered to change them. Off in the corner there was a table filled with about a dozen trays of identical salad, another dozen trays of identical brownies, identical breads, pastas, sandwiches, so on and so forth. There was the one cake made by the only person who really cared that was carved into the shape of a bat. I watched as some old woman cut of the wing and placed it on her paper plate that I’m sure she isn’t going to recycle. What a poor old woman she was; I’m sure she’ll need a new hearing aid after she leaves. I tried to make my way through the ocean of teenagers to the refreshment table.

Plan failed.

I was stopped by a group of kids from school whose names all escape me still to this day. One of the girls handed me a little pink tablet. “Swallow it,” she said. “What is it?” I asked. “It’s a cheeseburger.” She and her friends laughed. I dropped the tablet, the brownies, and all notions of staying for at least thirty minutes. I turned around and tried to run.

Plan failed.

I was grabbed from behind and held on the floor. That one girl shouted a few obscenities at me as she shoved maybe six of the pills in my pie hole. I choked them down, as chewing wasn’t exactly an option unless I intended on biting this girl’s hand off. I was so frightened that I don’t know how my pants stayed dry.

I now know that it wasn’t exactly a cheeseburger, but whatever it was made me climb up on the roof using some method that I can’t remember, jumping off, and trying to fly. Someone else whose name escapes me still to this day caught me and explained to me that after the party was over I went insane and got up on the roof somehow.

~~~~~~
Post some of your genius work and stuff.


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 Post subject: Re: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Sat Oct 27, 2007 8:43 pm 
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Location: AAAaaaAAAaaa...Location, location, location .
Bugkiss wrote:
“Swallow it,” she said. “What is it?” I asked. “It’s a cheeseburger.”


Family guy reference??
WIN AND A HALF/10

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PostPosted: Tue Dec 04, 2007 3:11 pm 
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Legal bump, I think.

I wrote this in English class when I probably shoulda been paying attention. It's based off a scene from a roleplay I did with Myrrh, and I doubt I'll ever flesh it out more. Maybe someday. ANYWAY.

~

She didn't move.

She didn't respond when he spoke to her, or when he held her hand, or stroked her hair, or kissed her.

Consciously, he knew she was gone. The doctors had told him that her brain was totally nonfunctional, that she'd never wake up. All that kept her breathing was the tube in her throat.

But he couldn't leave her side. After all, she was his wife. All he could do, though, was sit by her and talk to her, even though she couldn't hear him, and wait for the inevitable.

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PostPosted: Tue Dec 04, 2007 11:17 pm 
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Location: Imagining all the people living life in peace.
Shippinator Mandy wrote:
I wrote this in English class when I probably shoulda been paying attention.


Well, at least it's kinda relevant to the subject. Writing a short story in English is better than writing a short story in, say, math or history.

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Wed Dec 05, 2007 1:30 am 
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Einoo T. Spork wrote:
Shippinator Mandy wrote:
I wrote this in English class when I probably shoulda been paying attention.


Well, at least it's kinda relevant to the subject. Writing a short story in English is better than writing a short story in, say, math or history.


Well, we're studying medieval lit, so...

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sun Dec 09, 2007 6:19 am 
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Location: Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun
Hoo man, I finally got to submitting some older poetry onto my dA.

Blurry Brushstrokes
Walking in blurry brushstrokes,
on a sunny Sunday,
We smiled, holding hands,
and the flowers in the grass smiled back.

While we danced
Couldn't we just
have looked like twins
While we danced,
Or did you have to sweep
The scarlet-dressed girl off her feet
And leave me standing cold?

somewhere: extended version
somewhere
out there
is a girl
who thinks I'm breathtaking.

She crushes 6-packs
and the guys who have them.
She forgoes a guy with $120 Nike Shox
for a guy with $6 Goodwill Moon Boots.
She sees him hug his stuffed animals
and wishes she hadn't given hers away.

When she calls him breathtaking,
it's not a compliment.
It's not a 99-cent Hallmark card you bought on the way to her house
while you were running late anyway.
It's not a Myspace comment at 11 at night.
It's not a shout from halfway across the gym at homecoming.
It's only for someone special!

"Breathtaking" is a note scrawled in red crayon,
and passed to you one day,
that cuts your heartstrings
and makes you soar miles away and so high
that you faint from half a breath.
The moment she says it you're already going through the withdrawal,
waiting for something so inebriating to drop from her lips.
Your mouth turns into an 88-key Steinway
with four men playing Flight of the Bumblebee.

The moment I hear a girl say it to my face,
my teeth will rot
merely from my attempt to understand that this is real.
So I can only imagine how sweet it will be when I hear and see it.

Somewhere,
out there,
a girl hears a symphony
when she thinks of me
She sees the stick-built, average-heighted,
sandy-blond-haired loner
whose favorite color is blue,
and who quotes "Napoleon Dynamite",
and who cries more when he watches "Finding Nemo" in French
than in English.
And she realizes--
that's all she ever really wanted.

I just need to wait.
Like every guidance counselor and parent and teacher says,
I have my whole life ahead of me.
But I know somewhere,
sometime,
the damsel will see the knight in distress.
She'll fight dragons and beasts and trolls and witches,
and at the end she gives the knight his shining armor.
And they will,
indeed,
live happily ever after.

Unlike the Serenity Prayer,
this is one of those things I can change,
and will change,
because God has put someone else in my life to share my joy with.
And if anyone thinks that the little goody two shoes:
who writes poetry and calls himself a hopeless romantic,
a Charlie Brown who longs to be a Linus,
whose heart is a window
with too many rocks thrown in it,
is indeed, hopeless,
maybe they're the ones who need serenity.
And when they see me with the love of my life,
They will be not speechless,
but breathless.

Somewhere,
out there,
is a girl who thinks I'm
breathtaking.

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sun Dec 09, 2007 5:23 pm 
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Ian wrote:
and who cries more when he watches "Finding Nemo" in French
than in English.

HA HA HA, OH WOW, IAN

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Wed Dec 12, 2007 4:57 pm 
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Location: Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun
Yes, it's true. :)

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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sat Dec 15, 2007 3:44 pm 
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I'm writing a romance/sci-fi/kung-fu/etc novel. 20 or so chapters in. 10 or so thousand words in. Should a post an excerpt?

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 Post subject: Re: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Sat Feb 09, 2008 6:28 pm 
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Posts: 2226
Bump + new story. Have at it.


Jerry opened his eyes and got out of his racecar bed, which was complete with a car-shaped bed frame and a Nascar™ comforter. He took his usual seventeen steps from the mattress to the door, all the while passing SpongeBob™ posters and a ten inch Mickey Mouse™ television.

“Mom, can you make me some Frosted Flakes™?” he shouted across the home. His mom trudged down the hall without even picking up her feet. Her eyelids twitched as she struggled to stay awake. After the opening and closing of a cabinet and some pouring, Jerry had his cereal. He gobbled them down hastily and got on his Pokémon™-sticker-covered bike.

Oh yeah, he’s thirty-five years old.

Several blocks of riding later, Jerry arrived at his workplace. He did menial tasks at the assembly line for Frito Lay™. The only people who eat Fritos™ are fat and/or virgins. Jerry weighs one hundred forty pounds.

When he stepped inside the factory he assumed the position that he always takes for his job, which was to make sure that all of the bags have the same number of chips in them. On occasion he delivered them, but due to customer complaints he had been demoted. To all of you fat people and virgins out there, you know he isn’t very skilled in counting.

Hours of screwing up passed. It was time for Jerry’s lunch break, and he knew what he wanted. The yellow, fattening, and supposedly edible snack foods had been dancing through his nasal cavity all day. He approached the vending machine. He pulled his index finger out of his nose and reached for the F6 button. But he paused and debated what to do with the green goop on his finger. He pushed the button and awaited his order, but the silver coil thingy got stuck halfway.

“Oh, Barnacles!” exclaimed our main character. He stuck his arm up the bottom flap and attempted to retrieve his meal.

Professional tip: The following paragraph is best imagined in slow motion. Now get to it!

Jerry inched his way towards the Lays™. His eyes grew in width as his appendage got closer. He plastered his face to the glass. His hand poked at it, and finally, he achieved his goal. By some strange twist of fate, however, grabbing the bag of Fritos™ triggered the vending machine to topple on Jerry. The concept I just gave an example of is called karma.

You may now resume your original imagining speed.

Jerry opened his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his bizarre surroundings, which consisted of what seemed to be tiny hospital inside a mothball-scented attic. The ghost of Eddie Murphy’s dignity walked in the door.

“We have terrible news, Jerry,” began the ghost/doctor/shadow of a man I used to respect, “channel eleven ordered another season of Gossip Girl™. That, and you have suffered a sever head injury that has paralyzed you from the waist down and has given you amnesia.”

Jerry didn’t respond. He looked around the room and appeared to be fascinated by the environment he was stuck in.

“We’ll have to call home.”

Jerry’s mother picked up her vegetable of a son from the local hospital, and he lived a happy life of ignorance and sleeping.

THE END


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 Post subject: Re: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Sat Feb 09, 2008 10:45 pm 
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I love it. The various trademark things made me laugh for some reason.

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 Post subject: Re: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Fri Mar 28, 2008 8:41 pm 
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Location: Sitting in an English garden, waiting for the sun
Here's a videro of me reading "Entropy", one of my slam pieces.


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 Post subject: Re: Short stories? Poems? Other Stuff?
PostPosted: Mon Mar 31, 2008 7:45 pm 
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Location: Drinkin' orange juice out of a champagne glass.
I've had this story in my head for a while and finally decided to write it:

It was 11 AM and just like any other school day, the band kids were entering the music room. Many went straight to the storage room to get out their respective instruments while the rest (including me) milled around the room talking to people.

5 minutes had passed and everyone had their instruments out and were waiting for Mr. Madden. When he finally came, he entered the room in a calm manner. I couldn't put my finger on it but something about him just seemed...off. But like the rest of the class, I didn't think anything of it.

"Class," he said as he walked to the front of the room, "you won't be needing your music today. I have something special planned." Okay, now it was starting to get weird. But still, I thought it was just Mr. Madden being his usual weird self. I was wrong.

"If we succeed," he continued, "it will be your greatest success as musicians and my greatest success as a band director." Everyone looked around confused. "But if we fail," he said, "your children and your children's children will look upon you in shame."

"What is this?" I thought, "Did he sign us up for another large group festival?"

"Class," he paused, looked down and took a deep breath, then looked back up again, "today is the day we invade the Home Ec room." The whole classroom erupted in cheers and even some laughter.

"Silence!" screamed Mr. Madden, "now this isn't going to be just some disorganized hodge-podge. We need a strategy. Sit quietly as I give you your positions for the attack." He walked over to the white board and began giving the instructions. "Percussionists," he said, "grab as many bass drums as you can. We'll roll them in first to knock down anyone they might have blocking the door. Trombonists, since your slides can do the most damage, you will be on the fronlines. Don't let me down. Trumpets, I need you to blast your highest notes so as to damage their hearing and distract them from their imminent doom. Tuba, barry sax, and bass clarinet, I need you all to play your lowest notes so as to make them crap their pants. Woodwinds, you have the most important part of all. I need you to run in and grab any and all food. Use your instruments to protect yourself if need be."

"Is everyone clear on their instructions?" he asked. Everyone nodded. "Good," he said. "On your way out grab a pair of earplugs." he said, pointing to a stack of them by the door. "Alright, everyone move out!"

We marched through the halls playing our pep band versions of Talk To Me Dance With Me and Everybody's Everything while Mr. Madden gave us a sort of pep talk.

"Too long have we been forced to smell their cinnamon rolls!" he roared, "Too long have we been forced to judge their gingerbread houses but never get to eat them! But after today, all that will be ours!"

We finally reached the Home Ec room. This was it, the moment of truth. "Percussionists!!!" yelled Madden. As he yelled, seven bass drums rolled forward and knocked over the four people guarding the door. Two of them continued to roll into the room and knocked over several more students. "Trombonists, seventh position!!" he cried. The entire trombone section, including me, extended our slides and rushed in, hitting everyone in sight. "Trumpets!!! Bass section!!!" he yelled. They blasted as loud as they could and everyone still left standing either doubled over with their hands over their ears, lost all bowel control, or both.

Finally, the coast was clear. The woodwinds ran into the room and grabbed everything even resembling food. Including three full trays of cinnamon rolls. We dashed back to the band room, cheering and yelling the whole way. When we got there, Mr. Madden triumphantly raised a cinnamon roll and took a bite.

"Ugh!!!" he said, disgusted, "These are terrible!"

THE END

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